National Pet Week

In honor of National Pet Week, I thought I'd recap some of the highlights of traveling through France with Jersey.

First of all, he is far and away my favorite travel companion ever. He is the funnest travel buddy ever. I met dozens of people and became good friends with one through Jersey. His being irresistible was my ticket to an experience I never could have had on my own. From now on, I will seek only destinations that are appropriate for Jersey too.

He's received several phone calls from my friend Karine's daughter Laura since returning to the States. His adorable flirtation with two young children on the beach in Antibes nabbed me a dinner invitation (and a reaction of intense disappointment from my hosts when I showed up for dinner with flowers, but no Jersey). He accompanied me to restaurants, cafes, even a nightclub. On the train from Nice to Paris, he was given his own seat for a mere 5 Euros. In Paris, each time Jersey and I walked through the lobby, the manager said, "I like this dog." Several British tourists took our photo while proclaiming to each other that the French really love their dogs.

Without Jersey France would have still been spectacular, wonderful, lovely, beautiful, gentle fun. But with him it was better.

Having experienced a bit of a problem with Air France when I was traveling from Paris to Nice, I was prepared for my flight from Paris to San Francisco. I strode up to the ticket counter, with the newly-coiffed Jersey tucked under one arm and a box of Fauchon chocolates in the other hand. I presented the chocolates to the woman behind the counter.

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked.

"Why not?" I replied. "Your job is stressful. You need a little candy to make it sweeter."

Although she charged me $150 Euros to bring Jersey onboard, she didn't bother to weigh him. And she gave us that extra roomy seat that they save for special needs people and those who are nice to them.

Traveling Abroad with My Special Needs Dog

I originally posted this back in October 08, but pulled it down when I began applying for jobs as a France-expert travel writer. I figured slamming the national airline would not win me points or job interviews. But since the web site did not elect to upgrade its presence with my beautific prose, I'm now free to post whatever I want:

We all know France's reputation as a dog-loving nation and maybe it's true the French do love pooches--just as long as you don't try bringing them onboard French planes.

Jersey and I flew Continental first class (okay, I'm lying, but we did have an entire row to ourselves so it was like first class, only better) Houston to Paris. The American flight crew was dreamy--they bestowed Jersey with water and treats and gushed over his extraordinary adorableness. Our voyage began bon indeed. But things started to go south after landing in Paris.

Air France was adamant--Jersey, mon petit chien, at nearly 8 kilos, was too big to fly in the cabin to Nice; 2 kilos--2 lousy kilos--over the limit.

Knowing I catch more flies with honey I tried playing it sweet. But the Parisian customer "service" rep wasn't biting. I tried indignation. "I need him. He's my bona fide California Assistance Dog." That bullshit, however, wasn't flying with the very un-California Parisian airline staff. I tried anger, bribery (offering to buy Jersey a seat and the staff a bottle of wine). I pleaded, threatened; the Air France staff countered with detailed explanations of how comfortable Jersey would be in cargo. If cargo is so swank, let me fly in cargo with him, I said. Plane after plane bound for Nice departed Charles de Gaulle sans Jersey and me. Sprinting between the check-in counter and the Air France office, back and forth, one, two, three times, I was pushed off on progressively more disgusted airline personnel. At one point, I was told to call Continental and have someone there fax Jersey's paperwork to Air France even though I had copies of it with me. They made me use my own cell phone, $1/per minute. Finally, out of sheer exasperation, I sobbed.

"Stop crying," the Air France rep snapped. "I mean it," she said. "You cannot cry."

I didn't realize crying was not allowed on Air France. Frankly, my experience with said airline led me to believe they'd be accustomed to dealing with tearful travelers. Air France ("Air Chance") absolutely sucks. But when my tears could not be assuaged, the Air France rep told me to go get lunch, come back in an hour and she will take care of me and my little dog too.

An Air France rep met me at the gate in Nice and whisked me away to my waiting shuttle. It was like they couldn't get me out of their airport quickly enough. Whatever. I know this is totally un-PC, but... at least three shrieking babies ruin every flight I'm on. Jersey does not make a sound. He barely moves. If babies don't have to fly in cargo, neither should Jersey. People cite allergies as a reason for banning dogs from the cabin. But you know what--I'm allergic to being kept uncomfortably awake by screaming kids on transcontinental flights. Besides, as a shih-tzu, Jersey is hypo-allergenic. I'm betting if I took a vote on any given flight on any given day for who passengers would rather fly with--someone else's howling baby or the silent, adorable, dander-free Jersey, Jersey would win hands down every time.

Jersey's got some kidney issues going on so I packed his suitcase full of his necessities, including six 1,000-ml bags of fluids. On our stroll back from the beach one day shortly after arriving in Antibes, a woman rushed up to me from behind, her voice panic-stricken as she switched from French to English, informing me that Jersey was limping and I had to take him to the vet RIGHT NOW. Isabella walked Jersey and I to Dr. Gittens' office. He's British; his wife American; both are fanatical animal lovers. (I shared with Dr. Gittens the book I'd just finished reading--The Story of Edgar Sawtelle--which I highly recommend to anyone who loves wonderful writing, creative story-telling and/or dogs.) Because doggy painkillers are hard on the kidneys, Dr. Gittens researched homeopathic remedies and ordered Jersey a case of special dog food. A few days later, after my friend Siobhan joined Jersey and me in Antibes, Dr. Gittens was instrumental in reuniting Siobhan with her luggage, which Air France had--quelle surprise!--lost.

Antibes, which boasts a thriving international yacht community, is a popular Cote d'Azure destination that lies between Nice and Cannes. My aunt's apartment, ideally located, is just a few minutes walk from the center of town, Marchee Provencal (a huge local products outdoor market), the beach, harbor, Picasso Museum and train station (I'll get to that later). I like Europe. I like the non-gluttonous, yet luxurious, way of life. SmartCars dominate the road; SUVs are a rarity. Sensors trigger lights in the apartment building's common areas as needed, rather than in perpetual illumination even when unnecessary which, face it, is most of the time. The Euro is worth far more than the dollar. Travel agencies advertise shopping trips to New York City--the European version of a shopping excursion to the outlet stores of Reading, Pennsylvania.

I was in Antibes on November 4, 2008. French news covered Obama's election as if it was there own. There was dancing in the streets. For the first time since the 70s it wasn't embarrassing to be an American traveling abroad. But if we do resort to our former unpopularity for any reason, I've discovered a way to keep my stock high: just tell everyone I'm from San Francisco, rather than the U.S. San Francisco enjoys so much goodwill in the world that other countries seem to view it as a separate entity; it's own little autonomous paradise--the Monaco of the Americas. Nobody doesn't like San Francisco and, by extension, anyone who lives there. Maybe my Air France experience would have gone more smoothly had I said straight off, "San Francisco" instead of "U.S."

In Search of Peace

I spent my last week in the Indian Himalaya in McLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan-government-in-exile. I'd grown accustomed to being off-season during my 10-week trip, so I was ill-prepared for the mayhem that is McLeod Ganj when the Dalai Lama is in town, teaching, as he was in March.

It's my impression that the Dalai Lama spends more time in L.A. than in McLeod Ganj. At least I hope that's true, for his sake.

It poured my first few days there. Constant rain can be charming in some places—Seattle, for example, or a rain forest. In McGleod Ganj it's simply despicable. Mud everywhere. Constant electrical blackouts. No amount of REI rain gear prevented me from being perpetually soaked. It's a place where I came to realize nothing is really waterproof.

Initially I regretted referring, repeatedly, to Siliguri as hell. Because it left me with no adequate description for McLeod Ganj. That the supreme ambassador of peace makes his home there was more than ironic. It was unfathomable.

The streets, barely wide enough to accommodate one vehicle, are teeming with two-way traffic. Being India, sidewalks are non-existent. Beggars holding babies grab Westerners as we try to avoid being mowed down by jeeps, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, cars. Even the millions of saffron-robed monks milling about town were rude.

I was stuck in the garish, fluorescent-lit (when there was electricity, which wasn't often) Best Western Hotel Anand Palace. Coinciding with the Dalai Lama's teachings was the Hindu Festival of Colors, Holi. Hindus don't celebrate like Christians, quietly, in church. They celebrate with raucous reckless abandon, on the streets, in the restaurants, in the hotel's hallways, which made me both envy and sort of hate them. I know this is completely politically incorrect, but Indians are loud even when they aren't celebrating. Earplugs layered under Bose noise-reducing headphones couldn't even put a dent in the din, which was painful.

At one point I threatened to kill two families of about 10 screeching adults and children. The hotel manager suggested I change rooms. If I were him, I would have thrown me out. But Indian etiquette is fascinating. On one hand, service professionals extend extreme tolerance and courtesy to customers. To be a guest in an Indian home is to be treated like royalty. On the other hand, there's no word in Hindi for "please." And I'd bet my life the phrase "excuse me" doesn't translate at all.

To move around India is to be constantly jostled. When standing in line for anything—train tickets, food, ski lifts, tagara (an herb that promotes relaxation), things never proceed orderly. People always push and prod. The guys behind the counter wait on four customers at once, delaying all four of us. "Finish with me before you help him," I screamed at one guy. He ignored me and moved on to help the fifth customer.

I would have cut my time in McLeod Ganj short, depriving myself of the Dalai Lama's teachings, but then the sun came out. I met Karan, a local kid, who chauffeured me around town, took me trekking.

Sun and exercise boosted my endorphins. I hooked up with a couple of Americans—Todd, a Bay Area transplant who now lives in McLeod Ganj and loves it; Nancy, a woman from upstate New York in her 60s, traveling alone despite intense fear of being alone. Todd and Nancy were overwhelmingly grateful to have the opportunity to sit in the presence of the Dalai Lama. My indignation transformed into shame, then appreciation. The black cloud I created dissipated.

I started making daily trips to the Shiva Temple in Bhagsu . The priest invited me to participate in the rituals—pouring water over the various statues, lighting incense. He wrapped red string around my right wrist, asked me to stay and meditate with him, offered me chai. Karmically I didn't deserve such generosity. But I believe in Grace. I believe my sins are forgiven at the exact moment I stop behaving badly and ask for forgiveness.

I left on a good note. The only thing I now remember about the Dalai Lama's teaching is that he spoke about detachment. He used death as an example and the importance of being able to accept death without being attached to this life. "It is the nature of this body," he said, "to die."

Three weeks after I returned to the States, my beloved collie, Gus, died. I'm a middle-aged woman, unmarried without children. Gus and my other dog, Jersey, a shih-tzu, are my kids. When Gus died, I blamed myself. But what I remember of the Dalai Lama's words also sticks in my mind. I can love Gus, feel inconsolably sad, miss him like all hell and still be at peace. Gus was old, he had myriad health problems. He was the sweetest, most gentle dog I've ever known; if anyone deserved to live forever, happily, it was Gus.

But, to my deepest sorrow, it is the nature of all living things to die.

My Worst Date. Ever.

My ego's favorite thing about traveling alone in India is getting hit on constantly by much younger men. My ego ignores the obvious reason for my popularity: Indian men assume my traveling alone means I'm easy.

My friend Gurudharm says the only thing most men in Northern India know about Western women they've learned from porn films. I refused to believe that's true. They also watch HBO. But then a 22-year-old kid, Karan, I met in McLeod Ganj confirmed Gurudharm's warning. Indian men, he assured me, assume all Western women are "sex machines."

Too bad I met Karan after discovering how ridiculously naive I am. And how ridiculously enormous my ego is.

I did have more dates during my 10 weeks in India than I've had during the previous 10 years of my life. Dates. Nothing more. Dinner. An occasional stroll through whatever village I happened to be in. A trek or two. I'm about as close to being a sex machine as a Mini Cooper is to being a Hummer. Plus, nothing in my demeanor or dress (I wore the same drab, modest, shapeless three outfits, in rotation, every single day for ten weeks) suggest sexual prowess.

I'm middle-freaking-aged. The number of years I've spent on this planet alone have earned me the right to traipse about the world as I please, alone if I so choose. I'm old enough to afford my own hotel room. I don't like anyone enough to spend 10 weeks with him (or her). And I don't drink enough to make intolerable people tolerable.

I really assumed the men were interested in me because they'd picked up on how witty and fascinating I am.

And after all but three dates I ended up with my feelings hurt, wondering why the guy at least 15 years younger than me thought he was getting laid.

So when Roshan, an Indian Olympic ski coach and the first age-appropriate guy to show an interest in me, invited me to dinner, I was incredulous.

"You're married." I said. "Everyone older than 25 is married here."

He assured me he wasn't. A lengthy discussion ensued. How can this be, I asked? Why aren't you married? Were you ever married? Why didn't your parents arrange your marriage? Do you have siblings? Did your parents arrange their marriages? Who do you date, given every woman above age 20 is married and women rarely emerge from their homes without their husbands? Do you just wait around for the random foreigner to show up? I was thorough.

He gave me a ride back from the ski hill at Sethan. He said he has the best job in the world and the only thing that could make it better is sharing the half-hour drive to town with a beautiful lady (my stupid ego fell for that).

I don't know if he was a really good liar or we had my usual communication breakdown or I was just incredibly bored, but I agreed to having dinner with him. When he awkwardly reached across the table to hold my hand, pressing the backside of it uncomfortably into the hard wood table, I started to believe he had no romantic experience whatsoever.

The next day he picked me up at my hotel, where I'd spent the night alone, to go skiing. He tried kissing me as he negotiated the hairpin turns (no guardrails) leading up the mountain. He was so sloppy I couldn't imagine he'd ever seduced a woman. I repeatedly pushed him away, disgusted and a bit scared. I was like, "Dude, I just want to ski. I don't want to die in a car crash. In India. With you. If you touch me again, I'll break your arm." Then I will become the first woman I've ever seen driving in India.

At my hotel, he jumped out of his jeep and blocked my way as I tried to go in, alone. He insisted I needed a massage and he'd only stay in my room long enough to bestow his considerable massage talents upon me. After about 10 minutes I was finally able to convince him it just wasn't going to happen. That's when he told me he is married with two children.

All I can say is: his poor wife. Not only is he a lying, cheating, conniving cad, I'd bet my life he's a completely incompetent lover.

In Bahagsunag, the peaceful town 2 kilometres from McLeod Ganj, I hiked to a glorious waterfall, alone. Because I can. The moon was full and I wanted to perform a full moon ritual, send my wishes out to the Universe. I'd stopped half-way to the waterfall to light incense and say a prayer when Fabian, a 66-year-old Yugoslavian man living in Sri Lanka, asked if he could join me. What could I say? I was still too stupid and naive to answer honestly.

He asked me what it was like as a woman traveling alone in India. I told him. His response: "Well, now you can tell your friends you've been hit on by every man you met, from 18-year-olds to a 66-year-old."

Lucky me.

Cows and Donkeys and Dogs

My current hotel in Manali, the Mayflower, is situated in an apple orchard with views of a pine forest and, of course, the looming, snowy Himalaya. It’s a secluded, serene part of town, but just a short walk to the Mall, Manali’s frenetic main street. It’s also a quick jaunt to several thousands-of-years-old temples.

On my daily walks to town and one of the temples I pass a huge garbage dumpster that is a major attraction for a herd of cows, donkeys and dogs. The dogs and some of the smaller cows and donkeys dive right into the dumpster. The rest of the animals poke their heads in and scrounge around the ground for scraps of something edible. Occasionally, I hear vicious growling and barking from an aggressive dog backing down a cow or donkey or another dog.

I carry biscuits with me everywhere I go to feed the animals. I save my leftovers for them (most Indian single servings could feed a family of four). For the dogs and donkeys I toss the cookies on the ground. The cows I feed right out of my hand. Cows, in general, are gentle, shy creatures. They gingerly accept the biscuits from me and patiently wait to see if another will be forthcoming.

There’s one cow, though, pure beige, who must have learned some tricks from the alpha dog in their pack. This cow scarfed the cracker out of my hand, licking me up to my elbow and then nuzzled its big wet nose right into my chest for more. It pushed me, forcing me to backpedal. It stepped on my left foot, totally violating my boundaries. I was afraid it was going to jump up on me, like a rammy terrier only much taller and wider. Then it (she? Are all cows female?) followed me half-way back to my hotel, actually running to keep up with me.

I watch the alpha dogs steal the biscuits I try to toss to the emaciated, shy runts. “The meek do not inherit the earth,” I tell one dog, so skinny it hurts me to look at her, as she defers to the aggressive, plumper dogs who steal her food. I try to get close to her but she runs off into the distance, watching me with deep suspicion and fear. A tiny puppy in the pack has already learned the rules of survival. He challenges the larger dogs to get his share of the biscuits.

Sometimes a small crowd of amused locals forms when I’m feeding my adopted pets. An old man stops to talk to me. He tells me that the cows all belonged to herders, but when the cows become ill, the herders just shoo them out onto the streets. My favorite cow has a basketball-sized tumor on her right side.

The old man tells me that 25 years ago there was exactly one car in Manali. He says this as we stand to the side of an enormous traffic jam, the blare of beeping unbearable. The roads in Manali are currently designed to accommodate that one car from 25 years ago, so the ubiquitous Scorpios (jeeps), vans, Tatas, small cars, auto rickshaws and motorcycles swerve around town, wreaking havoc.

When I thank the man in Hindi ("Danyavaad") for our chat, he asks if I speak Hindi. I’m thinking, are you kidding? How many foreigners do you know who speak Hindi? I don’t even speak Spanish, a language that would be more sensible (and feasible) for me to learn. He offers to teach me Hindi if I can commit to two weeks of daily lessons.

I drink the water straight out of the tap most places I visit these days. I started my trip rigorously drinking only bottled water, even brushing my teeth with it. But that quickly grew tiresome. I’m traveling light, lugging litres of water around weighs me down, like an anchor.

Granted, I don’t tour Calcutta or Bombay or Agra or any other place the typical image of India is derived from. I’m in the Himalaya and when I gaze at these magnificent mountains (which I do all day) I forget to worry about water filtration systems. I start to believe I’m in Shangri-la, where everything is perfect. And safe.

The toilets are also not nearly as awful as you might expect. Either that or I’m simply acclimated. Except for one night at the hotel in Hell (Siliguri), I’ve had western toilets in every place I’ve stayed. Even the high ski camp in Sethan (above Manali) offered fully furbished western loos. The toilet in Hell was a squat toilet, but it still flushed.

Restaurant and dhaba toilets are a different story. I’m not going to write about them; no one needs to read that. I hold my breath and thank God it’s always pitch black inside those stalls.

Toilet paper is very hard to come buy, as are paper napkins and plastic bags. When I buy something here (deodorant, hair conditioner, cookies), my package is handed to me wrapped in newspaper.

I gave my iPod to a 19-year-old charmer, Arif Khan, in Kashmir. His dad co-owns the ski shop (Kashmir Alpine) that arranged my paradisiacal ski experience there in Gulmarg. Arif is one of India’s top downhill skiers. He smokes about 100 cigarettes a day. He velcroed himself to me for my entire stay there because he loves eating chocolate and speaking English—two of my favorite pastimes as well. And he wanted my iPod.

I would have preferred to part with a kidney or lung, but I grudgingly gave Arif my cherished iPod, fully loaded with every song I love and a dozen guided meditations, because not giving it to him as he begged would have made me the most selfish person in the world. This was also my first attempt to let go of my attachment to externals, and look for peace and happiness within.

A month later, I own a “Sony” MP3 player that I bought from a shack-store along the Mall in Manali. Suffice it to say my cheap little knock-off will not strike a chord of terror in Apple. But in some ways my new music machine is more appropriate for India. I can only figure out about one-third of its functions and it seemingly operates only when it feels like it.

Tenzing, a guy in the Internet café where I do all my work, loaded it up with his favorite songs, including the complete works of Bread. Bread. I loved Bread when I was 14, which was back in the '70s.

Tenzing is 23 years old. I can’t imagine how such a band even made it onto his radar. I’m considering enlisting the old man with whom I discussed the cow situation to teach me Hindi just so I can ask Tenzing: Why Bread?

Feast or Famine

I spent about eight days in Anandpur Sahib, the second holiest city in the Sikh religion. My friend Gurudharm manages Yogi Bhajan’s ashram and personal residence there. My friendship with GD goes back to my New York days, when she still had a western name. We met at the Loving Touch Center, 33rd and Madison, where we were both “studying” Reiki.

GD was the best foodie friend I’d ever had. When we lived in Manhattan, if I called her up to chat, she’d usually suggest we meet for a meal instead of talking on the phone. I learned my favorite food trick from her: in Sushi restaurants I always request a half a lemon that I squeeze into a dab of wasabi for the best sauce ever.

In Anandpur Sahib, though, I quickly came to regret complaining about being overfed elsewhere in my travels. My Anandpur Sahib experience didn’t include much food. On my second day there, GD announced she was undertaking a beet fast for the next 40 days. This meant her staff boiled, steamed and stir-fried red beets about eight hours a day. Although I can’t really figure out what GD does at her ashram, I can tell you what she doesn’t do: cook, clean, do laundry, drive, run errands, answer the phone, feed her dog (or her dog’s three puppies), grocery shop, wash dishes, change linens.

[Okay, what I wrote is totally uncalled for. GD manages the ashram and all the groups who visit there, and maintains the entire complex, which includes a mansion, three guesthouses and conference facilities. She designs the landscaping. She instructs workers on how to create retaining walls to keep the monsoons from sweeping the entire ranch away. She even figured out how to stop the water from flooding into the mansion. She’s part architect, part engineer, part artist and part spiritual leader. She also meditates four hours a day.]

But I get cranky when I’m hungry and I spent a lot of time hungry in Anandpur Sahib, which isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, even by Indian standards. Further, GD doesn’t actually live in the town. She lives in the village of Banni, about a 25-minute walk from any store or café. It rained nonstop for about five days. I watched with increasing horror as the stash of granola and noodle masala (the Indian version of Oodles of Noodles) dwindled precariously low.

But again, I’m not being entirely fair to Gurudharm. All I had to do was ask, and she would have happily sent one of the servants to get me a meal. She made me popcorn for movie night (Erin Brockovich, for the 200th time). But I resented the timing of her fast. I was there to visit for just a few days. Couldn’t she have waited a bit longer before beginning her bizarre beet diet?

But what made me most uncomfortable about my time with Gurudharm was realizing how much alike we are. I’m not exactly the most generous, gracious hostess when I have houseguests. In observing Gurudharm I came to realize what drives my bad behavior when I invite people into my home: fear. I’m afraid of anything that upsets my regular routine. I’m scared because I don’t believe I can be myself and be with another.

So much of what I witnessed in Gurudharm reminded me of how I behave when my mother is visiting. I promise to take my mom here, there, everywhere and, inevitably, I don’t do 90 percent of what I promised. And I, too, have wacky, restrictive diets that don’t work at all for my mom (or anyone else). As I hunkered down in my gorgeous, opulent room in Yogi B’s mansion, I had an image of my mom visiting me, sitting alone, reading novels, trying to make herself invisible, caring for my dogs. Walking a mile in my Mom’s shoes surely has not been fun.

Besides fear, another character defect drives my totally self-centered behavior: spending way too much time alone. People are social animals; we are used to living in packs. Isolate us too long and we become either incapable or unwilling to rejoin the herd. Middle-aged spinsters are downright scary.

One of Gurudharm’s friends invited me to a wedding in Ludhiana, which is a town two hours away from Anandpur Sahib. I wanted to go (if for no other reason than to get a decent meal) but I was sick. I’m guessing I had the flu, since there’s really no possibility of it being food poisoning.

After a few days at the ashram, I went for a walk. I stopped by what I thought was a dhaba (roadside café) to have lunch. I was admittedly a bit delirious from hunger. The guys served me up a feast: potatoes, roti (bread), vegetable mush. They spoke not one word of English; I speak no Punjabi. I ate until I was stuffed. When I tried to settle my bill, they seemed a bit miffed. Turns out, I was not in a dhaba; it was their house. They wouldn’t accept any money from me. I wonder what they were thinking as I left—the irony of them feeding a starving American?

What Anandpur Sahib lacked in food, it more than made up for in serenity. I’d been traveling non-stop for almost two months. With GD, I got a much-needed rest. And then I headed back to Manali.

I just totally love Manali. Second to San Francisco, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Surrounded by the high Himalaya, which are not distant as they are in other Indian hill towns, Manali is western enough to be comfortable, but it’s still no-doubt-about-it India.

Before I left here the first time this trip, I was invited to a dinner/birthday party hosted by the people who are creating the Himlayan Ski Village (HSV), the first world-class ski resort in the Himalaya. The concept began with my friend Himanshu. Having trained as a ski instructor in Switzerland, returning to Manali had only one drawback for him: there are no ski lifts to transport skiers to the best powder on the planet. HSV, a four hundred million dollar project that will include the highest gondola in the world, was inspired by Himanshu’s overriding thought when he returned to Manali: “I’m sick of carrying my skis up the mountain.”

When I left here a few weeks ago, there was barely any snow. Now, the entire area is snow-covered. We still have to carry our skis up the hill for the time being, which is not fun. But the ride down more than makes up for it.

Back in Manali

Manali was my favorite part of my last trip to India. Likely it will go down as my favorite segment of this tour as well. It wasn't all bliss, though. It seems as if there was actually more snow in the surrounding Himalayas when I was here last May than there is now at the height of winter. The effects of global warming are strikingly evident here.

"It's your country's fault," my friend Himanshu Sharma hisses at me. During this trip I've now been blamed for George Bush and his administration, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the Catholic Crusades, the high costs of American electronics, bad television and movies and, now, global warming.

It's sad to see not one speck of snow at Solang Nullah, a sleepy ski knoll 11 kilometers above Manali. Since Himanshu is responsible for training ski instructors and ski patrol for the Himalayan Ski Village which is being built on another peak above Manali, he had to improvise. He found a little village at higher altitude, Sethun, and moved his cadre of 70-plus would-be ski professionals to a mud-hut camp over there.

I spent one night camping in Sethun, then moved down to a resort closer to the center of Manali. My resort had the best steam room I've ever experienced.

Besides adventure sports and visiting local temples, there's not much to do in Manali. The draw is trekking, rafting, skiing, horse-riding, rock-climbing. The Nicholas Roerich Museum lies in nearby Naggar. That made for one lovely day of sight-seeing.

I interviewed John Sims, who is the developer responsible for turning Himalayan Ski Village into a reality. I popped by the home in which he was staying for a quick introduction after conducting a phone interview and ended up staying for dinner and a birthday party. A former briggadier general tried very hard to convince me to attend Vipassana, a 10-day silent meditation retreat in Dharamsala that begins in mid-March. 10 days of silence sounds worse than hell to me and, also, I'm scheduled to return home on 6 March, but I find myself mulling over the possibility of actually doing the Vipassana.

The driver who chauffered me from Manali to Anandpur Sahib (the same driver who shuttled me and my friend Judy from Manali to Delhi last May) asked when I will return to Manali.

"Soon," I said.

"Will you live here?" he asked.

Hmmm.