A Luxury Coach To Ajanta And Ellora, India, 1982

The fountains weren't running at the Ajanta Ambassador. I don't blame them one bit, in retrospect.

I planned to spend an entire three months in India. And I mean PLANNED. It was that or waste a lot of effort on going to a faraway foreign country just to sit in hotel rooms with bad sheets, feeling panicked.

I have always made my way through the uncertainties and ambiguities of life by planning. Runs in the family. My youngest sister is known, affectionately, as Plannerina. Although she says kid #3 has finally put Plannerina to rest. But I digress.

I took guidebooks to India. Fodors and Let's Go. I thought about every step of the trip. And now I was in Bombay. With time on my hands. I had at least three or four days before film industry interviews would begin. The caves of Ellora and Ajanta were on my list. Or Ajanta and Ellora. Either way.

Somehow, and I do not remember how, I found a tour to Ajanta and Ellora. Via luxury coach. Let me say simply that words do not always mean the same thing in foreign countries. Even when they are ostensibly words of your language. The tour took us from Bombay out to the caves, one night on a bus, a hotel to shower in and have breakfast upon arrival, a day at the caves, and then another night back on the luxury coach to Bombay.

Oh take pity on a child. Even now I shake my head at my own optimism. Realizing at the same time that optimism can be a very good trait, especially for adventures. I got on the luxury coach, which, in this case, turned out to be luxurious enough even for a slightly spoiled young America. Sat down in my seat, a very nice seat, as it turned out, next to a middle-aged Indian man. And proceeded to have a violent allergic reaction to something I had eaten. Which caused me to itch all over, sneeze violently, and break out in hives. Hard to breathe. (This allergy was to become so serious later in life that the last time it happened I believe I almost died. But this was early days.) There was really nothing I could do about it that night but endure. So I did.

The attack passed. However. Right about the time when my throat opened up again, and I understood that I would probably live, I also understood that the man in the next seat wasn't squeezing my leg by accident. I twisted, I turned, I got annoyed, I tried to give signals that I was not appreciating the attention, I gave up. I moved to the back of the bus and sat down in the last row of seats against the back. Where I bumped around so violently that I could not sleep at all.

I arrived at the Ajanta Ambassador in a state of complete temper. As a 25-year old, on occasion I resembled a teenage girl. Not exactly the most gracious of species. The shower helped. Air conditioning helped. Breakfast really helped.

My knapsack. For daytrips. Completely impractical, but sentimentally valuable. Loaned to me by my boss at the time.

Off we set. The caves of Ajanta and Ellora were built by Buddhists, Hindus, and Jains between 200 B.C. and 700 A.D.. Carved into the side of a cliff alongside a river in the plains. Not even a grumpy baby Grande Dame could fail to put aside small annoyances, the wish for cold water, the discomforts of luxury coaches, in the face of this.


Like most of my trip to India, Ajanta was hot. Very hot. The sun was so bright I had to shade my eyes. Almost hard to see. But there were caves. And statues three times my height. All carved before my culture was much of a twinkle in some wild Saxon's eye.

We toured. I had remembered how hard it was to transition again and again from dark to light, from hot to cooler. But my notebook also tells me that a guide had us all wait outside one of the carved chambers. He went inside with other guides. They chanted. I remember now. Standing out in the white sun, a courtyard enclosed by decorated walls of statuary, men chanting in caves.


I'm embarrassed my notebook also shows I wrote about loud air conditioning on the same page. Everything I say is as truthful as I can make it. As best I can remember. I don't know if it matters.


Then we saw the sleeping Buddha. Carved in stone. I remember, at the time, I was not impressed. So what? A Buddha. I'd seen pictures. So what? He was long, and lying down. But now, looking at the Buddha's face, I think I missed something. I was very, very young. Pretty scared and trying to replace my fear with all kinds of inner commentary.


I made it back to Bombay uneventfully. If being 25, and alone, in India, in 1982, can be said to be uneventful. We humans have a remarkable capability to reset normal.

Have a wonderful weekend.

And In Further Important Mad Men News....

Remember how we all voted for her?







Pretty dang fun. Go here to read the official Mad Men interview with her. Clicking on the image above will take you to her sister Hollister's site - where I found the announcement.

Luxury Hotels, St. Regis San Francisco.

I love luxury hotels. Hmm. Maybe not a sign of extreme discernment. But I don't know if its one of those "Duh!" kind of things, or whether some really don't care for the atmosphere. Wouldn't want to presume. So let's assume we are talking about a quirky predilection.

Given my preferences, I'm lucky to have stayed in a fair number of these places. The Lake Palace in Udaipur, St. Regis in Shanghai, Intercontinental in Prague, The Helmsley Palace and 60 Thompson in New York. The Peninsula in Chicago. Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur. The Beverly Hills Hotel with my sisters for my 50th birthday. Where we all slept in one room with a trundle bed. Oh, and on the 82nd floor of the Shanghai Grand Hyatt, known locally as the Jin Mao. Neon on the horizon. The Four Seasons on the Big Island. But I am losing my train of thought in dreams of walking barefoot through hibiscus.

These days I'm less apt to splurge carelessly for a night, or nights, of grandeur. But, I can still sit in the hotel bar with some friends. And have been known to do so. Welcome to the St. Regis, San Francisco.

Zebrawood paneling. Low seats in colors like sage. A mural.


And a chandelier over the the bar itself. What? Haven't you always wanted a chandelier to accompany your Junipero gin martini? Sauvignon Blanc? That peaty Scotch?


I don't keep company with zebrawood on an every day basis. Nor chandeliers. Not even murals, although I suppose the wall marks left by kids bumping around might sort of count. But I can stash a green Waiwera water bottle in my bag. Take it home. Kind of like beach glass, if you will.

Confession. Even though I had paid in full for that water I felt a momentary High WASP pang of, "Is this OK? Am I allowed? Really?" as I walked out the door. A wave of preliminary blushing about the neck of the bottle sticking out the top of my already embarrassing Louis Vuitton. Sometimes you have to follow the signs of beauty past decorum.

Images
Me, last week.
The Perfect Hotels
SF Photorama
Me, this morning.

And It Comes In Pink, Too.

Giveaway here. Rowallan jewelry "keep" or other nifty things from Luggage.com. The keep, BTW, also comes in pink. For my preppy blogger friends:).

Voila.

Have disabled comments here to make sure they are all in one place and nobody gets lost. Here the stories of adventures are amazing.

A Rowallan Jewelry "Keep"

Privilege is giving away something to make your travel more, well, privileged. And in our tradition of deconstruction, you can define privilege however you like.

But first, the story of this giveaway. I had been contacted by more companies than made sense. Always fun, secretly thrilling and all that. But they wanted me to promote things like orthodonture, or Russian diamonds, or gypsy pendants. Didn't seem to make sense. Then the kind people at CSN Stores got in touch. They run www.luggage.com. This did make sense. Especially since I planned to start writing about travels.

However, I didn't want to give you all anything without testing it first. So, I bought one for myself. I wanted something that a) could hold my watch, some earrings, a necklace, and maybe even a bracelet, without damage b) would fit into my carryon for those times when I had to check a suitcase. This Rowallan "keep" as they call it, is so cute I want to feed it and let it sleep at the foot of my bed.

It's tough to travel with jewelry. Without a good case, necklaces tie themselves into knots from which they cannot be rescued and earrings say goodbye to their mates never to return. And, if you check luggage, heaven help the poor soul who entrusts her *precious* to the recesses of the baggage system. Confession. Jewelry does bring out my inner Gollum.


Rowallan, to make this sweeter, is a Scottish company. They make things for Queen Elizabeth. Yes. The Grande Practical Dame is enthralled by the click of the hardware alone.


One of you can win this "keep." Or, if you prefer, you can choose something else at Luggage.com. Anything within an $80.00 limit. I know, isn't that generous? Please just do one or several of these things. As I understand it, I'm following the giveaway protocol. If I'm wrong, please let me know. Immediately. Or I will have nightmares when I find out I was inappropriate.

1. Comment below. Tell me the most interesting place you have ever traveled to. Interesting being loosely defined. One chance.
2. Either remind me you follow Privilege already or sign up to follow now. Two chances.
2. Post about the giveaway on your blog, Facebook, or Twitter. Social media of choice. Let me know you have done so. Three chances.
3. Go dance naked in the rain. Four chances. Um, I think I'm kidding there.

On Sunday of this week, November 22nd, I will pick a winner at random. Either I will figure out the random number generator, or I will put slips into a bowl. Probably a silver one. For fun. I don't think they make silver random number generators.

Here's to presents, large and small. I hope to have others for you as time goes by.

Note: I also picked CSN because they are large and reputable. (I'd be OK with small and reputable.) They want me to tell you that they have sites like Mattresses too. I just couldn't figure out a good way to give anyone a mattress. Have you ever noticed that it's one of those words you better not say over and over again?

Note: So much for grand capitalist schemes. To make anyone at any and all regulatory agencies happy, I received nothing in exchange for what I am about to say. Except the chance to do something fun by giving a present. Not even an affiliate link, although I reserve the right to do that in the future if I figure out how and get over my embarrassment.

Telephones, Addresses, Movies. India, 1982

I woke up in a strange country. This should not have surprised me. But strange, by nature, is always a surprise.

I was overwhelmed with anxiety that morning. But so what? I was always anxious, in those days. In my 20's. I was anxious, as usual, sitting on a bed in the Taj Mahal Hotel, in Bombay, in February of 1982.

Anxiety laps me like a slow flood.

I made a to do list for those rising waters. A universal strategy, even in strange countries. "Call the National Film Development Society." India had a government body in charge of developing their art film industry. I had written a letter before I arrived. They had responded saying,"Yes, you may come visit us. " That meant I had to use the telephone. There was one. Next to the bed. It was beige. That didn't help. I had only a vague idea of how to use it. In those days, India's telephone infrastructure was erratic. Odd combinations of numbers required. I dialed. Clicking ensued. I dialed again. Someone said "Hello?" I don't remember any more than that, not what I said, not what they said in return, not how I knew to go find myself a taxi, not how I knew to tell the cab driver where to go. Certainly not how I could be sure that anyone at all would be there when I arrived.

I do remember the cab driver didn't know what he was doing much either. Bombay in those days was being built right under our feet. Streets were changing names. Buildings coming down and going up. Entire neighborhoods becoming. An entire city of becoming. The cab driver had to ask another citizen of the becoming, "Do you know this place?" Show the address I must have written down. Ask, of course, in Hindi. English was common, amongst the educated. Not so common amongst those who drove the educated around. It only makes me shake my head, to realize that India was so foreign to me that a new language barely registered.

I remember next, offices. White walls. Women, in beautiful saris, in charge of the National Film Development Society. Me, young, long blond hair, spectator slingbacks, seersucker suit. A conversation. In which I took notes, they explained what they knew, and schedules were made. Yes, they would take me to see a film being shot in what they called, even then, Bollywood. Mangala, a woman in her 30's who smiled and shook my hand, would meet me in the next few days. I would get a phone call. She put me in a cab and sent me back to the hotel.

OK. OK. Plans were made. Schedules set. To do, done. But I had said I was a free-lance journalist. In my mind, I was not. In my mind, I was a girl. That was also true. I felt like I was telling stories. I thought I was fooling someone. But in the end my article would be published by the Los Angeles Times. In the end, the National Film Development Corporation knew more than I did. In the end, they were right to treat me as though I was real, even though I felt I was hallucinating.


Now I had some time. Nothing scheduled for a few days. I walked out into the city. Down a side street. Every step more information than weeks of my previous life. Imagine marigolds. Imagine marigolds in a city. Hanging in garlands everywhere. Hanging around cows' necks.

I went back to the hotel. I put on my bathing suit and went down to the pool. I lay, in the shade, wearing a bathing suit, on a long pool chair. The walls around the pool were latticed, like the carved walls of the other Taj Mahal. Bougainvillea grew all around. Pink. Very pink. So pink. A waiter, turbaned, uniformed, asked me if I wanted anything. "Madam, can I bring you something please?" "Lemonade. I'll have some lemonade. Thank you." Even strange countries do not relieve one of the requirement for polite. And I sat, by a swimming pool, under a blue sky. I drank lemonade. Bells rang, intermittently, on cows outside in the street.


Images, from slides, India, 1982, LPC
1. A film billboard. In fact I believe this is from the South of India, not Bombay. But time is the enemy of exactness.
2. The Bombay train station. A kiosk.
3. Bougainvillea. On the walls of the hotel swimming pool.

Fab Over Fifty - New Site Launching

A new site, called Fab Over Fifty, is launching in January. For those of us over 50, or almost 50, or wanting to understand the women-over-50 market, it's run by Geri Brin, a former fashion media publisher. Here's what she says.

Now I’m creating a website by and for every single one of us, whether we raised a family or raised the glass ceiling, dress in designer duds or don’t know Dries from Dior. Called www.faboverfifty.com, it will be the place where we can share the things that make us so fab—the shops we love, the creams we swear by, the books we can’t put down, and the wisdom we’ve amassed.

At the moment, she's writing a blog introducing both topics of interest and people who are subscribing to her site. I was quite happy to be included. As one to shy away from controversy, I can't tell you how fun it is to be to be written up, with others, in a post that calls out Anna Wintour. I could never do such a thing, but I secretly admire the audacity.

To be clear, I have no interest in segregating myself in a same-age cohort. I am far too fond of the young, far too invested in the issues and feelings of all ages. It seems, however, that Geri shares my sentiment. I found her via, of all places, A Cup of Jo. Apparently Geri mentored Joanna throughout her career. I can only imagine how satisfying that must of been for both of them, Joanna to learn, Geri to watch Joanna's success, Joanna to support Geri now in her new endeavor. Having something to offer is overwhelmingly the best part of getting older.