24 Hours As A Maharani

An expeditious early morning taxi ride (Vik swears the cabbie was Steve McQueen’s stunt driver in a prior life) took us to Jaipur Airport to catch our early morning flight to Udaipur. The foliage visible during our descent into Udaipur foretold that our stay here was going to be worlds apart from our time in Jaipur.

As we made our way into the city from the airport, we got a chance to take in the scenery. At first glance, Udaipur reminded us a lot of Palm Springs. The contrast of the greenery was striking against an austere backdrop of desert mountains amidst a clear blue sky, and this was literally going to be only the second best view we would have during our stay. Along the way, we passed through the city’s cramped center and past the stunning City Palace complex where the Udaipur royal family still resides.

Minutes later, we arrived at the jetty for the motorboat ride across Lake Pichola, which roughly translates as Lake “Behind the Palace.” The Lake Palace Hotel, which was the royal family’s summer residence, sits in the center of Lake Pichola and offers magnificent 360-degree views of the City Palace and lakefront. The story of the palace’s creation is a familiar refrain to many of us: son wants to party 24/7, dad says “not while you live under my roof,” son is forced to wait until he becomes boss to build his own party pad.

The palace’s magnificent white façade and the setting were immortalized in the rather cheesy 1983 James Bond film Octopussy (featuring dialogue that could have been written by a toddler – Vijay Amritraj’s lines are particularly excruciating -- and a villain, Kamal Khan, who is about as intimidating as Richard Simmons).

From the point that we set foot on the slip, we were quite literally transported into the life of royalty. We were first greeted by a guard in traditional Rajasthani court attire who led us to a waiting area where a woman handed us warm handtowels. After a quick ride across the lake, the doorman welcomed us to the hotel and shielded Kaberi from the sun with a massive Rajastani silk umbrella. It was a good glimpse of what was to come. Inside the lobby, we were given fresh watermelon juice along with the opportunity to upgrade to a suite for a “nominal” additional sum. In a moment of profound temporary insanity, Vik took the upgrade, thereby allowing both of us to enjoy the good life for 24 hours.

After unexpectedly finding an unwelcome 6-legged guest in our room (we named him “Lalu” after the shady and self-promotional Indian Railway Minister), we had the terrible misfortune of being moved to an even more magnificent heritage suite, which used to serve as the private quarters for the queen, or Maharani. The suite was situated adjacent to the spa area, where the current swimming pool had served as a bathing area for the ladies of the royal court. Our accommodations boasted a huge bed, a living and dining area and a marble bathroom with a clawfoot tub for two. Kaberi also noted that the space had tasteful and stunning gold molding, the largest chandelier she’d ever seen and an incredible triple window seat with an unfettered view of the City Palace. In contrast, Vik was more appreciative of the wireless Internet access, 50-inch flatscreen TV and double sinks.

We spent the day lounging next to the mango tree shaded pool, taking a historical tour of the palace and enjoying magnificent sunset views from the rooftop. In the evening, we enjoyed a romantic candlelight dinner for two on the Maharaja’s private terrace with a clear view of the older Jagmandir Island. In order to make up for Lalu’s intrusion earlier in the day, the hotel staff coordinated with Vik to surprise Kaberi with 12 long-stemmed red roses and a chocolate marshmallow cake dessert. When we returned to the room, we found another mini-dessert of five Indian sweets, a bottle of red wine, silk sheets and large white candles awaiting us. Vik is a little worried that Kaberi is starting to get used to this.

The Pink City Beckons

For much of our three-hour flight to Jaipur, one of the three vertices of India’s Golden Triangle tourist corridor (along with Delhi and Agra), we perused our Rough Guide for hotel recommendations. The process turned out to be more difficult than originally anticipated, largely because we were visiting Jaipur in the midst of peak tourist season.

During a brief layover in Mumbai, the gentleman sitting to our left, Abhinav, graciously offered to help us find a room. By the time we had disembarked at Jaipur airport, Abhinav had made several calls on his mobile phone and secured a room for us at an old-fashioned haveli in the heart of town. We were overwhelmed by his effort and willingness to help us, and were somewhat dumbfounded when he also accompanied us (with his young family in tow) to the hotel to check us in. Our warm feelings over the incident faded in the coming days, however, when we learned that persons accompanying paying guests to hotels in Rajasthan often receive kickback commissions that reach as high as 80% of the room rate. To this day, we still don’t know whether Abhinav’s intentions were honorable or self-interested, or both. As is often the case in India, things are much more complex than they initially appear on the surface.

We took advantage of our first afternoon in Jaipur to find Anokhi, an area boutique known for its excellent, hand-printed clothing, before stopping in for a delicious dinner of pav bhaji and chole bhatura at Jaipur’s best vegetarian restaurant, Four Seasons (not to be confused with the high-end hotel chain). The next morning, we wasted a few hours moving camp to a much cheaper guesthouse across town (the haveli’s price/value proposition left much to be desired). With a room secured, we then proceeded to hire a taxi for the day to take us around town.

Our first foray took us to Jaipur’s eastern suburb of Amer to find a textile designer that came highly recommended from Kaberi’s friend Nomita. Suffice it to say that the journey turned into a real wild goose chase, leading Vik to remark that our affable driver was the kind of guy who would first drive you off a cliff and then try to stop for directions. After a 90-minute effort that included multiple pit-stops to query locals, we found the showroom in a surprisingly-nondescript part of town. Upon arrival, we were disappointed to hear from the office manager, an Indian version of Mr. Magoo, that we needed a prior appointment. After much consternation on our part, Magooji relented and told us that but he would make an exception for us if we returned at 2:00 pm. Kaberi was convinced that Vik would balk at the ridiculous effort associated with giving Magooji our business, but, to her surprise, he had been sufficiently beaten into submission by this point.

In order to kill a few hours before our appointment, we ended up driving to Amer palace. To our delight, we were greeted by a magnificent structure overlooking the desert outskirts of the city. The interior garden and fountain were a surprising discovery and the mirror work in the main structure was mesmerizing. It was a welcome distraction that made us feel better about the effort made to trek all this way.

In the afternoon, we returned to the showroom where Kaberi quickly forgot about the imposed wait and found a number of items that she fell in love with, including a quilt and some curtains. When Magooji indicated that he would only accept cash, Vik was forced to find the closest State Bank of India ATM while Kaberi stood guard over her discoveries. En route back to Jaipur, we stopped at the post office to have our purchase wrapped in a secure cotton sheet for transit. Taking Mejomama’s advice, we decided not to trust the Indian Post, opting instead to lug the package around with us until our return to Delhi.

Our final destination was Jaipur’s famed pink City Palace (“The Pink Palace”) where we cajoled the guard (primarily through the use of embarassingly-poor pigeon Hindi) into granting us entry a few minutes after the official closing time. Jaipur is known as the Pink City for the color taken on by the fortress surrounding the old part of the city at sunrise (although a potentially-color-blind Vik still thinks Jaipur should be called the Orange City). We walked through the grounds of the palace in an accelerated gait, goofily posed with the Royal guards and admired the rich detail of the intricate mosaic work. On our way out, we tipped the guard the price of two tickets (a whopping $0.95 in U.S. dollars) for his indulgence. Before heading back to our guesthouse, we capped our day with another excellent meal, this time at the highly-recommended Copper Chimney.

Bang-Alluring

After finally making it out of Kerala, we had a quick, 36-hour pitstop in Vik’s home state of Karnataka to visit the Bangalore chapter of the Kaberi Admiration Society (Vik’s Usha Aunty and Ramarao Uncle, cousin Nayan and his wife Gauri, and their two energetic kids, Aditya and Vir).

Staying with Usha Aunty and Ramarao Uncle allowed us to enjoy a break from our hectic schedule. Kaberi and Ramarao Uncle chatted over coffee in the mornings while Vik slept in. Evenings featured scintillating conversation over pre-dinner drinks (Kaberi tried Johnny Walker Black for the first time and discovered that she is not a scotch aficionado). Usha Aunty and Kaberi also enjoyed some quality girl time together, so much so that they are both convinced that they were close in a previous life.

We also enjoyed spending time with the funloving Nayan and Gauri. Nayan, the consummate foodie, always introduces us to the best restaurants. On this visit, we enjoyed gourmet Chinese at Szechwan Court at the Oberoi Hotel, continental cuisine at Herb & Spice and Indian-style tapas at 90 Foot Road. But the undisputed gastronomical highlight of Bangalore was the green chili martini with a fierce bite and an excellent buzz (don’t worry, we managed to get our hands on the recipe).

In our limited time, we were able to see the progress of construction on Gauri’s and Nayan’s new house and spend some time with Aditya and Vir. Kaberi has decided she wants a son just like Vir, who could literally be her Mini Me. When 3-year-old Vir doesn’t get his way, he pouts and makes the pronouncement, “Fine-I’m-not-your-friend.” This amused Vik to no end and reminded him more than a little bit of the negotiating tactics of his significant other.

Even Bangalore’s more mundane moments were memorable. On Kaberi’s request, Nayan got her an appointment with his dentist. After a 20-minute cleaning (which cost $16), Kaberi emerged with nicely-polished pearly whites and a new appreciation for her Dad’s strategy of delaying dental treatment until his annual trips to India. An emerging global capitalist, Kaberi is now a huge proponent of personal dental arbitrage. Clearly, the global medical tourism boom has some legs. Meanwhile, Vik spent an inordinate amount of time coming up with list of names for Nayan's Indian beer venture. Vik took great satisfaction when several of his ideas summarily dismissed by Nayan for not being edgy enough (Darkhorse, Riptide, Firefly, Night Owl) were received warmly by a larger group of dinner companions.

We wished we could have stayed in Bangalore much longer, but we had a plane to catch to Jaipur, the capital city of India's northwestern state of Rajasthan (“Land of Kings”).

God's Own Country

Contented after a relaxing stay on the houseboat, we spent the next day leisurely driving around Cochin. Our route included stops at Fort Cochin’s golden yellow Dutch Palace (actually erected by the Portuguese), Cochin Harbor’s tall Chinese fishing nets, the crassly-named Jewtown (where early Jewish settlers were welcomed to live near the king at a time when other parts of India and the world weren’t so hospitable) and the city center of Ernakulum before we made our way back to our guesthouse.

The next morning, we woke up early to make the drive eastward from Kerala’s coast through the Cardamum Hills to the Periyar Wildlife Reserve. Kerala touts this part of the state as “God’s Own Country,” suggesting that God is an avid tea and spice connoisseur, as the lush, magnificent hills are ringed by either the vividly-green, concentric hedges of tea plantations or fronted by innumerable spice trees (most notably, cardamum).

A curvy, back-and-forth but scenic, four-hour drive eventually delivered us to the town of Thekaddy, which sits just east of the Periyar Reserve. After checking into our hotel located within the grounds of the Reserve itself – a converted stone colonial estate – we took a brief stroll to catch a glimpse of energetic, tree-hopping wild monkeys. With a spectacular sunset approaching, we grabbed a good vantage point and a Kingfisher by the hotel pool before venturing back to our room for the night. The next morning, we made our way to the park’s boat jetty to catch the 7 am wildlife boat ride.

When the boat embarked upon its journey, a fierce headwind sliced through us, considerably dampening our spirits and exacerbating our mounting cynicism. Vik noted that the vast majority of the boatride yielded a comparable number of animal sightings as would be customarily experienced on the Staten Island ferry. We were also surrounded by western European and Indian species of the most perplexing animal of them all – the touristus hyperus. The former spent the duration ceaselessly snapping photos with special polarizing filters that apparently had the ability to turn inanimate objects (namely, rocks and dismembered tree branches) into fascinating slideshow fodder while the latter spent the duration loudly bickering over who stole whose seats and who was most likely to have originated directly from a village.

Huddled together to stave off the wind’s chill, we were deeply grateful when the boat appeared to be turning back. Instead, we were taken to a small and seemingly-nondescript inlet. The guide came to the front of the boat and pointed to the top of a hill about 500 feet away. We obediently looked at the spot where he had pointed, but found ourselves staring at only shrubbery. Just as we were questioning the guide’s mental fitness, our angle shifted just slightly and out from the foliage emerged four wild elephants chewing tree leaves for breakfast. It was, without a doubt, the highlight of the excursion. In time, we also saw scattered wild boars, a herd of Indian bison and one or two cormorants. Despite Periyar being a well-advertised reserve for big cats, there were no tigers to be seen anywhere, save for the shivering and not-so-shy Royal Bengal tigress seated at Vik’s right.

On our return trip, we stopped briefly to walk the green-shrubbed maze of a tea plantation and tour its old-fashioned-but-still-operational tea factory. Despite it being the low season for tea harvests, the tour was fascinating, and we reveled in the scent of freshly-cut tea leaves. Upon our return to the coast, we pursued more laid-back activities for the duration, including touring the NTPC Kerala power plant’s control center (where we learned that 30% of electricity sent to north India is stolen, often with the blessing of senior government officials), viewing the sunset from the power plant’s roof (not exactly something that we expected to do on this trip) and having dinner with our host Mr. Sood and his family.

On our last day in Kerala, we drove south on a crystal clear afternoon to the red cliff-fringed Varkala Beach. We wandered down the soft sands and were easily coaxed into the water. Kaberi ignored the numerous leering Indian men, but was a little uncomfortable to be the only Indian woman on the beach sporting a bikini in lieu of a sari. After a thorough saltwater drenching, we dried off quickly and headed to the airport. On the way, we passed a government research facility that was once home to Vik’s namesake, Vikram Sarabhai, the father of Indian space research.

We then continued on to Trivandrum, a slowly-emerging tech hub and the capital of the state, to catch a 40-minute Indian Airlines flight to Bangalore. Ironically, we ended up spending nearly four times as long in Trivandrum Airport (150 minutes) waiting for a delayed plane than on the flight itself. Earlier in the day, government-owned Indian Airlines had agreed to merge with government-owned Air India in a move that will undoubtedly revolutionize the Indian airline industry. Well, maybe not.

Not A Kerala In The World

The evening of Sunday the 18th took us from cool, temperate Delhi to subtropical Kerala, a thin, long shard of a state on India’s southwestern coast. The most densely-populated state in India, Kerala boasts the country’s highest literacy rate (a reputed 100%), the lowest infant mortality rate and an especially diverse and peacefully-coexisting populace (roughly 40% Hindu, 25% Catholic and 25% Muslim).

All three statistics stem, at least in part, from Kerala’s geographic serendipity as a port of entry for Catholic missionaries and spice traders alike. The state also boasts a well-earned reputation as a friendly and laid-back vacation destination with beachside resorts, Ayurvedic spas and lush foliage serving as calling cards. Despite its strengths, Kerala suffers from one of the highest unemployment rates in India, potentially as a result of its electing a Communist government (along with West Bengal) whose platform has scared off potential employers.

Given Indian Airlines’ longstanding reputation for mediocrity, we were surprised that our 3-hour flight (which cost roughly $65 per head) went as marvelously as it did; the flight departed on time, all passengers were handed roses upon entering and exiting the plane and the onboard food service was outstanding. Only upon arrival did we learn that we were on the maiden voyage Delhi-to-Cochin non-stop flight, which just so happened to boast a certain Indian Airlines’ CEO as a passenger. Suffice it to say that our next Indian Airlines flight – sans CEO – wouldn’t go quite as flawlessly.

After touching down in Cochin’s gleaming international airport (a gateway to the Gulf Coast Countries where many young Keralans seek their fortunes and a glittering example of public-private collaboration), we were whisked two hours south to the small town of Kayamkulam. Through Kaberi’s Mejomama and Mejomaima's kindness, we were being graciously hosted in Kerala by the National Thermal Power Corporation (NTPC), an Indian utility. Our hosts – Mr. Chandon, a family friend of the Mejos at NTPC headquarters in Delhi and Mr. Sood, the GM of NTPC Kerala – had arranged for us to stay at the company guesthouse with a car and driver at our disposal and a personal guide, Mr. SreeKumar, to accompany us throughout Kerala.

When we reached the guesthouse, we were struck by the lingering signs commemorating the visit of the shaggy-haired India's president, Abdul A. P. J. Kalam, a few days earlier (in a former life, Kalam mastermindeded the secret 1998 nuclear tests in the Rajasthan desert, earning him great admiration from resident and non-resident Indians alike for defying the satellite reconnaisance of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency).

The next morning took us to the town of Alleppey, a prime departure point for Kerala’s famed backwaters boat tours. Mr. SreeKumar had arranged for our reservation and even went so far as to argue on our behalf when the first boat we were shown proved unsatisfactory (Kaberi’s nose wrinkled immediately at the ubiquitous carpet stains and the stifling, musty odor). When the 30-year-old, 5-foot-10 inch boat captain started verbally abusing the 5-foot-no-inch, 44-year-old Mr. SreeKumar, 5-foot-6-inch Vik (5-foot-7 with bedhead) was ready to drop the gloves, but Mr. SreeKumar held his own, giving said boat captain the Heisman and marching us back onto the pier. Minutes later, he found us a three-month old vessel with a gleaming deck and a much more respectful crew.

Our vessel was one of seemingly hundreds of wooden barges called kettu vallams, or “tied boats,” plying the backwaters. It boasted a façade of individual bamboo pieces, several of which we saw being hammered on the shoreline, that were attached without the use of nails. While our kettu vallam was a modest air-conditioned, one bedroom affair, we saw several that boasted five or more bedrooms, sundecks and lavish entertainment systems.

After setting off at noon, we were immediately beguiled by the beauty and serenity of our surroundings. Drifting along the backwaters, which comprised canals, lakes and rivers, was immediately relaxing, a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of the cities previously seen on our itinerary. As we floated in the midst of rice paddies, grasslands and tropical vegetation, we also caught a glimpse into the rural life of those who live alongside and incorporate the backwaters into a multitude of daily tasks, like bathing, clothes-washing and cooking.

Peeking into the private moments of others felt a bit voyeuristic to Kaberi, and a tad intrusive to Vik, so we contented ourselves instead with a good book and some not-quite-real-time blogging, respectively. The hours passed quickly; before we knew it, we were sipping sumptuous chai (heavy on the cardamum) while watching the sunset. As the sun faded, we docked and enjoyed the solitude of our surroundings as our crew prepared a traditional South Indian meal for us. It was a bit surreal, but still very enjoyable, to eat dinner in complete and total darkness. After turning in for the night, we were quickly coaxed to sleep by the lapping waves against our boat.

Life As A Dim-Witted Jammai (Son-In-Law)

After the world’s slowest flight out of Seoul (our pilot never exceeded 450 mph, ostensibly because of fierce headwinds over mainland China), we arrived in Delhi at 1 in the morning. While Kaberi slept soundly, Vik (who is pathologically incapable of sleeping in moving vehicles) lamented the thought that we could have made better time on a Japanese bullet train. Upon touching down, we received a traditional Indian government welcome (a long, interminable queue at Customs). A few decades later, and somewhat worse for wear, we emerged in the arrivals hall to catch our ride to the home of Kaberi’s aunt and uncle, the Mejos, or middle aunt and uncle in Bengali vernacular.

In Indian families, and especially Bengali ones (Bengali’s hail from India’s northeastern state of West Bengal), there is a sophisticated and highly complex nomenclature identifying the relationships between brothers and sisters, uncles and nieces, aunts and nephews, etc. This may partly explain the Bengali’s well-deserved reputation as India’s intellectuals since the mental effort required just to remember what to call a particular aunt or uncle must certainly sharpen a young Bengali child’s mind.

For example, in Bengali, there are at least five different terms for aunts: mashi (mother’s sister), pishi (father’s sister), maima or mamima (wife of mother’s brother), jettima (wife of father’s older brother) and kakima (wife of father’s younger brother) and at least five for uncles: mama (mother’s brother), meshomoshi (husbands of mother’s sister), jettu (father’s older brother), kaka (father’s younger brother) and pishimoshi (husbands of father’s sister). In addition, the same person is invariably addressed differently by different relations. For example, the middle of Kaberi’s mom’s three brothers is Kaberi’s Mejomama (middle uncle). But to Kaberi’s cousin Joy (whose father is Mejomama’s older brother), Mejomama becomes Kaka. Confused yet? Good, now you know how Vik feels (especialy since his verbal repertoire has been limited to aunty and uncle for the past 33 years).

Further complicating matters in Kaberi’s mother’s family is an exception (that seems arbitrary to Vik, which he strives to point out as respectfully as possible). Kaberi’s mom, who is the second oldest of three sisters is not Mejomashi (middle aunt) to her sister’s children, but, rather Chotomashi (little aunt). This is the case because she gained the title when she was the younger of two sisters (before the third sister was born) so as to simplify matters for her younger brother, Kaberi’s Boromama. And Kaberi’s mom’s youngest sister, instead of being called Chotomashi, is called Rangamashi. It’s not entirely clear what “Ranga” means. All of this leads a very cheeky Vik to surmise that there is a Bengali family somewhere with a Mistake-mama and an Accident-mashi running around. Kaberi’s only response is to just to roll her eyes exasperatedly. But we digress.

On the morning of February 16th (a national holiday in India to commemorate Shivratri), we awoke refreshed after a good night’s sleep. Our day kicked off over tea and biscuits with our Kaberi’s Mejomama and Mejomaima. Given the Mejos' busy schedules, the serendipity of having time with them was something to cherish, as they are both incredibly-warm, generous and funloving (Vik especially enjoys their company because they laugh at most of his jokes). Mejomama and Mejomaima had great advice on where to go in India, and helped us shape our itinerary. The only downside to the morning was learning that Kaberi’s Dad was diagnosed with a torn ligament in his thigh, relegating him to total bedrest for eight week and precluding his ability to travel with us in either India or Southeast Asia.

With Mejomaima attending to the upcoming evening’s puja preparations, Mejomama took us around to various Indian state tourism offices to help plan our India travel itinerary. After several offices proved to be closed due to the holiday, we made a pitstop for some Indian snacks before making our way to the Indian airlines office. There, we priced a 21-day Non-Indian Citizen Discover India ticket (which turned out to be $1,080 per person for unlimited flights within India over a 20 consecutive days; Vik would soon discover that one could save 60-70% by booking flights directly over the Internet at the Indian rupee rate).

We then returned home to attend Shivratri Pooja. Shivratri, which literally means “Night of Shiv,” marks the occasion where mothers welcome the god Shiva (the destroyer in the trinity of Hindu deities along with Vishnu, the creator, and Brahma, the protector) into their homes and ask him to bless their daughters with good fortune. We learned during the evening that there is a critical mass of Indians who count themselves as disciples of lord Shiva or of lord Vishnu, but very, very few who count themselves as disciples of lord Brahma. Apparently, this is because Brahma is fair-minded to such a degree that he grants his devotees’ wishes at a slower pace than the other two gods. The tie between self-interest and religious devotion is further evidenced by Brahma’s having only one temple in all of India devoted to worshipping him. Vik is now determined to give Brahma props whenever possible because he doesn't like the idea of a Hindu god being neglected. Props to Brahma!

The next day, Vik booked all of our interior flights in India on the Internet thanks to Mejomama's credit card (which allowed us to qualify for resident Indian rates). Our Indian itinerary takes us from Delhi to Kerala to Bangalore to Jaipur to Udaipur to Jodhpur to Jaisalmer to Delhi to Uttaranchal to Hyderabad and then back to Delhi. Later in the day, we had the pleasure of having lunch with the Mejos and Kaberi’s Chotomama (after the tutorial above, you now know what that means) . Lunch was a typically fun and festive affair and everyone got a kick out of Vik trying to pronounce the Bengali words jhaal (spicy) and jhol (water). As if Vik wasn't traumatized enough by the whole family title thing, he now had the pleasure of having five people yelling Jhhaal! Jhhaal! Not Jhhaal! at him.

After lunch, Kaberi's Chotomama heard Kaberi lament (to put it mildly) that the famed Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur was booked through June, and took matters into his own hands. He hit a speed-dial number on his cellphone, and miraculously (and much to Vik’s chagrin) found us a lakeview deluxe room for the one night we’ll be there. Kaberi is now in seventh heaven about staying in a real palace. Vik is ruefully watching all of the money he just saved on airfare fly out the window in the direction of Udaipur.

I'm A Seoul Man

Vik began singing “I’m A Seoul Man” in ludicrous Blues Brothers style the minute we got on the 2-hour flight from Tokyo. However, his enthusiasm seemed to wane after discovering that the Bi Bim Bop (a traditional Korean rice and vegetable medley) that he ordered on the plane was laden with beef. The conditions on the ground also didn’t help matters as South Korea’s arctic weather made Japan’s brisk temperatures feel like Maui in comparison. On our bus ride into the city, we were accompanied by a heavy downpour (thankfully, our friend Anuradha had encouraged us to carry along a travel umbrella).

While it wasn’t immediately obvious sitting inside a fogged-up airport bus in the rain during rush hour, Seoul is actually a very captivating city. Aesthetically, the city it reminded us most of was Pittsburgh, although the analogy would only hold if Pittsburgh was 40 times more populous, much more sprawling and totally committed to ending the silly practice of waving yellow handkerchiefs. Comparing Seoul to Pittsburgh may seem like damning it with faint praise, but hear us out. Like Pittsburgh, Seoul is enveloped by undulating, tree-laden hills. Like Pittsburgh, Seoul’s city layout is defined and influenced by wide, prominent waterways. And like Pittsburgh, Seoul is a very underrated, cool city, as we would soon find out.

After making our way to our hotel in Seoul’s Myeong-dong shopping district, we took inventory of the inhospitable weather and put any immediate plans on hold. Exhausted by our frenzied, whirlwind 72 hours in Japan, we took the opportunity to enjoy some downtime to recharge. Kaberi slept for an unheard of 14 consecutive hours while Vik got his fix of American TV by remotely watching Tivo’d episodes of Lost and The Apprentice on the trusty Slingbox painstakingly set up by Vik’s younger brother, Vin, back in DC.

We woke up the next morning -- Valentine’s Day -- to a gloriously-sunny but bitterly-cold day. After checking in with our families back home in the States via our mobile VOIP service (Gizmo Project, not Skype) and figuring out how to safely send Kaberi’s malfunctioning camera back to her cousin Shanku in Chicago for servicing (we settled on FedEx, which cost roughly 10% of the original purchase price of the camera), we had the afternoon left to explore Seoul.

After mentally thanking our friend Yee Won for her endorsement of EMS long underwear, we headed off to check out Insadong, Seoul’s arts and craft district and an area highly recommended by our friends Mae and Eunha. Getting to Insadong took a little time as we found the subway system to be a little more confusing than in Tokyo (primary with regard to navigating the labyrinth-like exits). We were able to manage with our limited language skills primarily because the South Koreans we encountered were remarkably approachable and helpful (in one remarkable instance, two elevator repairmen personally escorted us in succession through an underground passageway to the Lotte Hotel).

In Insadong, we walked the side streets and stepped in and out of small shops specializing in teas, silks, stationery and fans. After taking several breaks to buy hot food from friendly streetside vendors, we bought a Korean tea serving set for Kaberi’s aunt in Delhi. Over the course of the afternoon, we managed to both satiate Kaberi’s shopping yearnings (no easy feat, mind you) and sample an ungodly amount of Korean fast food, ranging from chili chicken on a stick to fish cakes to hot steamed buns. Kaberi’s personal favorite was what looked to be a doughnut hole made of pancake batter and filled with red bean paste. Vik’s personal favorite was a Korean spicy vegetable paratha that he managed to order on three separate occasions. We ended up not having a single sit-down meal in Seoul, choosing instead to snack our way through the city.

At the risk of generalizing, the people we came across in Seoul were decidedly more informal and gregarious than their counterparts in Tokyo. The two cities and countries have a pretty intense rivalry (Korea’s Samsung surpassing Japan’s Sony in market cap recently was cause for national celebration), stemming at least in part from some unfortunate history (Japan colonized and occupied Korea from 1910-1945 and brutally repressed dissent). So, it was a bit surprising to learn that the two countries co-hosted the 2002 World Cup.

Several older Korean men on the subway asked us where we were from (our response, which factored in considerable uncertainty over the South Korean views on the U.S. military presence here was consistently “India”) and what our impressions of their country were. The informality had a flip side, as well, as we discovered on the subway platforms (Vik took a couple of cross-checks from elderly Korean women trying to get past that would have made Cam Neely blush).

Our last day in Seoul was less gusty than its predecessor and, with its crystal clear skies, proved ideal for sightseeing. After discovering that Seoul taxis were very reasonably-priced and infinitely more affordable than taxis in Tokyo (a typical cab ride cost us 3000 won, or about $3.25), we became immediate converts. We were only too happy to pay the 1,200 yuan premium (about $1.50) relative to two subway tickets in exchange for zipping around 20 degree Seoul in a heated sedan. Largely through our newfound taxi habit, we were able to make the most of our remaining hours in Seoul.

We started off our day by taking a cable car up a mountain overlooking Seoul’s student district of Namsan. The lookout high above gave us treetop views of Seoul’s sprawl and the surrounding mountains. Our vantage point gave us a new appreciation for both Seoul’s scale and its aesthetics. From the cable car landing, we walked toward Seoul Tower and came across several Korean guards dressed in colorful period garb. The contrast of their costumes against the vivid, blue sky was magnificent. The guards stood watch over a gate that was restored for its original purpose of sending smoke signals to all of Seoul.

From Namsan, we traveled to the central government district of Gyeongdong to see the royal palace (one of two in Seoul). The palace was originally constructed in the 1300’s by the king who relocated Korea’s capital to Seoul for its fine setting (mountains in the background and the Han River in the foreground). The palace was subsequently razed by the Japanese in the 1500’s, rebuilt in the late 1800’s, once again destroyed by the Japanese during their Korean occupation, and once again rebuilt in the late 20th century, which gives you some sense for the resilience and perseverance of the Korean people. We happened upon the palace during the changing of the guard and the pageantry of the moment was superb. Afterward, we made our way from one palace courtyard to another before finally discovering a magnificent central hall surrounded on all four sides by water. From the palace, we headed back to our hotel to collect our bags and depart for the airport.

The Kyoto My Heart

Following the advice of the college roommate of our friend Kendra, we made a day trip to Kyoto, a city with a dense concentration (17, to be exact) of World Heritage sites. We found our time in Kyoto to be our favorite part of the trip to Japan, and deeply regretted not having spent more time here. As a city, Kyoto is lovingly ensconced amidst verdant hills, and the city unfolds before you as you make your way from one neighborhood to another. One online reviewer compared Kyoto to his native Chattanooga, Tennessee, which has to be the single most over-the-top compliment ever paid to Chattanooga. In truth, our Kyoto trip also benefited from some serendipity; Vik happened to come across a stray Word document about Kyoto in our hotel’s computer lab that gave us several well-written tips on where to go (and where to shop!).

Our day started with a rush-hour foray, and we were definitely overwhelmed by the central Tokyo railway station. We bought our tickets without much problem (other than our raised eyebrows at the $125 per person one-way fare), but couldn’t find the right departure track for the Kyoto-bound train. Our frantic running-around the station elicited enough attention that two undercover policemen (who politely flashed their badges to us) approached us to help us find the right departure track. We caught our bullet train with barely a minute to spare.

Riding the bullet train was quite an experience, best described as being in “super pursuit mode” for 2 hours (you’ll have to pardon Vik for that gratuitous Knight Rider reference). Vik still believes that we were a mere 10 mph or so away from going fast enough to reverse the earth’s orbit. As we raced westward from Tokyo, we watched Mt. Fuji whip by our window. We had to avoid holding our gaze too long on the snow-topped peak out of fear that we’d give ourselves motion sickness.

Upon arriving in Kyoto, we caught a bus downtown to the central shopping district. After making our way to Kyoto’s Nishiki Food Market, we discovered a store that has made samurai swords for 460 years. Today, the store has expanded its repertoire to other hand-forged metal goods. Given Vik’s ignominious history with overeager U.S. airport security personnel, we passed on purchasing a sword and opted instead for a copper bowl with our names engraved phonetically in Japanese characters on the side. After sampling some of the offerings from the market’s sundry food vendors, we ventured to Kyoto’s antiques district of Shinmozen and then watched amateur samurais train at the nearby Heian Shrine.

The highlight of the day was undoubtedly the walk to Kyoto’s Silver Palace. Navigating by one of our 8 Kyoto tourist maps, we happened upon a cobblestone path running alongside a pleasant canal on Kyoto’s east side. Known as the Philosophers’ Path, the walkway was dotted with charming crafts galleries, cafes and artisan workshops. We felt like we’d been transported to another place and time. We can only imagine how stunning the scene must be when the cherry blossom trees are in full bloom, but even in the stark winter, the serenity of the walk enchanted us. After a brief pitstop for some heavenly thin cinnamon cookies, we arrived at the Silver Temple.

The majesty of the Silver Temple was unlike any other we had seen in Japan. We are not entirely sure that our pocket camera has done it appropriate justice. Vik initially balked at paying the 1,000 yen admission cost (roughly $10) a half an hour before closing time, but Kaberi made the executive decision to buy the tickets. It proved to be a remarkably-sage course of action given the beauty of the setting, the layout of the grounds and the delicacy of the architecture. Vik expects Kaberi to stop saying “I told you so” some time in 2014.

Had we had more time in Kyoto, we would have toured the world-renowned Kyoto Botanical Gardens and the Golden Palace. But there just weren’t enough hours in the day to fit everything in. Suffice it to say that we have already begun plotting our eventual return.

Duomo Origato (Gozaimasu)

The next morning, we took a more uneventful bus ride back to the airport (and one in which a kind Honoluluan helped unload Vik’s bags from the bus and then proceeded to pat him on the back while shaking his hand). Luggage in tow, we approached the United check-in counter with three hours to spare before takeoff.

We then proceeded to wait for two hours as the United agent inexplicably examined every leg of our ticket on the phone with United’s rate desk in a mysterious back room. The process was ostensibly undertaken to ensure the validity of our tickets, but we suspect that the two United employees, when out of earshot, were mocking us for being stupid enough to use United to fly around the world. Either that or the United rate desk heard Vik’s earlier Indian government productivity crack and decided to give him the business (how you like us now, Murthy?).

Nine hours later found us on the ground in a new city, a new country and a new continent. Tokyo was seemingly created with Kaberi in mind. She loved the order, precision and logic found in the workings of the city, from everything to the airport buses and subway trains which ran like clockwork to the impeccably-groomed public spaces of the sprawling metropolis. Every person we encountered in Japan was unfailingly courteous and patient. And it was impossible not to be charmed by the Japanese convention of bowing, undertaken with exacting precision. Toto, we’re not in Boston anymore.

Vik managed to book surprisingly-hip accommodations at a corporate apartment in Roppongi, an eclectic neighborhood in inner Tokyo trafficked by expats. We were given a charming, spacious studio for our stay and at much cheaper rates than the local hotels. The space was modern with clean lines, and the attention to detail was beyond expectation. In addition to a kitchenette, washer/dryer and flat-screen TV, we had heated floors which made it a treat to walk around, even without the slippers provided. Our unit featured a remote control that heated the shower to the desired temperature at precisely the desired time, and (craziest of all) a toilet with a massive control panel to regulate the heat of the seat, the force of the bidet and the pressure of the follow-on (ahem) backside-dryer. The heated seat was a godsend in the middle of the Japanese winter, but Vik was admittedly not a fan of the other features.

Once we ventured out of our apartment, we could explore the city with ease. We checked out Roppongi on our first night and sampled yakitori (which translates literally in Japanese to “burnt chicken”) served alongside exorbitantly-priced edamame and diet Cokes at a joint up the street. We also found a cool, chic housewares and travel store called Axis where Vik had to muster all of his persuasive abilities to keep Kaberi from taking out a second mortgage.

The next morning, jet lag had us up at 5 am, so we headed out promptly to the northeastern district of Asakusa. After managing Tokyo’s superb subway system, we arrived early enough to enjoy the tranquility of the temples and shrines without having to brave any large crowds. We especially liked the large urns with incense representing the breath of the gods. In the hour that we wandered about, we watched the local vendors set up in preparation for the inevitable mass of tourists pouring in.

We ended up having a breakfast of street food, a theme of our trip as it proved an effective way to minimize the cost of meals. We’re not exactly sure what we ate (one woman told us we were buying vegetable cutlets but the piece of squid that was clearly identifiable once we bit into it suggested to us that maybe something was lost in translation), but it was still delicious. After a little sustenance, we wandered into the many artisan shops that dominated the area. Kaberi, of course, immediately found a number of things that caught her eye, but controlled the impulse to shop given the lack of space in our backpacks. After another hour or two of walking around, we took refuge in a cup of Green Tea Latte at the local Starbucks to get back feeling in our extremities before continuing on to another part of town.

At Vik’s insistence, we then made our way to Akihabara, Tokyo’s electronics district located just south of Asakusa. Our visit was a short one as even Vik’s enthusiasm for gadgets waned in the face of a million gaudy, blinking lights and endless booths hawking anything and everything boasting a screen and a microchip.

From Asakusa, we journeyed to Hibiya and its imposing Imperial Hotel complex, where on the suggestion of Kaberi’s cousin Amit, we had a drink at the bar that was the only original feature remaining from Frank Lloyd Wright’s design. Wright’s hotel managed to withstand earthquakes and world wars, but could not survive an unsentimental Japanese property developer’s bulldozer in the 1980’s. Nevertheless, as a Chicago girl, Kaberi enjoyed seeing such familiar patterns in the bar’s walls halfway around the world. And the Asahi Dry hit the spot too.

On our last day in Tokyo, we woke up at 4:30 am to get to Tokyo’s famed Tsikiji (pronounced Tskeejee) fish market where we labored to dodge the numerous oncoming, singlemindedly-driven mini-tractors. The sight of assorted marine life, in various states of presentation, was a sight to behold as was the backroom auction of tuna ranging from the size of motorcycles to passenger cars. Unfortunately, Kaberi’s brand-new, high-powered digital camera decided to stop working properly midstream, so we weren’t able to get all of the pictures that we intended. Kaberi was not at all pleased by having to revert to a lower-resolution existence. But the breakfast of fresh sushi with our last 3,400 yen still made the excursion worth it.

After Tsujiki, we made a quick stopover in the western Tokyo district of Shinjuku (site of the elite Park Hyatt hotel showcased in the movie Lost In Translation). Navigating Shinjuku’s railway station proved a bit baffling to us, but we eventually made our way to the Park Hyatt lobby, where we regaled ourselves with a magnificent birds-eye view of Tokyo. After collecting our bags en route, we caught a subway train to Ueno, in northeastern Tokyo. When the subway ride there took over an hour, and the 56-minute Keisei Skyliner express train to Narita Airport took an uncharacteristic 80 minutes, the thought of missing our flight to Seoul made our pulses quicken considerably. Fortunately, we encountered the world’s smoothest, white-gloved check-in process at Narita with Asiana Airlines. The only downside to this is that Kaberi will have to endure for another 8 months Vik’s oft-repeated refrain that “if you’ve never missed a flight in your life, you’re spending too much time in airports.”

Moby Dick, Tortuous Bus Rides and Lap Dance Sushi

Our last day in Maui was devoted to visiting the west part of the island (also known as “the head”). After getting a late start to the day in order to finish our packing, we made our way to Napili for a late breakfast and an oceanside view at The Gazebo restaurant. While we stood in line awaiting our table, we chatted with some amiable fellow tourists, one of whom spent time in Bhutan filming a documentary with the king. We were also struck by the almost uniform demographics of our fellow visitors. Hawaii, after achieving statehood in 1958, was recolonized in successive waves by the Japanese and the Californians. While in Maui, we saw plenty of the latter, but virtually none of the former. This is almost certainly a reflection of the highly-successful Bush administration policy to protect the U.S. from terrorists by first ridding it of all affluent Asian tourists.

Afterward, we drove down to the tourist hell of Lahainia to inquire about whale watching trips. Unfortunately, the tours conducted by the Pacific Whale Foundation (the most reputable and eco-friendly operator) were sold out. As the skies grew increasingly overcast and the whale watching boat pitchmen grew increasingly obnoxious, we settled on passively watching the whales from the shore. Despite our best efforts, we were really only able to catch a glimpse of one speedy sperm whale’s backside, which caused Kaberi to grumpily pronounce, “we came all this way just to get mooned by some whale?!!”

With the west side of the island pretty much a washout at this point (our hopes of taking the scenic northern route of west Maui dashed by increasing precipitation), we decided to make our way back eastward. One of the locals had told us earlier that if it was raining on one side of Maui, it would likely be sunny on another. We found this phenomenon amazing, kind of like finding out that John Kerry moonlights as a motivational speaker in his part time (well, maybe not). Back in sunny Kahului, we ran a few errands before making our way to the airport to take an earlier evening flight out of Maui.

After a short flight, we touched down in our friend Martin’s hometown of Honolulu. Staying only one night before catching a flight to Tokyo didn’t allow us to take advantage of any of Martin’s helpful suggestions, so we contented ourselves with the notion of having a nice dinner. As we awaited the arrival of the Honolulu City Bus, we had no idea what was in store for us. Apparently, Honolulu’s bus system is managed by the same superstars who run Boston’s MBTA. The City Bus showed up about 20 minutes late, stopped once every 13.5 feet, generously boasted enough seating for about one quarter of its ridership and took 90 minutes to cover the 6-mile stretch between the airport and Waikiki. Thrilled to finally arrive at our hotel after being jostled around like crash test dummies, we quickly sought out a dinner recommendation. With the concierge desk closed, we found a friendly bellman, Marvin, who suggested a sushi joint around the corner.

When we showed up at the restaurant, we immediately recognized its appeal. Situated in a seedy, neon-festooned strip mall fronting an unmemorable back alley, it sat directly next to the Tres Jolie exotic dance club. Vik’s suggestion that we forego the sushi for some “visual” nourishment was immediately dismissed out of hand (and, in his opinion, without being given even the appearance of due consideration). All kidding aside, Vik was actually voting for finding a less seedy alternative, but Kaberi, being the daughter of the ultimate adventure traveler, overruled him. It was a wise decision as the meal turned out to be pretty spectacular. The self-satisfied grin on Kaberi’s face lasted for at least 4 hours.

Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes

On Wednesday, we awoke at the ungodly hour of 3:00 am to make the two hour drive to the summit of Mt. Haleakala. Haleakala means “House of the Sun” in Hawaiian and is positioned smack dab in the middle of the island. We were heartened to learn that the volcano last erupted in 1790, earning its now-dormant status. While the drive up was winding, it was not nearly as nerve-wracking as the drive from Christchurch to Akaroa on New Zealand’s South Island (during which Kaberi took a nap while Vik invoked the divine intervention of his ancestors) or the drive up Pike’s Peak in Colorado (which Vik had the “pleasure” of doing in a rental Hyundai).

Vik ferried us up to the top of the mountain, 10,000+ feet above sea level, early enough to find a parking spot and take a breather under the vivid star-filled sky. We’d been forewarned by a number of folks that it would be cold, so we wore all the layers we could – five on top and three on the bottom – and although it felt surreal being so bundled up in paradise, we managed to stay warm in anticipation of a grandiose sunrise.

It was a soulful experience to be above the clouds watching the sun rise from below you. It was almost an otherwordly experience (the top of Haleakala resembled the rocky outcropping of some faroff planet) while we braved the 20 mph winds alongside a few other hardy and well-bundled up souls. All of us enjoyed the good fortune of being up on Haleakala on a very clear day, permitting us to truly observe the majesty and subtlety of the colorful sunrise.

At the visitor information center, we overheard a park ranger say that Maui is actually the result of two volcanic formations (one creating the head of the tortoise and the other creating the body) and that the island is roughly 900,000 years old. Maui’s smaller size relative to Hawaii’s Big Island indicates its older relative age as water has had more time to inexorably erode its borders. At some point in the distant future, Maui will actually cease to exist as it is reclaimed by the ocean. So we’d suggest making your travel plans to visit here relatively soon.

The drive down Haleakala was almost more fun than the drive up as we could actually see the topography change from alpine back to subtropical. Vik was thankful that he couldn’t see what we were driving up in the darkness a few hours earlier. Some of the sheer drops were nerve-racking for those of us with a mild fear of heights. Yet, as we made our way back down slowly in second gear, the vistas that we saw of Maui and the Pacific coastline were spectacular. We had the perfect vantage point to see the ocean, mountains and Maui’s towns in miniature.

We also took some time to do a few of the smaller hikes (the three-day hike was a bit out of our league and attention span). One of the hikes gave us a different view of the 7-mile wide crater itself, which is large enough to swallow all of Manhattan (insert your own joke here). Another hike brought us to a breathtaking lookout point to see the island’s uninhabited coastline unfold below. As the sun continued to rise and we exerted ourselves, we warmed up quickly. In short order, we had stripped off most of our endless North Face layers and worked up a hearty appetite. Our friend Scott (he of the Hai’maile General Store recommendation) had urged us stop at the Kula Lodge on the way down the mountain for their Bananas Foster pancakes. Suffice it to say that we did, much to Kaberi’s delight.

Still being a little sweaty from our time up on Haleakala, we decided to indulge in a post-hike swim. At the recommendation of our waitress, we drove to the pictureseque and velvet-sand beach in front of the Maui Prince Hotel in Makena (about 30 minutes south of Kihei). One of the democratizing aspects of Maui is that all of the beachfront is public property, allowing value investors like the two of us to sun ourselves next to those paying a hefty premium to stay at one of the high-end beach resorts. On this day, the water, which seemed outrageously cold just a day earlier, felt divine. With the mats, umbrellas, and beach chairs provided by our hotel, we were well equipped to lounge the morning away.

In an effort to minimize the cost of our meals and to take advantage of the poolside grill back at the guesthouse, we stopped at the supermarket (which happened to be a Stop ‘N Shop, ironically enough) to see what we could pick up for an early dinner. Instead of grilling, we settled on spicy tuna tartare and diet Cokes and feasted poolside on our cheap eats. We were also fortunate to be steps away from home when the rains came (this was Maui’s rainy season after all) so that we could easily run inside to take cover.

The day ended on a somewhat-ridiculous note when American Airlines called to inform us that the duffle bag lost between Chicago and Los Angeles was now en route to Kahului Airport five days after the fact. As we ruefully reclaimed the 30 pounds of gear that we had just recently made peace with losing, we had to smile at the way life goes sometimes (the emergence of the smiles almost certainly being accelerated by our immediate surroundings).