Whole families had already jumped to the platform before the train came to a complete stop. Long gone was the thoughtful man with whom I shared my open compartment. The overnight train from Calcutta to Jodhpur arrived to collect the masses in Agra two hours late, at ten o’clock in the evening. In a lapse of judgment, I expected ushers to bring meals or snacks. All in the couchettes had spread out their sheets and drawn the drapes across their compartments. Services had ended and it was time to go to sleep. For me that meant it would be until morning [View Full Entry]

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“You choose! This is your India!” he exclaimed. Pasar’s final destination was also mine, though his journey started twenty-four hours before. We had joined up on the same bus from Agra to Mathura, an eighty-minute journey in a lunchbox on wheels. Having stepped into the chaos of the bus terminal, I asked him if it would matter how we should move forward, either by shared rickshaw or grab one of the several private ones on the side of the road. His emphatic answer pleased me. With a youthful tangled beard and white robe fastened at the waist by a red sash, [View Full Entry]

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I take joy in the stupidity of others. It also relieves boredom. Our rail coach contained blend of foreign daytrippers and uppity Indians who enjoy bossing service personnel around as if they were unresponsive oxen. Across from me sat an antsy Indo-Frenchman leading a group of college interns on a three-day excursion from Delhi. Conditions were ideal to begin with: I had been assigned a window seat and there was a table in front of me to place my notebook. I could stretch my legs to their full length below the seat facing me. Better yet, the seat next to me [View Full Entry]

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In many ways, Delhi is exactly what I expected it to be. Nothing about the Indian capital has taken me by surprise. It is very much like my arrival in Bangkok last year, but with more haze and blaring car horns. The Hotel Indrapasthra anchors a street in Karol Bagh, a district of local shops, idle cycle rickshaws, mediocre restaurants, and banished cheap hotels. Mine is one of many in the same range that offers some privacy, cramped accommodation, and overstaffing to ensure the amiable boss does not have to lift a finger, except to feed himself and switch the TV [View Full Entry]

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June 29, 2008 Delhi, India No one ever wants to hear about what happens at an airport. Start telling stories of delays at check-in, indigestible airline food, and the in-flight movie, and eyes roll back after they quickly gloss over. There are, however, exceptions. American Airlines’ terminal at O’Hare International Airport is essentially a massive self-contained, self-sustaining, detached suburb of Chicago. It deserves more than a cursory look beyond the hunt for a connecting departure gate. Tuesday afternoons cater to a business crowd. Thin haired, middle aged [View Full Entry]

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I can never tell anyone the events that transpire during my morning commute. Only the broken white stripes on the asphalt of I-91 South prevent me from drifting into an adjacent lane. The commute is so stress free, I chuckle at traffic reports on WFAN out of New York City. I listen with anticipation as the updates are announced: It is “only a forty-five minute delay on the George Washington Bridge. Traffic is barely moving onto the inbound Lincoln and Holland tunnels, expect backup well through New Jersey and most of Pennsylvania.” I, on the other hand, become highly irritate [View Full Entry]

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Welcome to this summer’s essays entitled SUBCONTINENTAL DRIFT. SUBCONTINENTAL DRIFT will depict my journey starting in Delhi and moving on to the far Western Indian state of Rajasthan. From there, who knows? A traveler’s itinerary should never be set in stone. For me, that has always been the case. The purpose of these essays is to document what South Asia feels like through my eyes and ears. They are raw, unfiltered, and very subjective. Moreover, they serve a purpose well beyond a replacement for sending postcards every three or four days. Let me explain what that mea [View Full Entry]

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Phillip flexed his muscles to remove his sole bag from my trunk directly outside the entrance to the American Airlines terminal. His mother had overstuffed the three-chamber American Tourister carry-on with needless extras. It bulged at the seams and strained the limits of the zippers. I dismissed the oval tear in the back of his monochrome grey t-shirt and un-ironed cargo shorts; compared to the other schoolboys departing on vacation, he was way overdressed. He was proud of his independence. The rollers on the bag and shoulder straps gave him the option to go wherever he wanted with his [View Full Entry]

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I had never heard of Joseph Jefferson before I came to Vermilion Parish. Chances are it would have remained that way. But the renowned 19th-century American actor grew so fond of Southern Louisiana that he poured much of his earnings into a twenty-five acre, subtropical retreat in Delcambre. Jefferson’s New York fame for playing the Washington Irving character on stage over four thousand times explains the literary allusion to the property’s name, the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. Otherwise, how could anyone connect one of the greatest performers of his time to the soft, moist shor [View Full Entry]

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It was time to head north and get back to Abbeville. The open wetlands stretch for several miles north of Cameron. The massive shallow lakes are a refuge to numerous waterfowl of which my favorite are easily the egrets. The tall, long-legged, and lanky ivory hued birds are as commonplace as squirrels back home, but less suicidal. I comment about them to Alison, but she pays little attention. She probably doesn’t even see them anymore. I have pulled over anywhere possible to photograph them and Alison ignores me; she doesn’t even get out of the car. Tourist, she most likely mu [View Full Entry]

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