The Traveling Diva

Djarama*

2009-02-01T06:21:00.000-08:00

Custom-made halter dress I designed and had created for me in Guinea

* Pronounced (n- JAH-ra-ma)- Hello, or Greeting in Fulani

Some names have been changed (*) to protect the not-so-innocent ☺

I took this trip unexpectedly. It wasn’t planned as a vacation; I had gone to do some research and discovery on Guinean dance as part of an education initiative for my new non-profit organization. So, while I did see a lot, it was mostly about learning, recording, and documenting dance. I stayed part of the time with my teacher Bangaly* as part of a dance workshop intensive. The trip was a study in sensory enrichment; I spent much time watching, listening, and commenting, and less doing.

29Dec08
Well, this trip got off to an interesting start. First off Air France cancelled my connecting flight to Conakry so my 6 hour Paris layover turned into a 24 hour one. The Guinea prime minister had died, and this, coupled with potential political unrest, was putting all flights to that region on hold. No worries- Paris is an excellent layover, although I am pissed that they didn’t bother to give me a hotel voucher or any kind of accommodation. I had tried calling Bangaly*, but his phone was off, so I emailed him to cover all bases, and just prayed that he would get the memo from the airline regarding the change in my arrival. I made the best of my Paris stay by visiting my favorite market (Marché Aux Puces) and stopping at the Mosque for a relaxing steam. I ended up buying a wool African tunic, a skirt, and a hooded sweater for 3 euros. I didn’t have a towel for the hammam, and, not wanting to blow 4 euros borrowing one of theirs, I picked up a cheap 1 euro one at a Tati store on the way. But anyway, my big issue was getting in contact with Bangaly because of my flight change. I didn’t want to end up in Guinea with no escort. When I was in Senegal I got lucky and a cab driver let me use his phone, and my friends came right away. I again called Banagaly, and then his manager in New York, and tried to get the numbers of my teachers M’Bemba and Youssouf, just in case anything went wrong. But in the end, I just put it in God’s hands. If I didn’t end up with Bangaly, I had plenty of other friends to take care of me in Guinea.

30Dec08
The excitement starts as we disembark. Apparently the new Prime Minister was on our plane. I look out the window, and some dude is on the tarmac wrestling with a bunch of military men. Turns out he is some overzealous journalist. The passengers of the plane are greeted by a media frenzy as photographers and television crew struggle to get a look of Kabinet Koyate, the new leader from Paris.

I am in Guinea and it is chaos. 50 times worse than Dakar. There is energy everywhere-people fighting over baggage, employees offering to help, men, women offering to help, everybody offering to help—for a fee. An airport security boy sees me, and offers to help me locate my baggage off of the carousel, but he is more hindrance than help; I spot my luggage before he does. When the other bag doesn’t come—the one with my actual clothing—I am pissed. Because it is 90 degrees, and I am standing in a hot ass Guinea airport with a thick wool hoodie, leather jacket, jeans, sneakers, two pairs of socks, and a suitcase full of children’s toys which are useless to me. I am tired and thirsty, and I need to pee. And Bangaly is not there, of course. Did I panic?

Honestly, no.

The baggage claim was a disaster. It reminded me of the craziness of the New Delhi station with everyone crowding into a room fighting for the attention of the single baggage clerk. She worked slowly and deliberately, and her makeshift fan barely managed to circulate the musty overbearing air within the tiny room. I filled out my form, she typed up a few things, and handed a form back to me.

“Samedi”.

It was Tuesday and I could not believe that this chick was telling me that I would need to wait until SATURDAY to get my clothes. Were they serious?! This is Air France! Well, screw Air France! I got hold of a cell phone from a European tourist and called up my boys from around the way. They came shortly after and we all headed to the Hot and Fresh (ahh, the Hot and Fresh—I have stories!), and then to a hotel in Lambanyi, a town 15 minutes from the airport. Little did I know that Bangaly was staying literally ONE block away from us!

God is good. This is why I didn’t worry one bit.

An orange moon in Guinea. Stunning.

31Dec08
New Year’s Eve and still no word from Bangaly! I had really wanted to spend the new year with my best friend Jamila*, which was the whole point of getting to Guinea before the new year. But a girl’s gotta eat, so off to Hot and Fresh. Ok, let me tell you about Hot and Fresh. It’s a gas station restaurant. It is really nothing special. It just has a bigger array of Westernized food, like pizza and croissants, and the power is always on. I didn’t know why that little detail was such a big deal, but I would soon find out. The Hot and Fresh was packed with businessmen and their wives/girlfriends eating breakfast and watching the latest news on the new Prime Minister. This is actually how I found out that he had been on my plane! It seemed like the Hot and Fresh was the place to see and be seen—whatever that meant.

I managed to catch up with Bangaly’s brother at the Hot & Fresh, and we made it back just in time to ring in the New Year with the rest of the family. In the early hours of the New Year, Barbara and Rebecah, two women from upstate New York, came to the house.

3Jan09
Today was special because it was Barbara’s birthday. We had our classes as usual and then Rebecah planned a surprise birthday celebration. She managed to get a cake from Centre Ville—I believe at the ice cream shop right next to Mouna, the enormous multi-level cyber café in the city. Bangaly arranged for a dance troupe to stop by and perform. They were spectacular! A fula flute player, acrobatic male dancers, and explosive drumming summoned the local community to Bangaly’s courtyard where we all shared in song, dance, and cake. Too bad NONE of our cameras were charged. I came to learn that the power doesn’t come on until about 5 or 6, and by then all of our batteries were nearly depleted. Working with our electronics would be a task; at 6 pm everyone scrambled for an outlet to recharge. I managed to catch a small amount of video on my camera, and caught some extra footage with Jamila’s camera, but most of the memories are in my mind. Later, after multiple days of trying to charge my battery, I opened up the manual and realized that I didn't have the right kind of charge for my camera! Luckily I was able to use a friend's instead.

Outside the house in Kindia.

A hut on the way...

...to Kindia Falls

10Jan09
Jamila had been telling me all year long about how she wanted to go to Kindia, a city in the inner region of Guinea. Supposedly it was this beautiful, lush place, with a fairy-tale like waterfall. I did go to Kindia with my friend’s brother, Bobby. I will never forget the experience. We passed through Coyah, an lush and mountainous region from which the bottled Guinean water originates. The little cab that we hired for the day miraculously drove through mini ravines, rocky hills and deep ditches., I honestly didn’t think the car would make it. I think pictures say a thousand words, so I will just impress you with the visions through my camera.

KINDIA

Floral Visions

The Wildlife Preservation

The freshest Shea butter I've ever seen. Or felt.

The tailor's magic

15Jan09
I had taken the fabrics that I bought a Medina market and gotten some dresses made at the local tailor. The tailor is always an experience. And getting the details just right is an art, especially when you can’t speak in enough detail in a foreign language to explain exactly what you want. Luckily, my other friend was with me, so we got things straight. I had my clothes in about 3 days.

The beauty of the craft.

Yum... delicious Chebujen... in Guinea?? Yes!

Medina Market

18Jan09
It had been 3 weeks and I still had not made it to a real club. The crew from the house had gone to a few local bars, and I had been to some lounges, but an actually dance club? No, I hadn’t had the experience. I put on my favorite freekum dress and went with my friend down to a Sierra Leone club that sat on a street akin to Club Row in Chelsea, NYC on a Friday night. We get into the club and all eyes were on us. I guess I was obviously American, which gave my escort extra clout. Anyway, I ordered a Baileys and it was the worst Baileys I had EVER tasted. Being a diva, I sent it back-it was obviously watered down but the bartender would hear none of it and still ordered us to pay. I settled on a vodka and juice, which tasted just right. I got a feel of the room. Surprisingly there were a number of teenagers in the club, dancing , drinking, and smoking alongside the adults with no one stopping them. The young girls, obviously below 17, were wearing some of the trashiest, skimpiest outfits I have seen this side of Brooklyn! They worked the crowds getting drinks and money from older gentlemen, most likely in exchange for sexual favors. The club was packed wall to wall with a giant flat screen TV silently playing the latest hip hop and R&B videos, while the DJ played the hottest hits. I remembered looking up at the screen and Jaszmine Sullivan was bashing some guy’s house up. Then L’il Wayne came on and the club went nuts. As the riding bass of Lollipop pumped through the speakers, the drinks flowed, hips swayed, and hands pumped in the air. The air conditioners, on full blast, barely held back the sweat dripping down everyone’s back. And then the lights went out.

A collective sigh went through the crowd because it seemed the party was over because of a faulty generator. Soon enough, the problem was fixed, and we partied until dawn.

~~

There are endless stories that I could tell about this trip. But many are far too personal to discuss here. To my friends, you have most likely heard the stories, or will likely hear the most intimate details when we meet face to face. But overall, I truly enjoyed myself, and had a moment to really begin to understand Guinean life.

For one, I was disappointed and surprised at the disdain for traditional African clothing by the younger generation. Yes, there were plenty youth wearing African-printed wraps and head scarves, but the trend was towards hip hop ghetto-fabulous wear. I do remember seeing this in Senegal, but here, I felt the strain more prominently. Even in the shops, I sore piles upon piles of imported clothing—likely donated goods that were being resold. Even when I visited a wildlife reserve in Kindia, instead of being guided through the wonderful flora that grew abundantly in the region, I was shown the great hall of a hotel on the premises, which held a cinema-sized TV screen. I was not impressed. And not because the brand or the style of the TV was not good enough for me; I was non-plussed because I never came to Guinea to see the developing country’s version of American western life, and I was tired of the Guineas constantly pushing this upon me.

I was also shocked at the sexual expression here, in a Muslim country. Though general Muslin rules were followed ( no pork, some prayer), the daily practice was lax, and I saw many women sharing men, and openly engaging in sexual acts. One friend revealed to me that it was not uncommon for a girl to sleep with her best friend’s man if there were kickbacks involved. And the men were keen to this scheme. It’s not that I haven’t seen this in the States—I just didn’t expect that behavior here.

All in all, the trip was quite good, and despite the urge to please me with Westernized advancements, I was always reminded of the roots, the movement, the sounds of the drum. Those foundations will never leave the Guinean soul and will be forever ingrained in mine.

A dance class at Youssouf's house

At the nail salon...

I love this art work that adorns all the shops. You don't have to speak
Susu to know what kind of store it is.

Donovan House - A DC Treasure

2008-09-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

Tracy's Disclaimer: This is my first travel post for The Traveling Diva, though I've been trying to do my own jetsetting thing (on a budget) for a minute. Please be gentle with me, folks, and I will promise that I'll have more to show and share in the future. -Tracy

What's up, guys! I hope your Labor Day weekend was as wonderful to you as it was to me. By wonderful, I mean that I discovered the best hotel in Washington DC - a city that I've traveled to to escape the frenetic pace of NYC for a few days. And by best, I mean that it possessed the luxuriousness of a New York hotel without the pretentious snooty 'tude. For four relaxing days, I chilled at Donovan House, a charmingly chill hotel that is located near Thomas Circle.

From the moment I stepped into the lobby, I was greeted with the best hospitality I'd ever received since - forever. From the conscientious concierge to the thorough housekeeping, Donovan House proved to be a fantastic new treasure. While it's been open for less than six months and hasn't completed its building of its rooftop pool bar and restaurant lounge, the decor more than made up for it.

From the swanky hallway:

to the sophisticated, yet lavishly comfortable rooms:

Donovan House works as a great hide-out spot to relax the stress away. Just minutes away from cultural mecca, U Street, and the hip Dupont Circle, it's definitely a spot to check in and check out when you visit our nation's capital.

It's also not a shabby place to rest your head after celebrating a certain potential presidential candidate's inauguration in January.

(all photos by Tracy Damas.)

Theme Magazine: The Travel Issue

2008-07-14T09:30:00.001-07:00

Check out Japan-based Theme Magazine's tribute to travel. It's got hot picks of fashion abroad, art, and good old fashion R&R-with a gritty edge.

Theme Magazine

Tatiana

Namaste

2008-06-30T14:58:00.000-07:00

Note: I will be adding to this post as I complete writing. Stay tuned.
Tatiana

Mon 19May
Heat. That is the first thing I felt as I disembarked the plane and headed to customs. We picked up our luggage, filled out some forms and we were in. Then we changed some money for a few thousand rupees. This was the easy part. As we walked out into the madness of the arrivals hall, I searched for our cab driver who would take us to our hotel in New Delhi. I had no idea what this hotel would be like, but Lonely Planet recommended it, and it was past 11 at night, so I said a prayer, hopped in the car, and drove through the dusty, car-filled highways to our first destination.

We arrived at our hotel sometime around 12am, in the Parah Ganj area of New Delhi- some dusty, construction-filled hole-in-the-wall motel with dim lighting and questionable-looking staff. The manager took our information, and our passports-something we were not used to (why did they need our PASSPORT information??), we paid for 1 night’s stay, and walked to our rooms, exhausted, needing a shower and a toilet. We open the door to this box of a room, with oil-spotted sheets, ragged towels, and tattered red carpet, turned brown form years of neglect. Eli and I glanced at each other, and headed to the bathroom, which was, let’s say, useable. The shower was much like the ones we were used to in Africa-no tub, just a showerhead, a drain and a bucket. We asked the hotel employee to bring us a fresh pair of sheets, and some toilet paper. 10 minutes later he brings us a pair of equally dingy, oily sheets, and offers a roll of expensive toilet paper for sale. We resolved to sleep on top of our clothes from the day, spray the bed with bug repellant, and say a prayer for the night. But we were still hungry, and we needed toilet paper. We headed out of our hotel onto Main Bazaar road in search of a toilet paper bargain, asking several street vendors for their best price. Eli is a bargainer, so this was sport for him. I was more interested in grabbing a cup of chai, or maybe some ice cream, getting the toilet paper, and heading back to the hotel. We found a vendor that was making fresh chai, and in hindsight, I realize I got ripped off by paying 75% more than I should have for that cup. My first ripoff!

Eli and I noticed quite a few other hotels open, and decided to peer into a few. We definitely would be checking out of ours the next day. We bumped into this hippie Israeli woman-about 50 or so-and she gave us a rundown of the area. Then the unthinkable happened. We turned around and noticed a small rumbling of voices. A white guy, around 30 or so, was being surrounded by about 5 Indian men. As they yelled and made jokes at him, their taunts became progressively angrier, and the group grabbed the man, slapping him in the face. The mob stopped a few feet from us, and the Israeli woman, seeing the commotion, bravely stepped in to stop the abuse on the man. One of the Indian men flashed an ID, saying that he was the police, and that this man was selling drugs, but he really wasn’t that believable. Eli and I watched in horror as the Indian men beat and slapped the man, stealing his belongings from his pockets. I remember distinctly the fear in that man’s eyes, his dirt blond hair covering part of his face. He was obviously extremely high, as he could not fully decipher the situation, and was at a loss for words. The men continued to harass the hapless man, and then dragged him into a back alley. We quickly walked away when we had the chance, grabbed our toilet paper, and booked it back to the hotel. Welcome to India.

Tue20May
I wasted no time getting up the next day, because I generally don’t sleep for longer than 4 hours. But I think my body was just whacked out. It was 8:30 am. Not wanting to spend any more time in our tragic motel, I headed out to find an internet café and book a hotel for the next leg of our trip. Stepping out of the hotel was stepping into another world. It had rained that morning, so the streets were filled with soggy, reddish mud cluttered with trash, animal feces, food and other effects. Lone dogs walked alongside pedestrians, scrawny buffalo eased their way through narrow pathways, and sidewalk chefs whipped up fried concoctions. Rancid body odors mingled with the sweet smell of freshly cooked Indian candies, and the streets teemed with people just starting their day. Simple shop owners hawked their wares, and sparkling saris hung from makeshift shop stalls. Overwhelmed by the sensory overload, I failed to realize that I was walking on the wrong side of the street, and nearly got flattened by a rickshaw. Every step I took, there was a honk, as cars, auto-rickshaws, and cow-hearders, pronounced their frustration at the foreigner. I quickly found an internet café, and popped in side, away from the madness.

After lingering on the ‘net I ventured back outside into the frenzy, determined to get back to the hotel in one piece. But I was struck by a sari shop, and without thinking stepped inside. I was surrounded by explosive colors of fuchsia, olive, purple, blue, and orange tunics. Delicately embroidered tops and pants caught my eye, The shop owner, seeing my eyes glazed in amazement, threw down a large pillow and implored me to sit. I explained that I was in a rush, but the owner ignored my pleas, piling my arms with endless heaps of colorful salwar kameez* and richly-colored saris. He then lead me upstairs to an even finer collection of womens-wear, and after much deliberation, I ended up buying about 5 outfits for my friends and family.

I returned to the hotel, exhausted from my tiny excursion, only to find Eli still asleep. It was only 10:30, but I felt like I had been out for hours! We only had an hour and a half to find a new hotel, pack our things, and head out. And knowing that Eli easily spends a good hour in the shower ‘cleansing’ I knew this task could be a problem. But we made it out at 11:30, and despite the 12:00 check-out time, the manager extended our stay for an additional hour.

People, shops, and stuff. Everywhere.

The cows just don't care.

A typical street full of rickshaws. It doesn't look busy here, but...

I mentioned how Eli is a born haggler. We must have looked at about 10 hotels, just for the sake of looking. We walked down the Main Bazaar road in the direction of what we thought would lead to the New Delhi train station. Instead we had walked to the opposite end, arriving at a nondescript albeit bustling street, all the while looking at hotel prospects. At one point I had adamantly decided on a clean, well-sized hotel near this same street, and while I thought we both agreed that the price and accommodation were a great deal, Eli still searched for other possibilities. Hot, sweaty, and annoyed, I wandered off to a vendor selling fresh mango lassis and settled down, away from the crazy streets. The shade of the vendor offered hardly any comfort as the 110º heat mixed the funk of the streets with the sugary smell of over-ripened mangoes. I watched at he sliced the fleshy mangoes and put them in a hand blender filled with ice. He then opened a large vat of chilled yogurt, poured a bit into a metal cup and mixed in the blended fruit. Handing it to me, I told him that I wanted it to go, and he simply put the mixture in a plastic bag and sent me on my way. I bit off the edge of the bag, sat on a dirty bench, and savored the icy sweetness of the treat. For one moment I was relaxed, happy, and careless. The pristine white dress I wore was now covered with street grime and the unidentified splashes from wild animals and pedi-rickshaws. I was ready to shower, and settle down. It was 12pm.

The madness of Main Bazaar Rd.

We finally decided on Hotel New, my original selection, at a bargain price. We made our way back to our original hotel, collected our belongings, and headed to our new hotel. Eli, ever the haggler, insisted on finding yet another hotel, because someone offered. I had already made my decision, and kept walking to our selected hotel. Walking around with a traveler’s backpack, up and down steps, viewing trashy, overpriced hotels in hot, humid weather was not how I wanted to spend the little time I had in India. Once we settled down and showered, we headed back out to get our train tickets to Agra. We spent nearly the entire day walking down one street popping into several shops. Eli was comparison-shopping. I was trying to get to the train station; I could always shop later. Business first. We got to the New Delhi train station, and were horrified to see the main floor of the station covered with sleeping Indian families, suitcases, chickens, and aggressive men pushing forward on a line with no apparent lines. We glanced up to try and decipher the train queues and departures but were dismayed to find them all in Hindi! What to do! I finally pushed my way to the front of an information line and yelled “Shatabdi express!” The woman at the window directed me to a tourist room above the main lobby that could assist me in buying a ticket. Eli and I quickly made our way upstairs to the serenity of the Tourist Information Center, where there was no line, friendly staff and air conditioning. We were well on our way to ordering all of our tickets until the ticket agent asked us to produce our passports. I had made it a point to carry all of my most important documents close to my body at all times in a discreet body pouch near my chest. No way would I be leaving my documents in some shady hotel. Eli left everything he had at the hotel except for his cash, which would not do. So we basically had to go back to our hotel at the opposite end of the Bazaar, get his documents, and come back to Station before 7:30. Given that we started off late and spent half the day looking at hotels even though we already had one, my mood wasn’t exactly friendly.

And it was 4pm. Going back down Main Bazaar Rd was an exercise in self- restraint. And when it comes to shopping, I have absolutely none. So I ended up purchasing a bunch of shirts, and shoes, and… so many things, I can’t even remember! When we finally got back to the hotel, it was nearly 6pm, and we had little time before the ticket window closed. So we hopped into our first rickshaw, but not until Eli haggled with the 20 or so drivers for the best price. And we arrived at the station with 15 minutes to spare.

Our first pedi-rickshaw

After a day of shopping we were ravaged. Along the streets surrounding Connaught Place, we found a slew of “Vegetarian” and “Pure Veg” restaurants. Eli, a vegan with stringent requirements, was elated. After surveying a few places, we settled on a place that was well priced and smelled absolutely delicious. In front of the several of the shops, the chefs worked at a maddening pace over huge woks and boiling pots of curries and exotic sauces. I could smell the sumptuous mix of onions and coriander, tomatos, salt, cilantro and various other spices.

A typical street kitchen

We step inside and order; Eli orders mix vegetable masala, and I ordered a vegetable korma. We were practically salivating as our dishes came to us, until Eli noticed tiny pieces of a certain shredded something that looked an awful lot like cheese. But when we inquired the waiter about it, he spoke no English, so he couldn’t understand Eli, when he tried to explain the concept of Vegan. We quickly learned that “Pure Veg” meant occasional dashes of paneer, doodh, or makkhan, without apology. I ate Eli’s plate, and we headed for another spot where he would possibly be a little luckier.

Corner "Delhi". Pure Veg Restaurants in Delhi.

We found a place, and he indulged in freshly baked garlic nan, and mixed vegetable masala. And this time the waiter understood—no cheese, no milk, and no butter. Satisfied, we made our way back down the main bazaar strip. It was past 8pm, and Eli still had the urge to comparison-shop. I was intent on getting my hands henna tattooed, and I would leave him if need be. Which is exactly what happened. We agreed to meet at an ice cream stand that we recognized within 2 hours if we weren’t in each other’s sight. I found a group of artisans working in a huddle along the bazaar offering their henna styles. I quickly sat down to get my hands done, after haggling for a price I thought was appropriate. Before long, the artist’s friend sat own beside us, and began designing an extremely ornate design on my arm, even though I explicitly told him that I would only be paying a certain price. And I’m splayed out, and unable to move with all the wet henna on my arms. Well, apparently they tried to con me by saying that I had agreed to pay my price for ONE arm, and not both. A disagreement quickly escalated to a full-blown argument, and I ended up dragging in an officer standing nearby to settle the dispute. In the end, the thieves let off, I paid them my original price, and left, in search of Eli.

He was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I waited by the ice cream stand before going back to the hotel. But not before snagging some mangoes from a fruit stand. The manager at the hotel hadn’t seen Eli, so I ventured back out. By now, it was pretty dark, but still lively, the streets buzzing with men and women drinking chai and watching the latest cricket game. I finally came upon Eli nestled in a bookstore reading about Sri Lanka, a place he had no idea about, but desperately wanted to go. He had made friends with Josh, a man who claimed to live on the Upper West Side. On 119th St. Eli and I laughed and gently informed him that he actually lived in Harlem—not to far from Eli’s house—and that we would visit some time.

Wed21May
The day starts early. Our train to Agra leaves at 6:15, and I am worried because Eli takes forever to get up and get ready. Me being the female and the primper, I thought it would be the other way around. But somehow, I was ready, new outfit, hair, makeup, and all. We hopped in an auto-rickshaw in the pouring rain, and jetted to the New Delhi train station where we boarded the Shatabdi express with 10 minutes to spare.

Monkeying around in Agra.

We get off the train and Eli looks at me expectantly as if I’ve arranged transportation to our hotel. I hadn’t. Instead we head to the tourist center for information, and meet a rickshaw driver along the way. Sam greeted us, and promised us a great price to our hotel. Charming as he was, we didn’t fall immediately, until we realized that he had the best price, and immediately gave us a few good tips for our stay in Agra. He immediately tried to convince us to go on his tour which was about 250 rupees. We were cynical at this point, because we really didn’t want to be ‘had’ so soon on our trip. Sam dropped us at our first hotel. Shanti Lodge, was what Lonely Planet described as a great value with great views from their ‘deluxe room’, should have been dubbed “Shanty Lodge”.

"Shanty" Lodge

Stepping out the car, we were greeted with a strong fecal smell of the open sewage that ran along the perimeters of the buildings on the small road. Inside, the rooms were dark and dusty, and the view wasn’t anything to rave about. Especially when the rooftop restaurant was dilapidated, color-less, and distracting. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to look around, but Eli insisted that we try out other hotels. I was in no mood to cart around my huge travel bag, but luckily Sam let us keep our bags in the rickshaw while one of us inspected the hotels.

Wonder where the smell came from.

We finally settled on a neighboring lodge called “Saniya Palace Inn”. I actually liked this one –it was bright, airy, and had a wonderful mid-level courtyard that was outside and inside at the same time. A perfect place for lounging with a book and some chai. We were given our rooms, and finally settled down to begin unpacking. Maybe 30 minutes later, Eli decides that he wants to explore the hotel and maybe find a better room. My nerves were absolutely frayed. I was not only about to take a shower, but I had unpacked my clothing when Eli decides that we should move across the way to a better room that has a small view of the Taj Mahal. The room was a little nicer, and had a little table, so I grudgingly agreed, packed my things, and moved to the new room.

Sam took us all over the place in Agra, although in hindsight, we probably should have went to the Taj first. Then we would have known that our entrance fee would include admission to several other places that Sam had taken us to, but had no interest in paying for. We visited Agra Fort, the Baby Taj, and a series of other architectural monuments throughout the day, but we basically looked to Sam as our personal driver. At one point we were pretty hungry, and needed a vegan spot. But all the places Sam was taking us to were Vegetarian and Meat menus, which is a strict no-no for most vegans. I saw one restaurant that listed ‘pure veg’ but Sam took us to the one right beside it! Frustrated, Eli saw the ploy, got out of the rickshaw, and walked to the restaurant I had pointed out. Sam was taking us to all his ‘spots’ to get commission. What a farce! We went to our restaurant, against Sam's suggestion, which pissed him off, since we hadn't been to many of his suggested sights all day. He was basically getting paid to be our personal driver at 200 Rupees-his price- and no perks.

The "Baby Taj"

A family makes manure cakes for farming behind the Baby Taj

The back of the Taj Mahal

At Agra Fort. Yes, I am wearing shoes.

After enjoying our meal, I was in the mood for a massage, and what do you know—Sam knows of an excellent masseuse in town. So we go, and Eli thankfully haggles down the price for 2 treatments: an hour-long massage, and medicinal heat compress. Unfortunately for Eli, the women would not massage him, as it is custom for women/women, man/man bodywork. This didn’t sit well with him at all, so he had to sit it out while I indulged. By this time Sam is fed up, because we made him lose commission on several stores, and Eli had agitated him to his outer limits. We headed back to the rickshaw, but Sam instead pointed in the direction of our hotel. "You can go this way. It's not far". He wasn’t driving us home-he was going home to watch the cricket match! So we found our way back in the night along the bustling streets of Agra.

Back at the hotel, we had hoped to view a moonlit Taj, but that would not be the case. The sky was overcast, so we instead had to settle for the deep outline of the monument against the grey sky.

---
It may have been 2 am when I woke to a drip on my face. Half sleep, I rolled over towards Eli, in dream-state. Another few drips fell on my shoulder and I slid closer to him subconsciously as the drips followed me. Then the random sound of drips could be heard on his side of the bed. Eli popped his head up suddenly. “Water! It’s…raining! In… the room!” When our minds finally deciphered what was happening we immediately jumped out of our beds before the ceiling came flooding down with rain! Outside we could hear the winds whistling as torrential rains surrounded the building. We quickly moved our belongings towards the door, and flipped the light switch. And then the lights went out in the village. We could hear the footsteps of some of the staff who brought up battery powered florescent lights to help us see. Outside of our rooms you could hear the cries of people who had likely slept outside and gotten caught in the storm. Who would have known it would rain? It was as hot and arid as it could be that day! WE eventually moved our stuff bag to the original room we were given, and I silently cursed Eli for being so damn picky. But I slept soundly, eager for the Taj at sunrise.

Thur22May

The Taj at sunrise that never was...

Despite our lack of sleep, Eli and I woke up promptly at 5am to go to the rooftop restaurant to view the Taj. We waited eagerly, but we wouldn’t see a sunrise that morning. The sky was overcast, and we could barely make out the silhouette of the Taj over the city buildings. The sun never came, and instead the Taj sat, whitewashed against a dull grey sky.

The singing from the mosques reminded me of waking up my first day in Africa. Beautiful, and haunting.

We decided to get dressed and go to the building early to avoid the crowds. Luckily, it was only a 5 minute walk away from the hotel because when we arrived at the gate it started to lightly drizzle. We purchased our entrance tickets and headed back to the hotel to sleep it out in hopes of a sunnier view later on in the day. Back at the hotel, I took some time to drink a little chai, read, have breakfast, and chat with the staff. Since Eli was asleep, I finally had some time to myself without Eli’s irritating, obnoxious behavior. An older staffer, Babou made me a fresh pot of chai and told me about his simple life in Agra with his wife and 2 daughters. He was about my height, and spoke a little English, but a soft gentle tone, and easy conversation were welcome after dealing with Eli’s boisterous personality the first few days of the trip. Babou, a man in his mid-50’s, appeared to be worn out from life. His wife always suspected him of cheating, so he spent most of his nights sleeping in the street in an empty rickshaw. He had taken in an orphaned boy to come work with him in the hotel. The boy’s father had hung himself after suffering the depression of his wife leaving him. The little boy brought me my kettle of tea, and in his inexperience, handed the boiling kettle to me without a cloth to shield my fingers from the heat. It was a simple annoyance to me. All I could think of is how this boy’s life would most likely be relegated to serving people. The stories of Babou and the boy would be a theme that I would hear throughout my trip. A simple life riddled with depression, and the constant search for a way out. Any connection with a foreigner was a potential for change.

A random wedding procession...

East Gate Entrance to the Taj Mahal.

Eli finally awoke at around 2pm, and we got dressed to have breakfast and view the Taj. I though I would wear an orange butterfly-like dress with a scarf.

Was that a bad choice.

The wind blew my skirt every which way, and groups of men stared expectantly, waiting for an opportune moment to view some skin. But what started as groups of men staring, quickly became older men, women, and children. I thought that it couldn’t be the dress, but I felt awkward anyway, and stood to the side while Eli busied himself taking pictures. That was when we were first approached.

A calm wind moment in front of the Taj. Eli wasn't the only one taking my picture.

“Can we take your picture?” A group of teenage boys boldly asked. Suddenly, we were the star attraction, as everyone stopped in their tracks to see what the funny “African” couple would say. I was mortified. I came to see the Taj Mahal not be the main attraction. Throughout our visit, we would encounter groups of Indians slowly passing us by, staring in wonderment. Had they never seen Black people before? Probably not, as I was later told that many Indians don’t travel as much, and that travel is considered a “Western” phenomenon, though the younger Indian generation is more hip to the idea.

After a while the joke became tiring, and I actually started charging people 100 rupees to take my picture. I couldn’t enjoy myself with people staring at me, pointing fingers, and touching me to see if I was real. I felt like a freak. Somebody pulled one of Eli’s locks and he flipped out on the kid. Another girl came to me, looked up, and simple said “Wow.” Who knew that we would come to India’s star attraction, and become superstars ourselves!

A sun blessing. Finally!

----

Thursday night, we took a train from Agra to Jaipur. This train was not nearly as nice as the Shatabdi, and there was no meal even though the ride was hours longer! We arrived in Jaipur at about 10:30 at night. Outside the station, I though of a smaller, cheesier Las Vegas, with glittering palm trees, and buildings strung with Christmas lights. Thankfully we found our rickshaw driver waiting for us, and we quickly made our way to hotel Karni Niwas. We were only due to stay there 2 nights, so I was praying that this hotel would be nice. And it was. The rooms were well lit, and extremely charming and clean. Eli, of course, wanted the AC and a bigger room, which would have been more expensive, but I didn’t feel it was necessary. I was especially tired after traveling, and really didn’t want to haggle at this time of night. So we settled in the room I had desired and called it a night.

Fri22May

Exploring Pink City

The next day I woke up early, took care of my laundry, and got a few items of clothing ironed for 10 rupees by a local tailor. The local children surrounded me in excitement, shaking my hand, and greeting me. A superstar in Jaipur! When I came back to the hotel, Eli was laying on the bed in dead-man’s pose, meditating, and listening to Indian chants on his Ipod. What a fool. “Eli,” I said, annoyed, “we’re in India. There’s an ashram down the street where you can meditate and listen to a real live person chanting.” I couldn’t believe that he could be so clueless and superficial. But that incident wasn’t the last. We quickly got dressed and headed out to explore the Old City (Pink City) and Monkey Temple.

Veggie Delight: Rajisthani Thali

Our first stop was a Vegetarian Restaurant that Eli was dying to try in the heart of Pink City. As we walked down the main road, we noticed that there were no tourists. And we knew why. Two weeks before, there had been a bombing in the city, that left the bustling tourist city nearly empty. Rickshaw drivers clamored to us, 5 at a time, begging us to use their services. Shopkeepers pleaded with us to buy their wares, even more so than on the crazy side streets of New Delhi. We were overwhelmed and hot in the 100º+ weather, but finally found our spot and settled down for our delicious meal. Again, we went through the ritual of explaining that Eli needed a vegan meal. Our waiter had no problem understanding us this time. In fact he clued us in to an important fact. The restaurants that we had previously chosen had told us that they would use an oil substitute instead of butter, milk, and cheese. This satisfied Eli, but the waiter at this restaurant told us that those other restaurants had probably been using ghee, and oil derived from the milk of goats and cows. “The only way you can be sure that there is absolutely no animal products is to eat only South Indian dishes like dosas.” This disquieted Eli, and changed his perspective on eating Indian food forever.

---

And? What?

We spent the rest of the day, exploring the endless array maze of bazaars in the Pink City. The history goes that the king divided the city into several blocks, each specializing in a different type of craft. We ventured to the jewelry bazaars, a favorite of Eli’s. The entire day was exhausting, and we ended up going back to the hotel to shower, change, and visit the Monkey Temple.

The peculiar sundials in the Old City

Making a delicious drink of pressed sugar cane and bits of lime. So delish!

The Monkey Temple, more formally known as the Temple of the God, rests on a cliff at the top of Jaipur. We made it there just in time to watch the sunset over the hazy city. The climb to the top was a Noah’s Ark of animals co-habitating peacefully together. And then there were the monkeys. But they weren’t as aggressive as I’ve heard people say. They seemed just as hot and tired as we were. Looking out over the city, I was finally able to think. I thanked God for the blessing of being happy and healthy, and giving me everything I needed. Who knew that He would have taken me this far?

Temple of the Sun God

---

We left the monkey temple when the last hint of sun could be seen across the horizon. We had one more stop: The Vegetarian Om Revolving tower. The premise was cheesy- a revolving restaurant that gives full views of the city- but the main draw was the well-reviewed Vegetarian menu that Lonely Planet raved about. We had to have it. The presentation was spectacular, but the food was so-so. Not as good as the smaller, cheaper restaurant we went to earlier in the day. The food seemed a little off, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. But my waiter did. Instructing me on how to eat my food, he poked his finger on a piece of one of my thalis. I was so annoyed, that I didn’t finish it. By the time we finished the sky had opened up to a nasty storm, and we ran back to our hotel, since sitting in traffic in an open rickshaw was pointless to us.

---

We came home, showered and prepared to hit the bed. Eli passed out, completely wasted from the temple climb. My stomach was gurgling, and I ended up blessing the toilet for a good hour.

---

It was the middle of the night, and I woke up to Eli vomiting violently. The vomiting subsided, and I told him about my earlier episode. We attributed it to food poisoning and blamed it on the Om Restaurant. Hopefully, we’d feel better in the morning.

Sat23May

Morning came, and instead of going out to do yoga as we had planned, Eli stayed in. he hadn’t gotten any better, and just wanted to sleep it off. Whatever poison was left in me came out that morning, and I felt fine. I was more concerned with finding a good hotel for our next hotel in Goa since the hotel I had initially booked jacked up the price, even though it wasn’t high season.

We managed to make it to the airport and onto the flight. Just as we were about to board, Eli puked, and I just though “Oh God, they are NOT going to let us fly”. But he got on, and crashed on a seat in the back of the plane. I figured that once we got to Goa, on the sunny, hot beaches, spacious land, and the warm water, we would both feel a lot better. The city life was beginning to rattle us.

---

We got into Goa, and it was hotter than Delhi. I hired a car for us, and we took the hour long drive from the airport to one of the southernmost beaches in Goa-Palolem. We found a bright, clean hotel right off the main beach road, and settled in. Thankfully Eli wasn’t so picky because he was so sick. He just went in the room and crashed. I made him a concoction of salt and seltzer water to try and calm his stomach, and then ditched him to hit the beach. (I was on vacation!)

Ahhh...The beach

The Spiral Ark Project: One of my refuges away from a sick Eli, serving my new favorite drink, the Lemon Nana, a concoction of ice water, lemons, raw sugar, and crushed mint.

I cant write anymore, and honestly, I've already left out so much. There is just so much to say about this wild, crazy beautiful country called India. I just gave you a glimpse through my eyes. But I have plenty of stories to tell about the different people I met, and the things I saw and if you know me on that level, you'll probably hear (or have heard) about them. So I am stopping here, and leaving you in beautiful Goa, India. Someday, I will tell you about Bombay, but this will not be the day. Until next time. Namaste.

Black Parisian Goddess

2008-02-18T08:25:00.000-08:00

Ceiling of the entrance of the Mosquee de Paris

I love Paris in more ways that most will know. I'm over the traditional tourist-y spots and now feel like I have a true love for the city. While I don't know it like the back of my hand, I will say that I've gotten to know some great secrets that have truly made my trips memorable.

I felt like I needed a rejuvenation, so my first stop in Paris this time 'round was the Hammam in the Mosque de Paris. When I went last August, I had stayed only long enough for a quick massage and thé de menthe. This time I made it a point to stay longer, and enjoy myself. The women of Paris are serious about their beauty, and it is apparent when you walk into the Hammam. For 38 euros you get entrance to the steam room and steam bath, a grommage-a healthy scrub-down with sea salts- a 10 minute massage, and a mint tea to finish things off. Once I placed my belongings in the locker
(1 euro, returned when you leave), I made my way to the steam area where women lingered in the 3 harem-like rooms decorated in ancient Arabic motifs. I must've stayed there for about an hour, it felt so refreshing. The mild cough that I had nearly disappeared. Afterwards, I went to take a cool shower using the olive oil soap paste given to me upon my entrance, and waited for my grommage. When it was my turn, a tough-looking Middle-Eastern woman ushered me onto a table, where I was scrubbed from head to toe, infant-like. She missed no crevice! Afterwards, I showered and went into the main massage room, where I was covered in rich-scented oils and massaged into oblivion. When she finished, my chocolate skin glistened like a newly-bathed child.
If you go, be sure to bring a bikini bottom, 1 or 2 towels (or be charged 4 euros!), a pair of flip flops, and some of your favorite beauty products. Masks and scrubs are perfect for this type of environment because the heat will literally melt dead skin away!

Visit the Hammam homepage here:

I also needed to get my hair done. I was in such a rush in New York, that I literally had no time to do my hair! In the summer, I had come upon a great section of African stylists and braiders at the Strousbourg-St. Denis station in Paris. I could have sworn I was in Harlem because the stylists in Paris grab you with even more aggressiveness than their Harlem brothers and sisters! I met a shop owner called Jo, and promised him that the next time I came, I would come to him to get my hair done. Big thanks to Jo and his hair mafia over at Jo Creations in Paris. Stylist Nana did a fabulous job with my "vanille" hairstyle, and I felt amazingly sexy! And I can't forget to mention that the prices where on point, and their weaves were undetectable! A must if you're a sister that needs to look right, but has a budget.
Owner Jo

Jo Creations
3, rue Gustave Goublier
75010 Paris
Tel: 0674740061

Bom Dia!*

2007-11-04T23:15:00.000-08:00

(*Bohn JEE-yah, meaning "Good Day" in Portuguese)

A cheerfully painted home on a street just north of Pelhourino

My anticipations for Brazil have always been high. Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember catching my first glimpse of the country and her beautiful women in a spread in Allure Magazine. From then on I had always secretly wished that I had been born with the beauty of a Brazilian, and now, as an adult, I realize that the Brazilians and I are related in a much more profound level.

The following are a few journal entries:

10.20
Arrival

On the way from the airport

My first night I arrive, and I am overjoyed and shaking with anticipation. I am actually here, visiting the land of my childhood dreams! And on my birthday, of all things! I whisk through the corridor of long arching palm trees in the small car that Jean-Paul, the owner of the bed and breakfast of which I will be staying, is driving. It is deliciously warm, and I welcome the calm heat through my sweatsuit that had only hours before shielded me from the brisk New York autumn air. As we drive along, the soft breeze soothes my mind and cools my body, and I luxuriate in the fragrant air. Brasil.

We arrive at the pousada in Santo Antonio and Jean Paul leads me to my room where I unwind and thank God for getting me there in one piece. The room is wonderfully simplistic with its soft blue linens and nautically-inspired pillow cases. Adjacent to my bed are a set of French doors that lead out to an open area with a hammock. A hammock! I look up, and to my pleasant surprise I could see the rooftop of the adjacent house, and the deep, black, heavenly sky. That night I truly slept under the stars.

Something to wake up to...

10.21
Little Blessings

I wake up, well rested and a little bit frantic. What time is it?? How long have I slept? So much to do!!! I unroll myself from the hammock and rush to the doorless bathroom/shower and prepare myself for the day. I slip on a colorful bikini, a soft, simple white dress, a straw hat, and a beach bag loaded with my materials for the day. I would soon learn that less is more, and less--is the Brazilian way!

Down the winding stairs from my room I walk, hungrily awaiting breakfast and positive that I had missed the meal. I was shocked to realize that it was only 10 in the morning! I could have sworn it was much later because I remember waking up to the light and dozing back to sleep. What I learned later was that the sun rose a little after 5 o'clock-which would explain my body's 'early' rise.

This is breakfast.

As I descend, I smell the aroma of deeply roasted coffee and the soft, sweet smell of vanilla and fruit. Zelima, Jean-Paul's wife, and hostess, welcomes me to breakfast. As I sit at the table my eyes well with tears of joy. Before me lies a buffet of fresh fruits in every color of the rainbow-succulent, fully ripened mango slices, bananas, pineapples, wild melons, and other exotic fruits; a guava tarte; a raisin loaf; hot and crusty bread buns; passionfruit marmalade; sweet plantains; fresh yogurt and hearty granola; cold cuts and cheese, and miniature french toasts sprinkled with brown sugar. I sit there in profound happiness as the sun blesses the table with an incredible blazing light that soars over the rocky hills, past the palm tree leaves, through the open windows, and into my soul. I am in paradise.

The hill to Pelhourino

They say that Bahia is the land of happiness. I couldn't have named it better. My day, although simplistic, took me on a journey via foot from the tranquil yet lively working class neighborhood of Santo Antonio, down the hills to the storied Pelhourino, inside the lesser-traveled roads leading to Barroquina, through Comercio, and finally, gloriously, to Barra, where I began my beach sampling. I traveled down Oceania Avenue, past the gently imposing lighthouse, while watching capoeristas flaunt their agile, muscled bodies in the sand. The sea is a blue as ever, and the sun envelopes me with the intensity of a passionate lover. How could I be sad?

Lighthouse in Barra

I thoroughly soak in the day, tasting sweet and savory treats along the oceanfront from the various vendors and on the beach. I half expected to smell the heavy salty ocean air that I had become so accustomed to as a child growing up along the Babylon beaches of Long Island. But the smell was faint, and I settled on the sand, my heavy beach bag in hand. Funny, but I was the only one with a huge bag--my sunscreen, my bottled water, my extra towel, a book to read, my straw hat, some snacks. As I looked around at the carefree Brazilians carrying nothing more than a small towel and change purse, I thought to myself How silly of me. Was this bag really necessary? Everywhere I looked there were beach vendors walking aroung selling 50 cent bottles of sunscreen, 1 real bottles of water, and basically anything else I needed for a day at the beach. From then on, I resolved to bring only the barest of necessities. Besides, it was annoying having to constanly worry about my bag every time I got up!

After settling myself, and securing my wallet discreetly on my person, I timidly ventured off to the water. This would be my first beach experience this year. Paris was cold this summer, and I barely made it back home to Long Island, so I really missed out on the sun and fun. I took off my airy white sun dress, and felt the delicious warmth of the sun against my body. I momentarily became aware of the flaws on my less-than perfect body. But as I looked around, I saw beautiful women--beautiful Black Brazilian women in all shapes and sizes flaunting their glorious ample-sized frames in tiny bikinis. And I saw their men beside them, loving them and adoring their bodies. It was then and there that I realized that I was truly a beautiful being regardless of what the warped magazines and television shows at home dictated. I was a Negra bonita.

Golden grapes on the backstreets

10.22

Acarajé

One of the great advantages of being a brown-skinned sister in Brazil is that everyone thinks you are a native. And so you are given the familial treatment and avoid the gringo tax every time. My lack of Portuguese was taken as shyness (or conceitedness by persistent males), and my skin and hair signaled the locals to let their hair down, so to speak. Which wasn't so bad when I started getting free stuff, clothing discounts, and extra servings of food. Boy, can Brazilians EAT! I learned to exploit my "Bahian" looks quickly. One such occasion came when I was itching to try the acarajé, a local dish that my friend Nici insisted I try out. I came across a family of darker-skinned Bahian's, selling the acarajé dish, and without skipping a beat, they began having an animated conversation with the false Bahian. At the stand sat a fat Bahian woman with short kinky hair covered with a colorful scarf, a wide smile, and a welcoming face, weathered by her years in the Brazilian sun. Next to her was a teenage boy, maybe her grandson, a young woman with a cropped haircut in her late 20's and a man in his early 30's that stood at about 5'7". They all sat, with their roasted chestnut skin, passing the time, and sampling the food the older mama had prepared for the day's sales. They barraged me with questions. I recognized the first comment. Bonita. Beautiful. I had been responding to that all day. Obrigada. Then the comments got more complex, and, overwhelmed, I stared at the family at a complete loss. Sheepishly I whimpered "Não falo português munto bien." But the Brazilian's weren't buying it, and kept speaking to me in Portuguese. I repeated once more that I didn't speak Portuguese, and they asked me where I came from. I replied Estados Unidos. They gasped and stared at me incredulously. A Black American woman is here? On vacation? And she looks just like us? I laughed out loud, and laughed to myself. I have an uncanny way of fitting in with the locals, no matter where I go. When I was in Amsterdam, everyone thought I was Nigerian, in Paris, the American tourists struggled to find the right French words to ask me directions, in Milan, the Italians asked "Nanga Def?" as if I were a Senegalese woman from out of town. And now the Brazilians refused to believe that I was not another Bahian! I cut to the chase and ask the mama to prepare the snack for me. And boy did she prepare a plate! Out from the bubbling dende oil she pulled a golden brown lump of a bread-y textured bean pastry, of which she sliced in half. Steam arose from the hot bun, as she asked Pimente? I nodded as she slathered the spicy hot sauce mixture on the inside of the bun. She then added an okra mixture, followed by chopped tomatoes, peppers, and onions, and crowned with a drool-inducing heap of broiled spiced shrimp. I salivated as I watched her prepare a plate for me. She added a side of rice and beans to complete my feast, and the woman with the short cropped hair pulled up a milk crate so that I could eat beside them. They talked excitedly as they watched me eat, still flabbergasted that I was from Esatdos Unidos and that I spoke no Portuguese. I savored that meal. With every bite my mouth exploded with intense flavors of seafood, salt, spice, and okra. As I bit into the succulent shrimp, with their crispy tasty shells still attached, I reveled in the awesome flavorful juices bursting into my mouth with every bite. A few customers came by, and I noticed that they weren't getting the same plate I was getting. Theirs came in a much smaller, wrapped piece of paper--acarajé to go. I was flattered. With every bite I took, the sweet Black mama would load my plate with two heaping spoonfuls more. Completely stuffed, I pleaded with her that I had had enough. This was no snack. This meal would last me through the night!

A less extensive version of acarajé on a typical shopping day in Bahia

The colors of Brazil

The rustic beauty of Santo Antonio.

Baia de Todos os Santos' beautiful waters

Where's the Party At? Amsterdam

2007-08-20T04:28:00.001-07:00

It seemed like every African and Afro-European was in this spot. It was definitely on! If you go to Amsterdam, stand in the Newmarkt square section in the Red Light District and wait for an unmarked cab. When they see a Black person standing there, they will stop for you. Then, ask them to take you to Grand Café, (in English! Yes, they speak English AND Dutch, so chill)and you will be in one of the hottest underground nightspots in town. This isn't in the tour guides, people. And don't bother getting into a regular cab, because they will take you to the popular tourist-y Grand Café that is in all the guidebooks. They play a mixture of the hottest R&B, rap, and African pop and hip hop. You can't help but move. I had a blast!

In Bloem: Amsterdam

2007-08-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of visiting Bloemenmarkt, in Amsterdam, Holland, where there are thousands of varieties of flowers. the smells, sounds and sights were truly mesmerizing, and I picked up a few flowers for myself...

Bloemenmarkt, the daily flower market in Amsterdam

Doors of Paris

2007-08-14T04:43:00.000-07:00

A rustic door in the Marais section of Paris

I felt compelled to start this post because of the many wonderful sights of architecture I've seen around Paris. I will continue to add to this post as I come across more doors. Enjoy:

Tranquility and Divine Beauty in the Mosqée de Paris

My home in Paris

A rounded door on Rue Reaumur

Wood and Iron

Coloures

German Smoking Deterrant

2007-04-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

On a recent stop-over in Germany, I was leafing through a fashion magazine, and ran across this ad for cigarettes. What an unglamorous way to make a point! Not only is the label hideous, but it's also large enough for any passer-by to see. How embarrassing! Another reason why I choose not to smoke.
Tatiana

A 'Soul'ful guide to travel...

2007-03-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

As much as the Frommer's and Zagat guides have helped me out in showcasing the best eats, sleeps, and shops of a city, I've often wished for an travel site that catered to people of color. Lo and behold, as I was searching for places to check out for my upcoming trip to Washington D.C., I came across The Soul of America.

Founded by Thomas Dorsey in 1994 as a map to all things African-American culture, Soul of America has flourished into the foremost African American travel website in cyberspace with over four million views per day. From Los Angeles to Rio de Janeiro, the website more than delivers on providing support in planning a wonderful vacation.

Tracy

What I learned in Europe... this time around

2007-02-22T03:42:00.000-08:00

Thank God for the Blackberry! Every chance I got, I wrote down my curiosities and experiences. The Europeans must’ve thought-“that’s one long text message she’s writing!"

A street in Milan

Europe is gung-ho for China
Chinese New Year notwithstanding, Asia’s largest country was on the tip of everyone’s tongues. The examples are endless: Tourism advertisements on TV and in the papers, a news commentary on Chinglish, the often comical translation of Chinese to English, China’s growing force in the world economic sector, plus the growing desire of luxury goods by a newly wealthy Chinese class. China is undoubtedly becoming a world power.

London's Chinatown

The fabulous, celeb-filled Mr. Chows in Knightsbridge

Harrods

Milan is not for fat people
With the highest model per capita ration (Forbes) my ego was definitely put to the test. Getting into my hotel room shower required a bit of artful maneuvering. As I set one leg into the slim door opening, and entered sideways, my bubble butt got caught in the door!

No Fatties Allowed
In Milan, I saw not one fat person. Everyone was young, thin, and rich. Did I mention that Italians are extremely rich. Milan is one of the richest cities in the EU, with salaries far surpassing that of the average American. No wonder everyone can afford a maid, a Benz, and a Louis Vuitton bag. Even in my best clothes and shoes (Louboutin, of course!) I felt homely against the backdrop of the affluent Milanese.

A tranquil Milanese street at night

European subways are much more efficient that New York…
I actually knew this from my last trip here. But with fashion shows to attend, time was essential. With a digital estimated time on each platform, I had no question about my time of arrival. Milan even has video commercials in the station to kill time!

…But their street signage stinks!
I pride myself on my keen sense of navigation-I can visit a place once and remember how to get there years later. And give me accurate directions, and I’m off like a jack rabbit. So tell me WHY I had to walk 5, 10, 15 minutes in Milan before seeing ONE FRIGGIN’ SIGN??!! How could a city that is home to Armani and Aston Martin be so horribly blasé about its street signage? This sad point indelibly added travel time to my excursions.

One of Milan's TEN THOUSAND Piazza's

Madonna is big, Kylie is magnanimous
Case-in-point—the Victoria & Albert Museum’s exhibition of Kylie Minogue’s costumes throughout her career. A thorough, if not gushing retrospective.

Europeans are celeb-crazy:
Blogs stateside are candy filler compared to the ferocity of English wag-mags. And celeb news is always up to the minute-how did I even KNOW that Britney shaved her head this past weekend? I’m supposed to be a world away!

Everyone speaks English (in the city):
When I landed in Milan, I was petrified because I didn’t know a lick of Italian—save Arrivedercci, Grazie, and prego. But you can get by without knowing the local language. But I have to admit, it can be frustrating if you need to ask complex questions. I found myself seeking out the Africans where I knew that at least they spoke French, and I could ask them questions.

The Duomo, the center of Milan

Facing the Galleria

Black people abroad are more culturally aware:
Every Black person I came across, be they Black-British, African, or Milanese- spoke a requisite 3 languages, which really made me feel inferior. I think as a whole, Americans-including myself-are very lazy when it comes to learning other languages, and most expect foreigners to know English. But after this trip, I’ve made it my resolve to pick up my conversational French, and learn Spanish and Italian as well. It adds such an air of sophistication, and definitely helps with one’s travels. Concerning news events, I realized how sheltered I am as an American when it comes to the news, and how much information I was missing. Yes, I knew that American news was censored, but to be abroad, and to see the news was mind-blowing. No wonder so many foreigners view the American people as bumbling idiots!
Benin painter Julien Sinzogen paints the "Gate of Return" a counter the "Passage of No Return" in Goree and Zimbabwe.
Commisioned by the Victoria & Albert Museum in London

The Japanese and the Russians are the most powerful people in the fashion business.
They are so well known by the PR firms, that nary a word (or an invitation) need be shown for entry into the presentations. Many fashion houses even had Japanese representatives just to greet their Japanese clients! It’s no wonder- The Russian and Japanese markets, respectively, are the number one and two highest grossing retail markets in the world. To be so fashionably powerful…

In Milan, fashion is serious:
Even more so than London. You would think the bodyguards standing outside of the Burberry presentation were guarding the crown jewels. The seriousness of the Milanese was apparent, even during the show. There were no games here, and no crazy buzz å la New York. In Milan, you take your seat, you don’t move, and you DON’T take pictures. It’s just not civilized, and everyone will stare in disdain at you. I tried feebly to take my usual snapshots but when I saw no one else doing the same, I abruptly stopped. Even the photographers at the back of house were straight-laced, and demanding as they shouted directions to the models (on the catwalk!) for their best shots.

Ahhh...Senegal

2007-01-02T14:49:00.000-08:00

The following post is a collection of SOME of my journal entries (I can't post ALL my business, ya know?!) I hope you enjoy my recollections, and maybe get inspired to visit yourself!
Tatiana

A street on Goree Island

Wednesday, December 13, 2006
My day starts off after a restless sleep. I'm so excited/nervous/anxious--so many emotions going on inside of me. This is it-I'm really going to Africa. Most people dream of this. I'm actually doing it. Modou came around 10:30 to help me finish packing and wish me well. My roommate wasn't home, but I left my information with her anyway. I have to say--I love traveling alone. It's one of life's great adventures. But Africa? This is a whole other ballgame. I left super-early and got to the airport at 1, even though my flight wasn't until 5:30. I didn't want ANY hold-ups.

_____

I'm on the plane, and the pilot tells us that the flight will be much shorter than I anticipated-only about 5 1/2 hours. An uneventful flight it was, but I was too focused on my arrival to care.

Thursday, Dec. 14, 2006
I'm here. I'm so nervous, I can't speak one word. We get off the plane onto the runway, and I freak because there is only a bus waiting for us. What is this? Where am I? It turns out the bus was just a shuttle to the airport. The ride was all of three minutes. As soon as I get off the bus, the crowd bum-rushes a counter and starts filling out a slip. I quickly fill it out and wait on-line. Several people were in front of me, and one guy asks me if I'm on line in Wolof. He motions to me. but I freeze in silence. It turns out he was telling me to move ahead of him and his entourage. I really need to get it together, get my wits about me and play it cool. My real fear was that everyone would recognize me instantly as an American, and then I would be doomed! I quickly go through customs, to baggage claim and immediately I'm swarmed by by several gentlemen asking me if I needed help. All I kept saying was "Deedeet" --No, in Wolof--I remebered Modou telling me to NEVER let someone help you with your bags. So anyway, I got my bags. One was completely wet--I'll have to complain to South African Airways about that. I felt like everyone was looking at me--The Toubaub--ready to pounce. I searched for Yassin, Modou's sister, but didn't see her (but then again, I didn't even know what she LOOKED like in person--ha! talk about taking chances!!!) But so many people approached me and they were speaking Wolof. Now mind you, my vocabulary was limited to Yes (Waaw), No (Deedeet), and How Are You (Na Kenga Def)? So all these questions from strangers was truly frightening, even to a bold gal like me. I tried to make out the signs, but somehow, in my fright, even the French words looked foreign to me! So I stood by the airport exit in silence, hoping (praying)for Yassin's quick arrival. This one guy came up to me, and asks if I need to make a phone call, and I politely told him in my best French (Johnny would be so proud!) that a friend of mine would be picking me up shortly. Then the questions got more complex, and I was just dreading him and hoping that this dude would get a hint and LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE before my cover got blown (or maybe it was already?)! But finally he asks me if I'm OK--In English-- and I told him that I was. And then he goes "Well, it's obvious that you're NOT ok. You've been standing at the entrance for 15 minutes (my flight came in early, remember). Anyway, he wouldn't bug off, and insisted that I use his cell phone, which I knew would come at a price. I told him that I didn't have any money (Senegalese money, anyway--Modou told me to wait until I got into the city to change my money, so I did), so I really couldn't give him anything. But anyway, I contacted Yassin, and she came shortly after. Her cousin tipped the guy a 200F piece, and we left.

My ride from the airport at daybreak.
_____

We reach the house and all I could think about was calling Modou, calling home, and sleeping. I had meant to wait to give my gifts out, but as I was unpacking somethings, the women saw them, so I just gave everything out. They were so delighted, that it made me so happy. Then I passed out for 8 hours. When I woke up it was so deliciously warm, about 85 degrees. It still hadn't sunk in. I'm in AFRICA. I got up, called my mother, and tried to call Maguette (one my many wonderful teachers from New York), and some other close friends. Yassin gave me a breakfast of bread, cheese, and coffee, which was just right. The rest of the day was relaxation, reflection, and more relaxation. The family is in the tailoring business, so I had the pleasure of watching the guys get to work on several handmade pieces. It's funny, but in Senegal, even the woman with the least money wers couture, and I find it fascinating. It is almost a requisite to have a piece of perfectly fitted, made just-for-you clothing! I myself resolve to have a few dresses made while I am there...

Embroidery done with no sketching-pure genious at work!

At dusk the women had a little dance-off in the living room, and I tried to keep up, but I failed miserably!

____

Dinner was beautiful and almost perfect. Kine prepared roasted chicken and onions on a bed of lettuce with fried potatoes and yogurt sauce. It was so delicious. Yassin kept pushing me to eat mmore, and I almost burst at my seems from the delicious food. I thought that was the end until Yassin brought me a mouth-watering bowl of fresh watermelon. I had a few juice-dripping bites--and then I got nauseous. I walked quickly and discreetly to the bathroom, found the nearest shopping bag on the way, and threw it all up. It wasn't the dinner that did it, I swear. I think-no, i KNOW it was the watermelon. Because I am used to the taste and spice of Senegalese food, I'm sure it was the melon that did me in. It's a shame because I really do love watermelon. But for some reason, for the past 2 or so years, I realized--I just can't eat watermelon. Everytime I eat it, I get sick and throw up. It just hit me tonite. *Sigh*
Oh well, tommorow is another day--and we're going downtown!!!

View from the rooftop of Modou's house in Senegal

____

Saturday, December, 16, 2006
I thought today would be a pretty uneventful day--meaning a day of rest and reflection for me. The day started off slowly--taking a shower, dressing, eating breakfast. After a short nap, I tell Kine ( Modou's other sister), that I'd like to take a walk, and the walk turns into a mini field-trip to the market! I had no idea. We went to a market called Ville Artisinale, a little enclave of woodcarvers and instrument-makers. There are many of the villages scattered around Senegal, and I was lucky enough to be staying near one. What a treat! I saw so many things, I vow to come back before I leave and shop! But before leaving, I purchased a small djimbe drum and two freshly-carved mancalas. Earlier, Yacine and Kine helped me find a fantastic Sabar and Mbalax mix CD and Video DVD. I can't wait to practice. When we got home, I was exhausted. I took a nap and woke up, maybe two hours later. I figured I'd call my mother, so I went to go call and what happened next was-let's say, an adventure. The lights went out in the ENTIRE village as well as the neighboring villages. We were left to scrounge around with our CELL PHONES and ONE CANDLE in the house. Isn't that funny? A city so advanced in technology, where everyone uses the internet and has cell phones, yet still crippled by a lack of advanced electric technology. Well, Yacine was not about to have a lack of lights ruin her night. She had things to do! So we ventured out into the black night, the dirt roads teeming with people going about business as usual. No sense of urgency, no rush to get home. We ventured to la Cite des Enseigneurs to visit one of Yacine's friends, a tailor named Fitmi, on a rickety Car Rapide . What a ride! We finally get the city and jump off the back of the bus onto a dirt road, brightened only by the storefronts with light, and the cheap firecrackers being lit by raucous children in the street. We walk off the main road onto a dark street lit with lights, the Sabar drums, and the sounds of the continuous tattering of the tailors' sewing machine. Everywhere I looked, all over the city, I noticed, tailors were working furiously. A national holiday called Tabaski was coming up, and all the girls were getting their outfits made.

The weather is perfect--not too hot, not too cold, maybe 75 or so. I look up into the sky and see the stars shining. The vision is crystal-clear. After visiting Fitmi, we take another walk to pick up some bread from a nearby bakery before hailing a cab. But wait! We aren't going home yet. We take a walk down a wide dirt road, dark as night. The only light is the emergency light of a car that has broken down. Amazingly, the owner of the car, and two other makeshift mechanics are still working on it's engine in the pitch black night! We stop at a candle-lit shop and Yacine greets a friend of her mother's. Finally we walk back up the dirt road to the main street, and take a taxi home.

____

Sunday, December 17, 2006
Yacine had promised me that she would take me to the beach. But with everything that was going on in their daily lives, I thought she had surely forgotten. But at around 5 o'clock she took me out-I wasn't sure if we were going back to Fitmi's, or going to visit a friend of her father's (Note: Even though I'm not a fluent French speaker, I could still understand where and what we were doing at any given time--but Yacine was very spontaneous, which lead to surprise visits all the time!). So we boarded a car rapide and rode off past the Cite Enseigneurs. I could smell the familiar scent of the ocean. I knew the smell well from the years of living on Long Island by the sea in Babylon. We got off the bus and walked past a series of rugged housing developments. they looked like mansions in the making-I could tell because of the size and the doors and their elaborate shapes. We walked further and further until we reached the beautiful wide ocean--The Atlantic. This particular beach was called Malibou. The water was such a fascinating shade of crystal-clear turquoise. And the sand-so clean, and so warm. Pure, unadulterated sand. I frolicked in the water a bit, and Yassin taped me.

Deedeet. Get it? DEEDEET.

Unfortunately, a young boy, maybe 18 or 19, followed us. I wasn't sure if the boy knew Yassin, but he spoke with her as if he did. He was so annoying, and clearly didn't understand that we we wanted to just chill out by ourselves on the beach. Once he told me his name (which I quickly and purposely forgot) he insisted on asking me if I had a boyfriend, and if I was married, etc. I told him straight off the bat that I wasn't interested, that I had a man, and I'd like to be left alone. So he asks "Why?" and I'm like, "I just gave you 3 reasons why. Now please leave me alone." (Sorry, I had to kick in the rude New York attitude, even if it WAS in another language.) Anyway, all I kept telling him was no, but I guess he was trying to play dumb because he just stayed with us and questioned us all the way back to the main road. So my first trip to the beach was nearly ruined by this dude who didn't understand me when I said "deedeet".
____

Wednesday, Dec. 20, 2006
The Day That Wouldn't End

Today, Yacine, Pape, and I went to Goree Island. I was so excited, yet scared at the prospect of visiting a slave island. When we boarded the ship, all I could think of was the crystal-clear water and the fantastically clear and sunny sky. What a blessed day!

Once we got off the island, I was so enchanted by the beauty of the buildings, the art, the flora- no doubt kept intact by the state's historical division ( I immediately thought of Montmartre with all it's quaint houses and cobblestone streets kept perfectly intact to maintain the feel of the old French fairytales). the streets of the small village were filled to the brim with artists and paintings and other artisinal objects. I couldn't help but regard the African objects as tourist gifts. the way everything was so neatly arranged, and I couldn't help but think that the prices would reflect the consumer they were after-mainly French and American tourists. Even the restaurant dishes were insanely expensive-25mil, 30 mil, nowhere NEAR what I was used to paying in the city.

Luckily Yacine was wise enough to have us stop by a shop in the city to pick up some sandwiches for the trip. I was relieved to have this backup.

It looks so simple, but its cheap and SO Delicious. About 1mil F . It's a hamburger with fries. The fries are actually underneath the bun, and the burger is covered with a fried egg. Very filling! And of course, a Vimpto to wash it down...

The actual slave house was at once terrifying and unemotional. The museum displays, the amount of people in this part of the enclave with video recorders (myself included), almost detracted from the seriousness of the place. But when I stole away to the quiet places, the room for the children, and the room for the little girls--I was haunted. Dimly lit stone walls lined deep hallways with few slivers of window openings. And finally, the Passage of no return- a door opening directly onto the Atlantic-was a place where dead and punished slaves were thrown to the sharks.

On the second floor of the house, I allowed myself to stand on the balcony and reflect on the sights and my emotions. As I looked down, I could see the opening of the Passage. How ironic, I thought, that the rocks and the water that lay before me so pristine and crystal-clear were once covered with the blood and flesh of my ancestors.
____

The ride home from Goree was endless. We boarded the boat at around 6pm and then, after disembarquing, took a TATA from there to Guidewaye. The entire trip lasted about three hours and we got home well after 9. I was exhausted, but Yacine had other plans. Modou had asked her to take me to meet her grandfather. So we went to another nearby city--Pekine--and visited the grandfather along with a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins. After we left that house, we went to visit Ousmane, one of Modou's brothers, who is also a tailor. We hung out there for a while before finally going back home. When we got back to the house, it was maybe a quarter past 12 and several female relatives and friends greeted us in the living room. They intended to have a dance-off. I intended to go to bed. "Dama sounou, Dama bouga nelo" I said in my most polite voice. But "tired", and "sleep" were not on the agenda that night. So I danced a bit before taking a shower and falling asleep amongst the chattering voices.
____

Friday Dec 22, 2006
A Day of Shopping

On the way to the city. Anyone who complains about the LIE has obviously never been on a highway in Dakar!

These are just some pix that I snapped on our way to Sandaga, the biggest Market. I went to several other markets ( I was trying to find my friend Jacqui a nice pair of earrings).

For when the rides got a little long--a refreshment of fresh coconut juice.

Sheep were everywhere. Many were household pets--but most would be slaughtered for the Muslim holiday Tabaski.

Pure. Shopping. Ecstacy. A shopaholic's dream come true!

----
Yacine made me here version of Tiebou Dieun. (CHEH-boo ChEN) I wanted to film the whole process, but Yacine wasn't having it. I kept asking why not, but she didn't look glamorous enough for the shot!

And the finished product. This is the Tiebou Dieun, the national dish of Senegal. It is a dish of flavored rice with fish and vegetables like squash, yam, carrots, and onions in the center. So succulent and delicious. Words can't describe it!

Senegal is such a wonderful world of sights, flavors, colors, and most of all sound. Everywhere I went, people were dancing, and even the news was prefaced with a series of dance videos. People dance, and they love their music. It is a part of life, and I witnessed it! For a country where poverty abounds, it's rich culture makes up for any lack of money. Senegalese people are stylish, witty, funny, and full of life. I will definately be visiting again soon...
Peace.

You're in for a ride!

2007-01-02T09:44:00.000-08:00

I often go places, and take many pictures, and view many things... but not all my experiences are fashion/style-related, and therefore don't necessarily make it to the magazine blog. And I'd like to keep it that way. This blog is meant to be a more personal account of my trips and experiences, and is meant as a treat to all my friends and viewers. Enjoy!
Tatiana