Dear mullentown bloggers:

I could give you 335 reasons why I love my husband. But on this particular day, I love him for his ability to witness a rare moment in nature and to describe it beautifully, and for his interest in keeping this neglected little blog alive. I must say I’m not sure where mullentown is going. I’ve been concentrating nearly full-time on building the City Weekly blog. It’s in its infancy, and like any new baby needs huge attention. I’ve been posting at least once, sometimes twice a day there and am trying to get the rest of the staff to join in regularly, too. Check it out; we’re having great fun.

So … that means in the interest of feeding my blog while I’m crazy-busy with other work, I’ve asked Ted Wilson to share another entry here with you. It’s a lovely piece. The only missing element is photos. And as Ted and Rick explained to me, the scene they witnessed was so far away they could only have seen it through a spotting scope. The average digital camera couldn’t have worked. So you’ll have to rely on Ted’s fine eye for wildlife (he’s been integrally involved in the big outdoors his whole life). Enjoy!

*****************

From Ted Wilson, with help from his friend, Rick Reese:

Yellowstone National Park–Our principal mission last week was the wily Cutthroat trout. But we were sobered while hiking to the Yellowstone River. Suddenly, we found our path dotted with huge fresh grizzly tracks in the mud. It’s the kind of deal that causes you to appreciate the small canister of pepper spray slung on your chest. But, like a soldier hitting the beach, just because you have a weapon your survival is not assured. Most grizzly attacks are so devastatingly swift that putting faith in weaponry is laughable.

We had the “Yellowstone Buzz,” a deep atavistic feeling rattling in your head when you realize you are not at the top of food chain. You know and you fear a creature lurking over the next rise or secluded in a clump of brush whose sheer ferocity and power can heaven-send you like lightning. The Buzz makes Yellowstone even more fascinating and strangely alluring.

So we clattered down the Hellroaring trail on a cloudy October morning yodeling, hooting, and hollering to fend off Old Ephraim. After a nice hike, our fears slid away as we stood alongside the magnificent waterway of the Yellowstone, the longest untamed river in America. The fishing was good and the scenery magnificent, but not the high point of the day.

Exhausted by fishing, we slogged back up the 600 vertical feet to the car and began our drive back to Gardiner, Montana, at Yellowstone’s north gate. I shared the day with old friend Rick Reese, long time Yellowstone expert and former director of the Yellowstone Institute. Rick knows the park as well as his back yard and he encouraged me to pull off the road where several people were already posted with their long-range optical gear.

It was a pretty routine stop. Thousands of people these days take pleasure animal watching in Yellowstone. The grizzly and black bear offer unusual viewing. And the sight of bison, elk, and deer are routine after the 1988 fires that exposed thousands of square miles of wild life forage. The newcomer is the wolf. And, though the animal is wild and elusive, sighting a wolf is now a big time spectator sport that brings many to the LaMar Valley, the Yellowstone River, and other parts of the park.

We didn’t expect more than the usual long range sighting as we approached the watchers. “What have we got?” Rick said in the tone of voice of an expert who has seen hundreds of wildlife sightings over the years. When one guy gushed, “15 wolves and three grizzlies alongside a herd of elk,” Rick’s eyebrows rose in astonishment and skepticism.

But squinting through Rick’s binoculars, we discovered the guy knew his numbers. Exactly three grizzlies and a bunch of wolves were scattered over a sage-covered hillside not more than a half-mile from our passage earlier on the Hellroaring trail near the Yellowstone River.

Even Rick couldn’t mask his excitement and dashed to the car for the spotting scope. A bit stunned, I was thrilled to see my first wolves. As an erstwhile Yellowstone gazer, I’ve spied plenty of bears but wolves had escaped my view in spite of several attempts to spot them.

Rick set up the scope and focused. “You are not going to believe what is going on,” he muttered. Reese is not given to overstatement so my enthusiasm caused me to lean hard against his shoulder to signal my turn squinting through the scope. More people had arrived and leaned over our shoulders to see what was going on.

A full pack of wolves was circling, nipping at the heels, and fully stalking a grizzly bear. I gushed, “How often, Rick, does a pack of wolves try to down a grizzly?” His reaction–now remember, I’m asking a Yellowstone expert of more than three decades–was simply, “I have never seen this before and never heard about it from any of the park biologists.”

The wolf is a serious killer. A carnivore, wolves work together in packs and use strategy to down their prey. No animal in Yellowstone is immune from a wolf pack. Except perhaps the grizzly, an animal so large and so amazingly equipped with size, speed, strength, claws, jaws and teeth to command almost any meal in the park. And here we were seeing first-hand that yes, huge bears do get attacked by wolves.

The wolves were serious and continued their harassment of the bear for a full 30 minutes. The bear was dark and appeared very large though at the distance we were viewing we could not be sure. Perhaps it was young or even sick, causing the wolves their interest. But the bear was moving well, at times kicking back his rear legs, and another time breaking into a lope.

I have no doubt the wolves were out to down the bear and share a meal. Rick thought that improbable and brought up the aspect of play. I’ll leave that to experts. The pack dispatched one wolf to continue to drive the bear down the hill while the rest circled to set a trap. When the bear slammed into the circlers, he merely brushed by and carried on his way. No wolf ventured forth to set his teeth into bear fur.

Rick said if the wolves attacked, his money was on the bear. That calculation may have occurred to the wolves, too. They eventually dispersed and allowed the bear a chance to rest.

Off to the side of the main circus, another grizzly hunkered down behind a rise stalking the elk herd. Rick said the main tactic was for the bear to charge the herd to see which elk did not run well because of youth or illness. The unfortunate, slow elk makes a meal for a hungry bear about ready to enter the winter den. The grizzly has been very active feeding recently in the park because of poor forage from a sweltering summer. We saw no charge of the bear.

We packed up our scope and drove back to Gardiner through a spectacular sunset. Today, I feel like I have just watched the classic movie, Jaws. Many years ago, after seeing that film, I felt a creepy little buzz in my shower the next morning. As if the teeth of that massive Jaws shark were going to come up the drain and grab me. This morning, I looked into my back yard and I was sure I saw a grizzly stalking behind the fitzers and the chestnut tree.

… take only photos. Isn’t that how the old admonition goes when traveling?

Well, no worries there! No sweat at all for the Mullen-Wilson dyad. We got all the way to Pa’ia, Maui and realized Ted had forgotten to insert the battery in his camera! We found a Costco just outside the Kahului Airport, but since the store is obviously on Hang-Loose Hawaii Time, its operating hours were from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. When we finally found the store open, we saw plenty of digital cameras on display, but no accessories. And no one to help us find a battery.

I saw a lot of t-shirts, too, that said “RELAX. THIS AIN’T THE MAINLAND.” Well, they got that right. So we did. Relax, I mean. We never bought a battery. And this is the long way of explaining why you’ll not see any photos on this blog of Maui’s North Shore or points between, beyond and next door.

I’m not complaining. We had eight luxurious days in a sweet little sugar cane plantation cottage, fully restored with wood floors, original wainscoting, big porch, squeaky ceiling fans. I felt like a female antagonist in a Hemingway novel (only a lot nicer to my husband than Pappy’s fictional harpies).

I’d been to Maui several years ago, but spent the entire three weeks on the isolated Hana (east) side of the island. This time was more about beaches, my first turn at snorkeling (amazing) and hiking deep into Halakalea’s crater–which was absolutely stunning. I only wish we had done it at sunrise. Next time.

As for the lack of photos, Ted kept telling me at least we would always have memories. Well, true enough. A friend who fancied himself a Buddhist — though I think he was more creepy New Age than anything — once told me that photos are for people who live in the past. I can see that to a point. I’m fine, at least, without a permanent image of how I looked in a swimsuit after a week of glutenous eating and drinking.

Meanwhile, and completely off-topic, go here to see that my little blog is ranked 19th among the 20 most-read political blogs in Utah. I was shocked. I’ve floated a good bit in the past few months as I’ve gotten busier and more involved with my full-time job at City Weekly. But then, I’m ranked below the Salt Lake Tribune’s political blog, which hardly stays very timely. And I’m also below the dreadfully bland Utah State Senate Site. So I ought to get my ass in gear, eh? I could maybe go up a couple of notches.

I’ve actually taken a lot of passes on political commentary on the Salt Lake City mayor’s race, given my stepmother relationship to Jenny Wilson. One day back to reality on the mainland, and several people have already asked me if I’ll start writing about the final election between Ralph Becker and Dave Buhler. I’m not inclined to get involved in it. For one thing, anything critical I might write would only be construed as sour grapes. And it would only harm whatever credibility I might have at CW. I’ve learned that much from the primary.

For another reason, the race promises to be a snore fest. Some have said the city is ready for a dull race/dull mayor given the eight years we’ve suffered under our current psychopath. I can’t think of my hometown in any way as dull though–so I hope we get a little huff ‘n puff in this election cycle.

But hey, this doesn’t mean you can’t all post away to your heart’s content about the mayor’s race, the 2008 presidential election, or any other political thought you are generating. I’m a millimeter away from supporting Hillary, BTW. I’ve got a whole blog entry planned for that as soon as I get my thoughts well in order. So think and write away. Besides, your participation might help keep mullentown.com in the VIB (very important blogs) listings. I’d hate to fade into total obscurity, and I’d like to get my ranking above that awful Senate Site.

Ted and I are flying out to Maui in about 30 minutes. Nothing like Hawaiian sun and long, sandy beaches to recover from a hard loss.

Not so hard, really. Jenny Wilson, my fabulous stepdaughter, waged a great campaign for Salt Lake City mayor. That’s all I’ll say here. This Wilson family is spectacular. We wanted Jenny to win. She didn’t. We support her fully and watched a very mature and graceful woman concede last night to Dave Buhler and Ralph Becker.

She has a Salt Lake County Council seat to return to, two adorable little boys and a fine husband. And a strong political future, I’ve no doubt.

I’m so very proud of her.

As to Maui, I’m not taking a laptop. I debated about even taking a phone. Just books, a few pairs of shorts, my bicycle gear and the man I love.

See you back here, I hope, on Sept. 21.

Aloha.

I just got back at 3 a.m. today from a long weekend in Denver with my son Sam, the best 16-year-old in the world. Flew over, watched two Colorado Rockies vs. L.A. Dodgers games and came home on Amtrak’s California Zephyr. I took no laptop, answered no voice or e-mails. I’ll write more tomorrow. Just wanted y’all to know we are alive and had our fill of major league baseball. And I really relished those railroad geeks we met on board who swear they will never travel by any other means than trains. And newly converted to train travel as I am, I’m starting to understand the romance of it all!

Running across the Burnside Street Bridge in Portland last week, I came upon this graffiti message spray-painted in purple, letters a foot high, on the sidewalk bordering the vast Willamette River:

CALL YOUR DEADBEAT DAD. HE STILL LOVES YOU.

It was Father’s Day weekend. My mind started whirling. Did a specific dad write it to a long-lost child? Or was it more universal? A manifesto of sorts for all neglectful kids who haven’t stayed in touch with their dads? And did the suggestion tug hard enough to result in any action?

Couldn’t say. All I knew is this was Portland and the public call to action fit this city perfectly.

Also on the waterfront, scores of names of dead service men and women who died in Iraq were scrawled in chalk. “The Names Project,” said the message chalked on the sidewalk at the start of the long list.

Portlanders seem to live their lives out loud — at least many of those who reside in and around the city limits. I saw two anti-war protests on city sidewalks while there, and people gathering petition signatures downtown for an open space initiative, membership in Greenpeace and lord knows what else. I’ve visited there at least a half-dozen times in 10 years, usually for business, so I seldom get out to the suburbs. I’m pretty sure the Portland suburbs are like anywhere else, though — a gone-to-shit wasteland of chain restaurants and car lots. So I choose to stay in my little comfy urban bubble and it serves me just fine.

A group of City Weekly staff members attended the Association of Alternative Newspapers there. We worked during the day but played hard at night. The second night in, I’d had enough of crowds and loudmouths bragging on their newspapers, so I lit off on my own to Northwest Portland, AKA the Alphabet District. I walked from downtown for about 1 1/2 miles until I ran into a series of great bars, sidewalk cafes, coffee houses and nightlife like I never see in Salt Lake City. The host at the little Italian place where I chose to eat and sip Oregon pinot noir gave me the history of the district: a one-time working class area populated by longshoremen and their families. “It’s got the distinction of being the most densely populated neighborhood between San Francisco and Seattle,” he said, obviously proud of that little tidbit.

It’s easy to dismiss downtown Salt Lake as a decaying, even dead place because of its prehistoric liquor laws and clunky approach to nightlife. But it’s more than that. We cling to a culture here that a thriving nightlife is a little too much, a bit too excessive, showy and inappropriate. You see this even among those restaurant and club owners who are trying here: With the exception of the bigger, successful private clubs, too many bars are dark and dank, buried in basements with little or no light. Dirty.

It’s like going there makes you feel criminal, and I can’t believe city leaders want to put that message across.

And then there are the politics of Portland. I always get the distinct sensation when visiting there that speaking out is a public duty. People have opinions and they don’t shrink at sharing them. It’s a stark contrast to my hometown here, where so many people back into a position, or feign politeness or silence at the risk of offending or alienating someone else.

And of course, I do love the green and the clean air. We live in a high desert here in Salt Lake and I love that for its own exceptional qualities. But clean air? Now that is our challenge. I feel certain the next 10 years and the way we go about working on air quality will make or break Salt Lake as a livable and enticing city. I hope we haven’t started too late.

Thank you, India.
Thank you, terror.
Thank you, disillusionment.
Thank you frailty, thank you consequence.
Thank you, thank you, silence.
– Alanis Morissette

VARANASI, India–Something changed me here.

I can’t say that about some destinations. I am by no means a world traveler — my first trip to Europe came only two years ago. When my college friends, 25-plus years ago, were backpacking through France, or flopping in youth hostels in London, I was schlepping orders as a cocktail waitress and finishing my degree.

Years later, with an income and some freedom, I’ve traveled a bit more. Only a bit, though. I do know that when a place speaks your name, you must listen. This is what Varanasi did for me. It’s been three weeks since we returned from a long trip to Uttar Pradesch province in northern India. Still, at least every couple of days I am momentarily distracted from some mundane task by scenes or memories of that ancient city on the Ganges.

Sunrise on the Ganges, March 2007

How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out?
How about not equating death with starving?
Thank you India. Thank you, providence. …
– Morissette

Some say that Varanasi, about 400 miles southeast of New Delhi, is the oldest city in the world still functioning largely as it did centuries ago. Narrow streets snake through the neighborhoods bordering the famous ghats, a series of stairways that line the banks of the holy Ganges River. The scent of incense fills the alleys. The aroma of exotic flowers being woven into leis for burials is intoxicating. You walk through the streets, your eyes popping at the color, your ears throbbing from the rattle and hum of commerce. You watch the ground to avoid stepping in piles of fresh cow dung, even dodge a lazy cow or two tromping near you or grazing through stacks of trash.

The ghats, Varanasi

Follow the winding streets, and and all at once the Hindu Golden Temple is upon you. In keeping with the security concerns of the moment, armed Indian soldiers and city police stand guard every few feet. Visitors go through three separate searches, then enter the sacred shrine, barefoot. Inside, a brahman priest blesses each pilgrim. No photos allowed inside.

It took me a couple of hours to even begin clarifying the power of Varanasi. I’m still sorting it out. The city’s magnificent impact has everything to do with its life force–which is to say, death. This is the city of the Ganges, or in Hindi, Ganga. All devout Hindus believe that after death, their ashes must be committed to the Ganges’ sacred waters. If there is a city in the world whose very life depends on the death industry, it is Varanasi. At a traditional crematorium (there also is an electric one, farther down the river), bodies burn on pyres all day and night, often four to five at a time.

Once an elaborate burning ritual ends, the oldest male member of the surviving family walks to the banks of the river carrying a small urn of the departed’s ashes. He wades into the water, then tosses the ashes from the urn over his shoulder. He does not look back, thus signifying the finality of this relationship. Then he returns to the riverbank and joins other male family members. By tradition, women do not participate in the cremation ritual.

No pictures are allowed at the cremation site.

On the rare chance that the dead person may have reached the Hindu state of “enlightenment,” he or she will not return to Earth again. This is the greatest hope, of course. But with the Hindu belief in reincarnation, it’s quite possible the departed will return in some other life form.

People also come here in preparation for dying. Entire buildings on the river are devoted to hospice care, where dying Indians can live out their final days — in full recognition of their limited time — while only yards away from Ganga, the mother to whom they will soon return.

Just 25 yards down the river, daily life proceeds in most ordinary ways. People wash laundry in the water. Pilgrims bathe and swim. It’s expected that Hindus will make at least one pilgrimage to the Ganges in their lifetime, to partake of the holy water. Westerners have trouble with this — it’s an understatement to describe the water as “dirty.” Its headwaters are a small stream in the Himalayas, but by the time the water reaches urban India, it is a wide, churning expanse of murky water, scarcely the pristine mountain water of its origin.

I find beauty in that, too. People live on the earthy reality of this water. Raw sewage runs into it. Human remains sink to the bottom of the river (including the ritualistic commitment of the female pelvic bone and male ribs after cremation). Everything begins and ends here.

The day that we left Varanasi, as we loaded back onto the bus for the hotel, I found myself gazing out the window, my eyes puddling with tears. For a moment I found it hard to breathe. The more I fixated on what I had seen in Varanasi, the harder I cried. I bawled like a baby, with no sign of the tears drying up. Of course they did, eventually. But I learned more about myself and my own struggle with the concept of death that day than I could ever have guessed.

It’s no great revelation that Americans can’t quite grip the finality, even the glory of death with the same art that other cultures do. We fear it, run from it, do everything we can to stave it off — from multivitamin regimens to botox to dumping decent, age-appropriate spouses for trophy wives and husbands. For the first time, there on the Ganges, I had seen an entire culture face death honestly, matter-of-factly, and with love and respect. On one end of the river, bodies burn and survivors mourn publicly, then finish the ritual and go home. On another end of the river, people wash their laundry, bathe, cup the river water in their palms and drink.

The lower caste washes laundry daily in the Ganges

Laundry drying on the ghats

Freshly washed women’s saris, drying on the ghats

Varanasi. Where life meets death, and commerce goes uninterrupted. Thank you India.

The gods oversee the ghats

Even if you’ve never had the good fortune of visiting the World Wonder Taj Mahal in Agra, India, you may know the story behind it.

The Taj

Seventeenth-century Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan built the Taj as a mausoleum for the remains of his favorite wife, reportedly the greatest love of his life, and mother to 14 (!!) of his children. Not too surprisingly, Empress Mumtaz Mahal died in childbirth.

Some 20 years after her death, the Persian-inspired wonder was completed, with marble cut from the hardest limestone in the world. And then there are the thousands of precious and semi-precious stones inlaid in intricate detail within the stone. No human vocabulary can every properly describe this edifice — a breathtaking testament to eternal love.

Taj Mahal detail

So, here’s the “promise” I was able to extract from my dream husband and best friend, Ted, as we sat on a bench admiring the Taj from a humbling distance:

Me: “Tell me something. Do you love me enough to build me a Taj Mahal when I’m gone?”
Ted: “Absolutely.”
Me: “You would do that for me, wouldn’t you?”
Ted: “Absolutely.”
Me: “I can count on that?”
Ted: “Yes. Even if I have to get a paper route to help pay for it.”
Me: “That’s what a woman wants to hear.”

We are home. Since 1 a.m. Monday. I’m sliding past jet lag, and battling “Delhi belly” (interestingly, I had no trouble until I got home to America’s ever-so-safe food and water supply).

I can provide you with a simple travel diary of 18 days in India — places visited, train schedules, a day at Parliament when members of the the ruling party rushed the well (speaker’s podium) and nearly led a brawl over a move to increase funds to a university they opposed. Oh, and there is my all-time favorite Indian meal, which I found myself eating in some form at every restaurant and home: dal (cooked black or yellow lentils delightfully spiced; a staple of the Indian table) and nan (bread). I like the combination at Indian restaurants in the U.S. but nothing, no way, can match the Indians’ preparation: utterly simple, yet complex enough in its spices to taste slightly different every time.

I’ll save some of that. Better today, as an introduction, I give you the eyes of Kotwara.

Two boys, dressed for their U. of U. guests:

A mother waits for medical attention from volunteers:

School children welcome their visitors with song:

Tyler wows the kids with digital:

Kotwara sits some 250 miles southeast of New Delhi, approachable either by astoundingly terrible Indian roads or by Northern Railway, which was our choice. Even then, after an all-night train ride from Delhi to Shajahanpur (named for the 17th-century mogul Shajahan, who built the Taj Mahal), it’s a two-hour bus ride to Kotwara.

The village sits among vast fields of sugar cane and wheat. The final approach is along a road bordered by dense forest, populated with small herds of spotted deer. The bus then rattles through the gate to the home of filmmaker, artist, and Sufi poet Muzaffar Ali,and his gifted wife, Meera, a fashion and textile designer and keen business woman.

Magnificent Muzaffar:

Lovely Meera:

Kotwara, a Muslim village, is Muzaffar’s ancestral home. His father, a prince, once reigned over the place. The government of India eventually came along, sliced up the land and left the Ali family 16 acres. On that land stands the Ali’s lovely home, lush gardens filled with rose bushes, cosmos and lavender, and towering mango trees. The village is 50 yards away.

In rural Mexico, Muzaffar would be known as the patron. In Kotwara, he employs dozens of villagers on his property and oversees an ongoing effort to educate their children at a small but sturdy stucco school, built over eight years time by University of Utah students as a service project over their school breaks.

We spent four days in Kotwara, and the stop couldn’t have been timed better. Our 21 students had been on a shopping frenzy, bartering with merchants in New Delhi’s colorful open air markets. It was grand, picking through silk scarves and jewel-toned saris, running our hands through stacks of Kashmiri pashminas and sampling masalas and mo mos from food booths. But a point comes when the noise, the infinite traffic jams, the bad air, the kitsch hawkers swarming the tourist havens take their toll. We needed a break. Most importantly, we needed to stop the take-take and start giving something to others.

That day came when the U. students walked into the village with scissors, water colors and paintbrushes, books describing flags of the world and the solar system, and even a lesson that included simulated snow. They taught wide-eyed children simple lessons. They led them in games of hokey-pokey and musical chairs (to the sounds of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” on an iPod with a speaker attached).

When education major Tracy Healey offered the grand finale — making polyethelyne “snow” with water mixed in a bucket — the kids went wild. They squealed, they stampeded. One kid even ate a mouthful.

Two days later Dr. Tom Byrne, a family practice physician from Nashua, New Hampshire, led the distribution of $2500 worth of vitamins to the children. Tom’s daughter, Elizabeth, is a U. of U. freshman. The two of them have made trips together on medical missions to Nicaragua. When Liz mentioned the trip to Tom, he signed on right away.

Dr. Tom Byrne, left, with Ted Wilson waiting in New Delhi for the train to Shajahanpur:

While discussing types of aid we might deliver, Tom suggested vitamins would make the greatest difference over a year in the children’s lives. The villagers’ diet consists mostly of rice, nan and lentils. Sorely lacking in protein, especially, the kids have in common stunted growth and chronic malnutrition. So each child took a 365-day supply home, with instructions in Hindi from Meera, our translator.

We had our worries. First, would the vitamins even make it home? Would the parents, busy scratching out a life each day and maybe suspicious of these Americans’ motives, even follow through with the regimen? Would the vitamins end up on the black market, fetching precious income for families subsisting a few rupees a day?

Ted, who has led seven trips to this region and oversaw the construction of the school with his former wife, Kathy, put the anxieties to rest.

“We do what we can,” he said. “We hope for the best.”

Ted and I leave tomorrow for 18 days in India. I’ve never been there. I’m thrilled.

Tonight I’m finishing up packing little Ziploc bags with travel-sized toiletries to carry on the plane. Bleepin’ TSA! Bleepin’ would-be terrorists!

We’re flying to New Delhi by way of Los Angeles and Kuala Lampur. With two layovers in both cities totaling 16 hours, our flying time on arrival at Indira Ghandi International will be something like 39 hours. Oh. Ted just muttered from his place beside me on the living room couch: “Could be even longer.”

What’s the old adage? That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger? All I know is we leave Salt Lake City on Thursday afternoon and arrive in New Delhi late Saturday night.

Good thing we’re going as leaders for 22 University of Utah students as part of the school’s International Travel Center. I’m counting on seeing the country in large part through their youthful perspectives. We’ll add three more students to our ranks once we get there. They are working as university interns in India this semester.

Here is a brief itinerary: Delhi, four days. Then to Agra (home of the Taj Mahal), two days. Then to Kotwara, 200 miles southeast of New Delhi, five days. We’ll visit a nature preserve on that leg of the trip. Then Varanasi, holy city of the Ganges, three days. Then back to New Delhi for two days.

Yes, the typical tourist stuff awaits us. The Taj, the Red Fort, a camel ride. But more. In Kotwara, the students will work with a village of young children who attend a school earlier groups of U. of U. students built over several years time. We’ll spend a day touring a slum and with the help of Winnie Singh, a longtime friend of Ted’s who is well-connected with various social and political reform movements in India, we may take a trip into New Delhi’s sex trade district. Winnie has also been active in recent years with HIV-AIDS education and prevention in the country; I’m anxious to pick her brain and perhaps accompany her in some of her work if time permits.

I’m hoping to visit a New Delhi newsroom and chat with journalists. Indians love their newspapers. There are dozens of them in New Delhi alone. I’m very excited about it.

But again, much of this personal agenda in flux. I’m going with the flow, people, believe me, and my first job will be to assist with the students.

We have met with the students three times in the past few months. Much of the pre-trip discussion has focused on handling the predictable culture shock when a group of middle and upper-middle class college kids (several blonds in the bunch!) meet crushing poverty; an exploding population; strange food; that first visit to an Indian commode; streetwise survivors of polio, leprosy and serious birth defects; and plenty of dirt.

And yet, we are all expecting a grand adventure and to return home as changed beings. How could we not be?

I am leaving my laptop at home, but will try to file some posts from the bigger cities. Photos, too.

Namaste! Back March 26!

The real reason we went to Santa Barbara, Solvang, Ojai, Santa Clarita, and Long Beach last week was for the BICYCLING!

Here is one of the best blogs with photos I’ve found yet on all the Amgen Tour of California action. The saddest news to come out of the race is that two of my favorite racers, Utah’s Dave Zabriskie (riding for CSC) and Big George Hincapie (still riding for Discovery Channel) got hurt. Zabriskie was DQ’d with a concussion after crashing on a mountain road landing during the first stage. Hincapie broke his arm but managed to ride hurt through most of Stage 6. He’ll be recovering for six to eight weeks.

And naturally, Levi Leipheimer was a total stud. I always take pride in the fact that I am no star sniffer. I have no inclination, ever, to hover around the streets of Park City for the annual Sundance Film Festival snooping for stars or wannabes. Yet put me within a few hundred years of these lean and lightning fast pro cyclists and I go all liquid.

Case in point: We’re driving on Interstate 5 late Saturday afternoon. The road is jammed. And what are the chances we would drive right up behind a little Mazda sedan with four Trek racing bikes perched on top and the Discovery Channel logo plastered all over the car with the number 1 on the rear window?

“Is that him?” “Is that Levi?” we’re pretty much shrieking from inside our sensible rented mini van while trying to catch up to the car. Ted is the first to see the man’s shaved head and svelte profile and confirms it: “THAT’S LEIPHEIMER IN THE FRONT SEAT!”

He manages to zip up to the right side of the Mazda. We suddenly go all ape like a bunch of teenage girls watching the Beetles enter Shea Stadium 40 years ago. Except we have two men in the car, too. They were just as bad as any squealing female, believe me.

And that was my brush with fame.