In the Tasman Wild

I spooned the last of the dessert into my mouth, savouring the medley of macadamia and mandarin. Eating in Tasmania was spiritual. Everything felt rich, clean, and straight from the ground. The air smelled purer, the scenery more vibrant. We may have been in the bustling city of Hobart, but in Tasmania we were close to nature. 

A few days before and a few hundred kilometres away at one of the southern-most points in Tasmania, the skipper on our boat smiled as he welcomed us aboard.

We’re in the wild! 

I could see what he meant. 

On a beach in Freycinet National Park

Months ago when we started planning our holiday we weren’t sure if we could make it all the way to Tasmania — it was a long flight from Mumbai — but both my husband and I were craving somewhere remote. In the last few years along with navigating the pandemic, we had been knee deep in parenting two kids. A faraway island, with reportedly 40% of its land as reserved forests and a population of about half a million people seemed just what we needed.

We started our trip in Launceston, where we hiked a trail up in Cataract Gorge followed by an exquisite meal at Stillwater. Particularly noteworthy was the Cape Grim beef carpaccio, pickled mushroom, slow cooked egg yolk, truffle aioli and crispy shallot. Most Tasmanian restaurants in true farm to table style, will proudly call out where the ingredients are from. We picked up our rental car and made our way to a farm stay in North-West Tassie.

From there we drove to Cradle Mountain National Park, where we hiked four hours to Cradle Mountain Lake, a glacier lake, nestled between jagged rocks. We ascended through a waterfall navigating knobbly trees bent-over by decades of gusting wind. We passed wombats, an echidna and occasional hikers on the route, and yet, it felt like we were the only ones there.

The view from the top of one of the hikes in Cradle Mountain National Park

Standing at the edge before our descent

The next day we were in Bicheno on the east coast. We devoured the lobster roll at The Lobster Shack, slurped oysters with giant wedges of lemon at Melshell Oyster Shack. We stood in awe, watching little blue penguins and a wallaby, while they remained un-phased, having made this shared space their habitat.

We saw how humans could coexist beautifully with nature when respecting the land and sea. A conversations with a local park ranger at Freycinet National Park, and another with a passionate coffee entrepreneur in Salamanca Market taught me that people knew their positions as supporting actors rather than the heroes of this story. The idea that humans are a part of the environment and share a symbiotic relationship with nature has lived in this place for centuries. It is echoed by Indigenous voices on the island.

An Australian friend who is steeped in knowledge around sustainability, framed humanity’s success as the percentage of the world that is still left wild. A little more research taught me that unsurprisingly, there is a politicised and active debate around what amount of land should be developed in Tasmania, either for nature tourism or agriculture, versus being preserved untouched. While I believe my friend’s assessment about wilderness is correct, I could see the benefit of thoughtfully permitting tourists to experience a part of this natural splendour. As a mere visitor to these places that felt unchanged by the passage of time, I felt changed.

Back on that boat in southern Tasmania, we set off for the sea. Giant dolerite cliffs kissed the clouds, dwarfing us. Dolphins danced with seals in crystal blue waters while albatrosses skimmed the surface of the Tasman sea. Humpback whales, on their annual path of migration shot jets of water into the sky, and colonies of giant fur seals casually sunbathed on jagged rocks.

A single lighthouse sat perched on the edge, overlooking this inspiring landscape. We, humans, were insignificant observers – just as we should be.

The Tasman Island Lighthouse

——

Note: Special shout out to our Airbnb in Sheffield, it was beautiful, sustainable, and our host was lovely. 

Japan: A delightful contradiction

I stumble up a narrow flight of stairs and pour onto the street, leaving a trail of soft jazz and the smells of a hot kitchen behind me.

A thousand neon signs of Akihabara and the cold, biting air shake me out of what I can only describe as a slight haziness; a stupor induced by the best roast beef I’ve ever tasted. We’ve just eaten at Roast Beef Ohno, a tiny restaurant in a basement in Akihabara, and it was the first time in my life I’ve felt transported to a different plane through my taste buds.

In our too-short ten day exploration of the country, I try to follow my gut (my instinct and my stomach), ceding control of my palette to Japan so I can experience as many flavours, textures and fragrances as it physically can.

A day and a train ride later, we are strolling down the crowded streets of Nishiki Market in Kyoto. While Tokyo today houses 13M people and has occupied the title of Japan’s biggest city for most of the 20^th and 21^st centuries, Kyoto is the old capital of the country. You can feel that in the sway of the obis on the back of women’s kimonos, and the way men and women shuffle along the streets comfortably in their high-platformed wooden slippers.

Irasshaimase!

Welcome!

It feels like our entire trip is made up of echos of that phrase, playing on loop as we eat, and eat, and eat.

We taste the most refreshing and flavourful broth, chew on soft mochi squares flavoured with the famous Uji matcha, munch on a delightful melon pan with ice cream, experience our first Sukiyaki meal at Moritaya, delightfully roast (along with our wagyu beef) at a teppanyaki grill, bite into a perfectly crunchy tempura egg, and feast on the most lavish and traditional Kaiseki dinner at Gion Suetomo.

In a nondescript restaurant just outside Nishiki, my carnivorous husband looks at me quizzically as I order the hot vegetarian soba, served with the most delightfully confusing tofu; crisp, light and crunchy on the outside and somehow soft and pillowy on the inside.

What?

Tofu is a specialty in Kyoto.

He smiles and happily digs into his soba served with red herring, obliging the proprietors of the restaurant with a giant slurp.

As we walk through the seemingly endless torii or gates of Fushimi Inari, the twilight casts the place with a unique orange hue that’s absent in the bright red pictures we’ve seen in our guidebook. We are acutely aware of the centuries of culture and faith the country is steeped in.

In this way, Japan is in a perpetual push and pull, a steady contradiction with itself.

The next morning, we torpedo towards Tokyo in a bullet train traveling at 320 kms/hour, and later find ourselves in high-end Ometosandu, surrounded by glass buildings and trendy stores, seemingly physically lifted from Champs Elysses and repositioned in Tokyo.

Shinjuku’s tiny by-lanes and the Golden Gai are crowded, packed and somehow never messy. There’s a strange familiarity to the street-food culture, and yet, as we watch the locals politely knock and enter one of the tiny restaurants it’s as if everyone knows a secret code we’re not privy to. The Japanese are welcoming, helpful, polite and simultaneously the language, signs, culture can at times feel like an effort to make it difficult for foreigners to live in their country.

Our last meal in Japan perfectly sums up our experience in the country. A friend (and chef) recommended Tatemichiya, and we are not disappointed. In a nation of hierarchy, strict protocol, and careful customs, we climb into another basement, this time in Daikanyama and enter a vortex of yet another seeming contradiction — Japanese punk.

Japan is full of endless mysteries, and much like the last scene of the Hollywood film set in Tokyo, Lost in Translation — one journey or a single story is not enough. We’ll have to return to dig into its secrets, its contradictions and of course, one more bowl of ramen.

We’re not in Kansas anymore

I sit on a bench in Place Phillip soaking in the rays, as a flock of pigeons settle near me. I fork together a perfect bite of my salad; avocados from California, goats cheese from Quebec, chickpeas with Moroccan spices, sun-dried tomatoes inspired by Italian cuisine. A brass statue of King Edward VII bakes in the sun with me. A close friend to France, this Emperor of India “ruled” over my home country for nine long years. And now here an Indian sits at the base of this statue in French Canada, visiting for nine short days.

In the many neighbourhoods I’ve walked through in Toronto and Montreal, I see the same thriving multiculturalism that I taste in my salad. I meet an old colleague and friend for lunch in Greektown in Toronto, three days after a mass shooting tears apart the neighbourhood.

The Danforth mass shooting claimed three lives, two girls and the shooter himself on July 22nd.

She looks at me, as we fill ourselves with amazing Greek food at Mezes.

It is important to support the local community and show up.

I’m proud of her for standing for local elections on a platform of equality and dignity for all.

We drive past McGill university with our Uber blaring the latest Wizkid. Respecting this diversity is not easy. Communities in Canada coexist with a degree of harmony and sense of respect for each other I haven’t experienced elsewhere. Montreal is not only for French Canadians, but French (and English) speaking immigrants from around the world, and unlike in France, they’ll speak to you in French in spite of the colour of your skin.

The xenophobia unravelling the fabric of American society every day now, is taking place across a border only a short drive away, and yet is so distant from the attitudes of people in Canada. We eat at a restaurant inspired by indigenous foods called Manitoba and Asian food at Sabai Sabai, or Mexican fare at Grand Electric – they are all equally authentic and equally spectacular.  

Amazing cupcakes at Bobbette & Bell on Queen Street East, Toronto.

At a close friend’s wedding that weekend outside Montreal, I take a minute to look at my friends fiercely dancing around me. Australian, American, Colombian, Sri Lankan, Turkish, Saudi Arabian, English, Kenyan, we all feel equally at home, celebrating our Canadian friend’s wedding to her Kansas husband dancing to funk. We are like Dorothy, ready for an adventure with the click of her heels, ready to make new friends, and learn new things.

My spectacularly beautiful friends.

My first day in Toronto, I jump into a car as I head over to my friend’s home. She’s an Indian, married to Japanese-Canadian, and their daughter is beautiful. I always find some of my most insightful conversations take place in cars — perhaps because you have nowhere to go and so you take the time to actually talk. This car smells faintly of Indian spices. I talk to my driver.

I’m from Ludhiana, Punjab, but been in Canada for thirteen years.

He asks me about my background.

My parents are from different parts of the country, my husband is Punjabi.

I see his smile in the rear-view mirror.

Mixed! It is good – good to learn from others and good to teach them too.

Whether it is the country’s progressive immigration policies, or whether it is woven into the moral fabric of society, Canadians seem to respect this principle — diversity teaches us, and helps us learn at the same time.

 

The beautiful Toronto skyline from the ferry to Billy Bishop airport.

India to Indonesia

We’re chugging along in a public ferry across the blue Bali sea. I can feel the salt crust on the bottoms of my jeans and roll them up to my shins. I look out towards the Gili islands and the humidity hits me in the face. I breathe in the ocean. The woman across from me grips on to a cardboard box resting in her lap, while a little girl plays with her knotted hair. The ferry is mostly used for fisherman and locals traveling from Lombok to Bali, carrying their supplies to sell. My fiance rests on his haunches on the wooden plank besides me, wearing a smile on his face.

We’ve been traveling across Indonesia for the last six days and have five more days to do justice to this incredible country. We started our journey in Jakarta. The capital of Indonesia is nestled in a bay on the north west coast of the island of Java. Looking around at the skyscrapers, beautifully maintained roads and giant shopping complexes, you could be anywhere in the western world. We were warned about the traffic, but didn’t think to heed the warning until we had sat stationary in a bus for what felt like an eternity.

Jakarta is a vibrant city, and the city expresses itself through its many diverse neighbourhoods, textures and perhaps most importantly, flavours. We sample avocado coffee at Kedai Seni Djakarte, sip on hot Bakso from street vendors, munch on crunchy Gorengan while navigating Fatahillah square, and feast our eyes and stomachs on Padang cuisine at the famous Garuda Restaurant. And we are never disappointed.

The famous avocado coffee

Padang meal at Garuda Restaurant

After three days of gorging in Jakarta, we journey to East Java, ready to ascend Mount Bromo, an active volcano — one of many inhabiting the 17,500 islands of Indonesia.

Mount Bromo at sunrise

Driving through the green hills of East Java, the scenery reminds me of India. Rarely in my travels do I come across a country whose diversity reminds me of the depth and breadth of what we are privileged to experience back home. Indonesia is one rare example. From the chaos of Jakarta’s streets to the ashen, desert landscape of Bromo, from the green pastures outside Ubud, to the crystal waters surrounding the islands of Gili — the sights, sounds and smells of Indonesia are as plentiful as the islands that make up the country.

Yet, as diverse as the landscape is, I learn just how diverse the people are. While a majority of the country’s population is Islamic; Bali relishes its Hindu roots, while Kalimantan, Papua and Sulawesi have retained the missionaries’ Christianity; add to that the smaller Buddhist and Confucian populations in the country. These six official religions in Indonesia mirror the six official religions of India.

This diversity is also visible in the beautiful faces you see. Much like India, you can find a multitude of facial features, colours and shapes when you manoeuvre a crowded Jakarta mall, ride the public bus in Surabaya, or sit on a boat crossing the Bali sea.

It was no wonder then that our Indian dive master found his way to the islands of Indonesia. We’ve just finished our first dive, and seen some ancient sea turtles. We are ecstatic. He tells us his story as we bump along the choppy waters near the island of Gili Trawangen.

I’ve been here three years now. Left the Andaman and Nicobar islands where I was teaching people to dive, and just sort of drifted east to Gili. Something just keeps me here. I can’t put my finger on it, but it just feels right — familiar.

 

Where We’re From

Guess where I’m from?

West Africa?

Yes, but where?

I list out the countries that I can remember off the top of my head – Ghana, Nigeria, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Sierra Leone – I’m running out of countries…

Something with B… he offers, and then finally — Burkina Faso.

I had managed to engage my taxi driver on the way to JFK in an intense conversation about life in Burkina Faso, and his dreams.

Life here is difficult. But it’s easier than being back home. My son doesn’t want to study or get a good job. I try and tell him – I’m not a taxi driver for nothing, you know what I’m saying? I want to make his life better.

That guy and eight million other people.

My entire time living in New York I lived in Morningside Heights in Manhattan; a neighbourhood wedged between the richer, mostly white area of the Upper West Side, and the significantly more African American neighbourhood of Harlem. A block, which was close enough to Columbia University that it teemed with freshman in the late summer, and distant enough that Dominicans unabashedly swayed to the Bachata blaring out off a portable stereo system, propped up on the sidewalk.

We lived in number 201, on West 108^th Street. The building we lived in was old. Our hallway smelled of different things. Sometimes wet dog, sometimes Southern roast chicken or garlic, sometimes smoke – when the kids in the apartment next door were cooking – and most often an odour that I can’t define as anything other than signature 201.

We sometimes met our neighbours, but most of our building-related conversation was on Google Translate, deciphering what our Superintendent Miguel meant when he mumbled something at us in the hallway.

Our Dominican laundromat was down the street, located just before the Japanese Ramen place, next to the French bakery, past the Mexican food hole-in-the-wall, across from the Ethiopian restaurant. Hola, gracias, per fervor, were the three Spanish words I learned when I interacted with the lady who every two Sundays handed my folded laundry back to me. She would prop her glasses on the edge of her nose and take my laundry bag from me, with a scowl on her face, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. I never learned what she disapproved of – but I came to expect it. She probably came to New York from the Dominican Republic to make her son’s life better too.

Two blocks down and an avenue across, was our grocery store. The young cashier once looked at me and complimented me on my earrings.

Are you from Mali?

No, India.

(I knew why she asked. I had bought my earrings from Nairobi but they were made in Mali)

Oh, cool! You look like you could be from Northern Mali, you know?

That wasn’t the reason I expected.

Walking up Broadway and turning right at the the corner of 112^th street, St. John’s cathedral’s giant, gorgeous rose window would arch above you, blocking the blue. My favourite bookshop, which I sometimes visited as a pretend student is here.

I often ran past this street, and straight down to the Hudson River. Riverside Park transformed four times a year. Pink, blue, yellow, teeming with life in the Spring; lush grass covered with blankets and sunbathing-students in the Summer; muddy, red and brown, with just the kind of leaves you want to crunch through in the Fall, and smooth, white with faultless snow in the Winter.

 

Further up north, when I visited my friends up in Washington Heights hookahs took over the park. Summers were made of friends-like-family barbeques, Turkish meatballs, tomato-feta-walnut salad, and a hidden bottle of White Girl Rosé. Summer and my hair smelled of grilling smoke and charcoal, and felt like a mild drunken stupor.

When I craved my West African dance hall fix – which I often did – I would head uptown. On 134^th and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd, The Shrine was African-ness. Nigerian beats, Congolese crooners, Senegalese melodies and a beer was an equation for a very sweaty heaving mess of bodies, bumping against each other, swaying to the DJ who was guaranteed to play three songs – Aye, Caro, Skelewu – and a bonus, Kukere if you were lucky.

Where you off to?

Back home – to Mumbai.

For a break?

Actually, no – I’m moving back for good.

Oh, no way! Good for you.

I think so, but I’ll miss this home too.

I turn back to see the tiny buildings disappearing behind me – NYC gave me what it could. It’s time to move on.

One more come and gone — the city takes another breath.

A Vietnam in Transition

We are not communist any more!

My scooter driver answers my question as we hurtle into on-coming traffic. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily, only to open them to an old woman whizzing by on my right. She navigates traffic, maneuvering the baskets overflowing with flowers that are hung from her shoulders – a deft dance of balance.

We are driving along the banks of West Lake in Hanoi, on our way to Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum. The cool December wind pricks my eyes, and I squint, even though the sun is hidden behind clouds. I think about what he said.

On the one hand, he’s right – Hanoi’s streets are teeming with shops, stores and entrepreneurial cafes, shopkeepers yelling after you to buy their wares, screaming in the voice of the free market. And yet, grey loudspeakers that are bound to street poles, bellow instructions, khaki-clad army men march around Ho Chi Minh’s intimidating mausoleum, and Twitter among other websites is inaccessible.

We drive over a bump and my scarf whips out from under me, a streak of purple against the sky. I reach out to catch it, nearly whacking the driver on the scooter next to me in my effort.

I wince. Sorry!

He’s un-phased.

Amidst the hustle of the streets and the bustle of the markets, Vietnam’s rural, less traversed areas call out; blades of rice paddy trembling with the wind, whispering their calm. Our trip to Ha Long Bay the next day takes us by these sights. Rural Vietnam offers a slice of history with vistas that have unchanged since the War.

Ha Long Bay itself is beautiful, giant limestone mountains emerge from the ocean, footprints of a maze below sea level, though it’s unfortunately overrun by tourists.

After a day in Ha Long, we make our way to Ho Chi Minh City, the commercial capital of the country. Tall buildings, wide open streets, a chain of Starbucks-like Highlands coffee, and a relentless sun greet us. If Hanoi is all about street food, Ho Chi Minh caters to the finer palette. We eat a simple meal bursting with flavor at Cục Gạch Quán, a restaurant created to, as one review puts it, “bring back to the modern city a slice of the old countryside.” This transition is all around.

————-

I feel the scooter slowing down and the driver pops it up on to the pavement. By now, my second day in Hanoi, I’ve grown accustomed to the arbitrary driving on the sidewalk. It almost feels normal.

Let’s go! I’ll take you to have Egg Coffee.

I step into a dark alleyway, and am greeted by the sound of a thousand eggbeaters, whipping air into yolks; soft, pale yellow clouds rising from steel bowls, that will later be mixed with condensed milk and a shot of Vietnamese coffee. I climb a wooden staircase and settle myself onto a short stool, placed in front of a rickety table at Giang Café. A sign, ‘Free Wi-Fi available’ is plastered on the wall next to me.

I look around me as I sip my Egg Coffee. Young girls and boys take selfies in groups, showing each other their results, some are sitting by themselves, with their noses buried in kindles, and others are playing games on their smartphones. I realize this is what everyday Vietnam looks like.

Whether it’s cruising along Ha Long Bay, strolling down trendy Dong Khoi in Saigon, or sipping egg coffee in an attic in Hanoi, Vietnam is in a state of transition. You can feel it shed its gory history – its collective memory clotting around a deep wound caused by the United States. It is a young country, filled with aspiration; a frenetic movement representative in the ocean of two-wheelers that wash over the streets.

The country’s social tectonic plates are shifting as the country tries to reconcile a brutal past with a bright future. It’s memories, culture and cuisine are still strong, and you can see glimpses of what it will become.

As the plane takes off from Ho Chi Minh City, and flies towards the Indian subcontinent, I reflect, amazed to witness a country experiencing that shift – shedding elements of its communist past, for indeed, a different future.

 

End Note: If you want to read more about Vietnam, here are a few articles I recommend – How Young Vietnamese View the Vietnam War, Vietnam’s Quiet Anniversary, Hanoi Last Minute and Cruising to Nirvana in Ha Long Bay.  

Les Personnes des Medellín

Tu parle Francaise?

I don’t think I have ever been happier to hear French. I strapped on my seat belt in the car, and before I knew it, a language I hadn’t spoken for 7 years was tumbling out of my mouth, grammatically incorrect, and with urgency. Traveling in Colombia has been amazing, but not knowing Spanish is a barrier. It had been a while since I had a conversation with a local – perhaps one of my favourite things about traveling.

For everything else, Medellín does not disappoint.

This city smells of home, like a drive down to a familiar neighbourhood in Mumbai. And much like my home city, Medellín is constructed on a foundation of juxtapositions – nestled in the Aburrá valley, the city is surrounded on either side by majestic mountains that reflect these contrasts. Peaks and troughs, rich and poor, old and new, the city is bustling with energy, struggling to break free from its stereotype, scrambling to establish itself as Colombia’s grandest metropolis.

The history of Medellín is dark, long and challenging – and its remnants have been scraped clean – pasted over with posters shouting “Nuestra Nueva Medellín” (Our new Medellín), trampled over by the tracks of a shiny new Metro, cast away by gracious smiles, hugs and plentiful Hola’s of paisas, or Medellín residents.

We arrive in Medellín in time for the Feria de las Flores, the annual festival of flowers, where the city becomes a mecca for florists and flower-enthusiasts alike. The road from the airport is high, arching, criss-crossing a range, descending steeply into the wide, undulating spread of the city. We spend the day exploring El Poblado, an upscale community filled with expats, cafés, restaurants and boutiques. The streets are almost vertical, green, leafy and lined with cobblestone pavements. We stop by Verdeo, an all-vegetarian restaurant that smells faintly of Brooklyn.

We also explore El Centro, the center, hopping on to the Metro from El Poblado and taking it up to Berrío Parque. The city’s Metro is a source of pride for Paisa’s – as one proud Paisa told me:

There’s no Metro in Bogota, heh?

Understanding the drive of the people of Medellín is integral to understanding the city. It’s no coincidence that Colombia’s largest companies, like the nation’s largest bank, BanColombia and the infrastructure conglomerate, Grupo Argos are from Medellín, or that the city has a large number of diverse, innovative restaurants offering up different cuisines.

Plaza Botero in el centro offers passers-by a large number of Botero statues to admire, Palacio Nacional is a large, old, forgotten government structure, now completely dedicated to the selling of tennis shoes, and Plaza Mayor provides tourists an opportunity to soak in culture, concerts or shopping – depending on what the city has to display that weekend. We venture to the north of the city, to explore the Botanical Gardens and Explora, the city’s science park.

Just before we have to depart for our flight we decide to sample what is reputed as one of Parque Lleras’ best cafes. The café smells of morning – butter croissants and piping hot coffee. A dog wanders over with a wagging tail for a pet on the head and a scratch on his nose. An old man, lined with age and the sun, selling beautiful flowers arranged with care on a metal tray walks by and offers a toothless grin.

Hola chica!

I wave over at him. In my three days at Medellín I’ve somehow crossed paths with him on the same street every day. As he does everyday, he motions to his tray to ask if I’d like to buy his flowers. I shrug my shoulders, indicating not today, maybe tomorrow?

Les personnes a Medellín sommes tres jolie, no?

I can only nod in agreement, as beautiful sites of the city streak past me.

The people of Medellín are a special breed – blood pumping with hustle, enterprise, love and curiosity, muscles imprinted with the memory of the past, yet bursting with a desire to transform, rebuild and survive.

I think of the streets of Mumbai.

No wonder Medellín reminds me of home.

Here’s a little video of my Colombia adventures.

Land of Enchantment

A gentle breeze brings relief as the propane heats the air above us, taking us higher. I cling to the edge, looking down and under me. The Rio Grande flows serenely, snaking past roads while tiny cars make their way in the bright light of dawn. I look above, and see the billowing red, white and blue of the balloon stretching, extending as if to touch the clouds, while the sun teases us, rising steadily beyond the Sandia.

They don’t call New Mexico the land of enchantment for nothing.

It’s our first morning in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My mother is visiting from India, and I decided to bring her to New Mexico. It’s definitely off the beaten track for most Indians, but after seeing pictures, I’m convinced it’s the place to go.

The city of Albuquerque is old, though not quite as old as Santa Fé, which we also visit. Both cities have roots aging back to the Spanish invasion of the region from the south, though the Native American roots are deeper and longer. Albuquerque’s old town is charming, with its old church and Spanish-style plaza, while freshly stuccoed to welcome tourists. We make a day of exploring the city, though wish we had a car to drive us around.

The next morning we hop on to the Rail Runner to Santa Fe.

The train journey is magical. Rough, hardened terrain whips by only to reveal rolling green pastures with wild horses. We arrive in Santa Fé in a little under two hours. We barely step off the train and are instantaneously charmed. We allow ourselves to sink into Santa Fé’s quiet old streets, squares, adobe houses and colors; ochre, fuchsia, turquoise, coral. We visit the farmer’s market, stroll by the countless art stores on Canyon road, and sip on decadent hot cocoa at Kakawa Chocolate House.

Craving spice and food a little closer to home, we make our way to Jambo Café, where I enjoy a peanut and coconut chicken stew with rice and a good old Tusker beer, while making conversation with our Kenyan waiter from Lamu.

The next day, we decide to take a jeep tour out into the Dome – the dormant volcano, or calderra on which Santa Fé is built. The four-wheel drive jumps across the path, while our driver narrates the history of the mountains and the rivers that have carved ancient paths into the rock.

On our last day in Santa Fé, we have a great breakfast at Tia Sophia and find ourselves seated next to a regular, Woody Galloway, a local artist and photographer. He shows us his photographs:

This one is called Blue Angel. I just saw her in the water and knew I had to capture her.

He shows us a photograph of a river; the sun, shadows and reflections creating a v-shape that resembles a wild, embracing wing-span in the water.

I just try to remember to breathe, he says. To take life in. To feel worthy.

Those words stick to me. New Mexico has that feeling about it. I feel alive — fortunate to visit this beautiful part of the country and experience its enchantment. I think back to our hot air balloon ride.

Bend your knees, hold on to the ropes and brace yourselves!

The hot air balloon lands with a soft bump in an open field. I breathe.

Austin, Texas

They say life’s experiences are relative.

Well, that is definitely true of the rain. It’s Memorial Day weekend and we are in Austin, Texas. We would later find out that more than 40 people died during the weekend with some of the worst flooding in Texas in several years. But for two girls from Bombay, it was just another monsoon day.

The rain is pelting down as we run for cover into a dark, wooden shed. I’ve never been to Texas, but know this shed screams with southern attitude. Men in cowboy hats and women in knee high cowboy boots swirl across the dance floor as a band stomps their feet and the fiddle belts out a tune.

I grip my beer with delight as the red stage lights up the dance floor. An older man makes his way through the crowd, and unabashedly grabs my friend’s hand.

Where are you from?

New York city.

Now my dear, if this was the W hotel in Manhattan, I would be asked to leave – but in Texas, when a man asks you to dance – all he wants is to dance! Come on!

My friend looks over at me and I wink at her as she gets swept onto the dance floor.

This was Austin. I still have the list of recommendations Polly from the jewelry store scratched onto a torn piece of paper, remember the debate with the chatty Punjabi cab driver about his son’s medical school admissions and the questions from the curious, engaging waitress at the Driskill.

The countless other words we exchanged with Austinites remain as fragments, pieces of an Austin-shaped puzzle. Despite the wet weekend, it’s these words that keep us warm.

And the food may have something to do with it too. No other American city quite rivals Austin for its many food trucks; we gorge at the legendary Gourdough’s, and East Side Kings. But we also give the traditional, more stationary restaurant a try – South Congress Café, Banger’s on Rainey Street, the exceptional vegetarian food at Bouldin Creek Café and drown in the syrup and fluffy french toast at Halcyon. The rainy weather means we catch a movie at the Alamo Draft House – ironically a story about two young kids in Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

We welcome the slightly sunnier skies with open arms on our second day in Austin. We walk down East 6th street and soak in the neighborhood, what feels like an edgier, more raw, hip Brooklyn. We stroll to Zilker Park making our way on the South 1st street bridge, bike around an engorged Barton Springs and stop by the first ever Whole Foods on Lamar.  Uber is surprisingly cheap in Austin, especially having previously used it only in San Francisco and New York and is the most convenient way to get around.

It’s our third day in Austin and we decide to visit South Congress Avenue and South First Street’s many vintage stores. As we hop from shop to shop trying out funny hats and funny chats, the thunder crackles above us and suddenly the clouds tear apart – we use the opportunity to kick back in Allen’s Boots (forgive the pun) and catch a glimpse of a first-edition Passage to India by E.M. Forster with the friendly folks in South Congress Books. Hard to believe our trip is almost done.

As an Indian traveling in the U.S. – and especially the South – one can feel out of place, but that wasn’t true of Austin. Despite the multiple flash floods, tornado warnings and normalizing blaring AMBER alerts on our iPhones, Austin’s people, food, music and magic stand out to me. The city’s vibrancy, laid-back and yet tattoo’ed attitude need to be experienced – though may be wait for a sunny day.

History in Savannah

Oh. My. God. I love your accent! You sound just like the Indian girl from Bend It Like Beckham!

The lady stumbles out of the pub, grabs my hand and pulls me into a hug. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for balancing the plastic cup of beer without a spill.

We were walking down the midnight streets of Savannah on a joyfully named “Boos and Brews” ghost pub-crawl. I had learned just that morning, as we arrived at our Airbnb house, north of the old town, that Savannah revels in being the most ghostly city in the United States.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

Savannah is an old town. Wispy Spanish moss drapes off trees just shy of kissing the earth, the squares in old town are surrounded by large mansions that seem to creak and heave with ancient stories and the people smile with their Southern charm and hospitality, reminiscent of a different time. It’s easy to imagine yourself sitting by Forrest Gump on Chippeva square. Life is like a box of chocolates.

Heavy from the night’s revelries, we make our way to Foxy Loxy for a bite to eat. We wander past the famous Forsythe Park, the location reminding me of a tiny version of Central Park. As the city yawned, sprawling northward, planners decided to save a little sanctuary for people to savor – carving out a rectangle of green.

We stroll across the old town and walk by the river, reaching Huey’s. It is the first time I have beignets; doughnut-like-and-yet-crispy pastry squares covered in a sugary snow.

We decide to explore Savannah’s haunted side a little more and rent bikes to cycle along the tiny streets of downtown Savannah to Bonaventure Cemetery. We depart in the evening light. As we pull closer to the grounds, not knowing what to expect, we are surprised by the scale and magnitude of the cemetery. Once again, I am reminded of age – graves lie side by side, front and back, remainders of the lives that have come before us.

And yet despite this being a cemetery, a place of grief and loss, I find words by John Muir describe what I find to be true: 

I gazed awe-stricken as one new-arrived from another world. Bonaventure is called a graveyard, a town of the dead, but the few graves are powerless in such a depth of life. The rippling of living waters, the song of birds, the joyous confidence of flowers, the calm, undisturbable grandeur of the oaks, mark this place of graves as one of the Lord’s most favored abodes of life and light.

Indeed, birth is as much a part of history as death.

It is a weekend full of history. The next day is Martin Luther King Jr. day, and we are after all in Georgia, his home state. We join a parade, marching for MLK just as those marched before us; black, white, friend, foe, liberal, conservative – we all march together, somber, celebratory, proud and eager for what is to come – fragments of a history soaked into the streets of Savannah.