Cows, Caste and Curry

“There’s too much traffic in Delhi,” says our driver, Sunil, who we hired for a four-day tour of northern India—just before jerking the wheel to narrowly miss a cow wandering the crowded city streets. “Everything is too much in Delhi.”

With over one billion people (and about 200 million cows), it’s easy to experience sensory overload. The air smells of both incense and body odor; monkeys and dogs mark their territory atop piles of trash; women adorn themselves with ruby and topaz-colored saris; horns honk incessantly and the moist heat makes staying dry an almost impossible feat. Despite all the commotion, The Lost Girls noticed three common threads tying the vast subcontinent together: faith, family and food.

It Takes All Kinds
For those thirsty for spirituality, India is a holy mecca. Proof that religion infuses daily life is revealed by the plethora of household shrines, street stalls selling flower garlands for prayer offerings and a hodgepodge of temples, mosques, ashrams and churches.

Although over 80 percent of people are Hindu, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Jains and Jews also make up the spiritual landscape. When I asked our driver Sunil about his religion, he responded, “I am Hindi, Muslim and Buddhist — God is found in all beliefs.”

As if to prove his point, he insisted on driving us to the lotus-shaped sanctuary called the Baha’i House of Worship where all religions are celebrated. When Sunil let us off to explore, I was instructed by a guard to remove my shoes before entering the enormous prayer hall. The silence inside was thick and peaceful as I joined the crowd to sit on a cool marble bench and offered up a little gratitude.


Pay it Forward
Old school Hinduism meant you were born into a social class, or caste. Though outlawed today, the class categories still form the foundation of Indian society. It’s believed that the way to graduate to a higher caste is to keep your morals in check and do lots of good deeds. Eventually you’ll build up enough good karma to be born into a higher caste in your next lifetime.




The fact that most Indians still have arranged marriages is proof the caste system lives on. After all, an important consideration of parents looking for a mate for their child is equal caste. Sunil’s parents, for example, arranged his marriage by finding a woman who, like him, was a member of the highest caste known as Brahmin.

When Sunil, 28, ties the knot with his 25-year-old bride this March, he says the elaborate wedding celebration will last four days and he’ll have over two dozen costume changes. This is when he’ll meet his wife-to-be in person for the very first time.

I asked Sunil whether arranged or love marriages are better and he replied, “Both are good, but an arranged marriage is much more successful.” His reasoning? “If you defy your parents and marry for love, they’ll cut you off from the family’s funds, leaving you with nothing.” He explains the pressure this puts on relationships makes it likelier to end in divorce. He admitted to having a love relationship in college, but said his parents made him break it off. “If I stayed with her, I would inherit nothing.”


Some Like it Hot
It’s not just India’s humid climate that’ll make you sweat: Spices are a cooking staple. Tumeric, coriander, cumin, cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom are a few popular flavor boosters. Sunil tells us most people eat meals in their homes, and often grab snacks from street carts and stalls selling goodies such as bhaja (vegetable fritters) and vadai (spicy doughnuts).

When eating in Indian restaurants, touching food with your left hand is a dining faux pas (that’s the hand reserved for certain bathroom duties). However, it’s perfectly OK to skip the utensils and eat with your right hand.

The subcontinent is a haven for vegetarians, since we’re told Hindu’s peaceful practices don’t make for a lot of meat eaters. Though restaurants displaying “nonveg” often serve chicken and eggs, hamburger-lovers will be hard up for beef because cows are considered sacred. Eating local Indian cuisine is a fast way to get a taste of the culture: Intense, spicy and truly unique.
HCC

The Lost Girl of the Week: Mallika Khuansathavoranit

Age: 25
Currently living in: Tarragona, Spain

Mallika originally hails from Bangkok, Thailand but now lives in Spain. Her love of travel and adventure most likely burst forth during her childhood -- during a six-year stay in the United States, she travelled extensively around North America with her parents. Her father, on impulse, once took them to Niagra Falls and drove all the way to Quebec before heading home. (They would've taken a road trip to Alaska, but her mother put her foot down and nixed that idea.) After returning to Thailand, graduating from university, and entering into the corporate rat-race, Mallika took time to travel around the country as well as to Malaysia, China, Hong Kong, and Macau. In September 2005, she relocated to Tarragona, Spain and now lives there with Ricardo, her husband, and two cats. Besides wanting to conquer the entire Iberian peninsula, her future travel plans see her taking jaunts all around Europe as well as visiting Mongolia and Japan.

Check out her mini-guide to Thailand:
[Note: Wat (pronounced "what") is the Thai word for temple.]

NORTH
Chiang Mai is a beautiful, mountainous region with softer-spoken Thais than in Bangkok. One of the places to go would be Doi Suthep ("doi su-tep"), a mountain that features the famous Wat Prathat Doi Suthep at the top. I've been there with my family, and it's a beautiful place. There is also the spectacular Queen Sirikit Botanical Gardens, which is a must-see. Here's a good link to various other sightseeing spots in the region: http://www.chiangmainews.com/sightseeing/details.php?id=15

A great activity to do in Chiang Mai is to take part in a Thai cooking class. From what my (foreign) friends have told me, it's extremely fun -- plus you get to show off some new culinary dishes back home. There are almost 20 cooking schools in Chiang Mai. My friends decided to go with a place called "A Lot of Thai" and they loved it. It's one of the smaller schools, and a day's tuition costs 800 baht (US$20). This includes the use of all utensils and buying all the ingredients (the teacher takes you to the market to buy them, teaching you how to identify the various ingredients so you'll be able to pick them up yourself when you're at an Asian supermarket back in the States, for example). Here're some links with regards to cooking classes: http://www.enjoythaifood.com/thaicookingcourses/a_lot_of_thai.php and http://www.alotofthai.com/

SOUTH
Beaches, beaches, beaches. Should you go south, you have to go to one of the many islands around the Andaman Sea or in the Gulf of Thailand. Not to be macabre, but the places where the tsunami hit in Dec. 2004 were some of the most beautiful in Thailand. From my own personal experiences I would recommend Koh Samui, Koh Phang-ngan, Koh Tarutao, and any of the Phi Phi islands. (Koh -- pronounced like GO, but with a very short O sound -- is the Thai word for island.)

AROUND THE CENTER
Ayudthaya (also spelled Ayudhya) -- Definitely one of the good places to go. Once the capital of the Kingdom of Siam, it was ransacked and burned by the Burmese but still retains its former golden splendor. There's a lot of history here and a lot of things to sight-see.

More information about other places to go, such as Kanchanaburi (the location of the bridge over the River Kwai) and Lopburi (home to many monuments and a large number of monkeys), can be found at this particular website: http://www.thaitravel.info/

BANGKOK
Known in Thai as Krung Thep (which means "city of angels"), Bangkok is famous for its blend of old and new -- temples that are hundreds of years old stand within the same neighborhood as modern office buildings, for example. It's also infamous for its traffic, unfortunately. Lots of cars means lots of exhaust, and although it's barely noticeable to us, everyone I know who's from a different country has commented on it. It won't pour acid rain, but the pollution and traffic are probably more than what some people are used to. In addition, contrary to some cities around the world (especially those in Europe), Bangkok isn't really made for walking -- the heat as well as the less-than-nice sidewalks are not inducive to such an activity. It's much better to get a taxi, as they are dirt cheap: traveling 10 kilometers, including some traffic, would cost you about 80 baht (US$2).

One thing I have to definitely point out is to be careful when crossing the street. In Bangkok, automobiles are king. Always take a pedestrian bridge if you see one. If not, cross at zebra crossings -- and don't take a leisurely walk whilst doing so either, because you'll either get honked at by annoyed drivers (and cause a car accident because they're stopping for you) or get run over by an over-zealous bus driver. I myself tend to take quick strides or out-and-out run. (This doesn't apply to zebra crossings that are at intersections where you can see that traffic lights are red, of course, but here too you should not be too quick to trust the you-can-walk-now green light for pedestrians. Always check for cars trying to speed through a red light.)

Because the city never seems to sleep, at any time of the day or night you could get a new pair of shoes or satisfy your hunger pangs for whatever kind of food you want to eat. Restaurants are open all day and well into the night, and most never close at any point during the day. Food vendors line every street. Turn a corner and there you are running into someone selling fresh fruit, while a few steps away there's a vendor offering Thai snacks next to a street-side food stall, with small tables set up to make you a more substantial meal — noodles with roast duck, anyone? Department stores, ranging from the older, smaller buildings to huge complexes that comprise seven floors (plus a basement for a sprawling supermarket and food court), open from around 10:30am to 9pm. In addition, quite a few of the numerous mom-and-pop stores open until midnight, not to mention the 24-hour convenience stores that are always on standby to meet your needs.

Some places to go for sight-seeing that come to mind:
There's a reason that pretty much every guide book and tour owner places the Grand Palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha (Wat Pra Kaew) as two of the places you just have to see when you're in Bangkok. They are beautiful places, and even locals go there often (you'll find that the ratio of locals to foreigners is about 65:35). Nearby is Wat Po, which houses a huge reclining Buddha. Another place to go to would be the Temple of Dawn (Wat Arun) -- beautiful place that looks even more spectacular at night.

Places to go for shopping:
Chatuchak (pronounced "juh-to-juk") weekend market -- largest outdoor market in Asia, or so they say. You can find anything, and I do mean pretty much anything, here at a pretty good price. It's an open-air market that spans a huge area (I don't remember how big) and has maybe 9,000 individual shops and sellers. It's only open during the weekend (although some shops do open on Friday). Comfy shoes are a good thing when you go. Also, be prepared to get lost. (I don't think I've ever -not- gotten lost, and I've gone to Chatuchak a hundred times).

Yaowarat (pronounced "yow-wa-raht") -- Bangkok's Chinatown, which is definitely not sleazy or in any way unsafe. There are lots and lots of shops here and in nearby Sampheng ("sum-peng") that sell a whole range of things, from appliances to fabrics to hair accessories to stickers and gifts.

Siam Square and Maboonkrong (pronounced "mah-boon-krong"), also known as MBK -- This is where one of the major shopping districts in Bangkok is located. (Siam Square is both the name of the area as well as the name of the shopping mall located there.) You can find clothes, shoes, accessories, and all sorts of brand-name stuff here. Near Siam Square is the newly-opened Siam Paragon, which is full of expensive brand-name shops and even has some kind of underwater aquarium (like a miniature sea world or something) inside. [Note: Siam Paragon opened after I had already left for Spain, so I've never been in there personally.]

One thing to note is that Maboonkrong is a great place to get Thai-style gifts and stuff for people. Although other places are probably cheaper, you will be able to walk around in air-conditioned comfort and pick and choose stuff from here. (Before moving to Spain, I went to MBK to get all my Thai gifts. Most of the sellers are on the 3rd floor, I think. I am not sure.) Tiny silk purses, silk scarves, candlebras, wooden figurines, small statuettes, Thai-style clothes, pillow cases, and all manner of Thai stuff is here. You could spend the whole day in the Siam Square area (and in nearby Ratchaprasong, where there is Central World Plaza, Gaysorn Plaza, etc.) and shop your heart out for anything and everything.

Other shopping malls that I frequent that could be worth a trip if you decide to spend a day just shopping include Central Ladprao, The Mall Bangkapi, and The Emporium. If you're at Siam Square, you can take the sky train to The Emporium, which is kind of a combination of brand-name shops as well as an upscale department store. One of the attractions would be the huge Kinokuniya bookstore located on the 3rd floor.

In regards to food:
If you feel adventurous and comfortable enough, I have to tell you that the street vendors make the yummiest foods and snacks in Bangkok. Some people are horrified by the idea, thinking of it as unsanitary, but believe me -- you will be fine. Give it a try, even if just once. Here's an album of Thai food: http://www.enjoythaifood.com/photoalbum/

A couple of restaurants you should try (that isn't Thai food, that is):
- MK Suki (a suki franchise that is really good, with great service -- you can find one in almost every major shopping mall, like those in Siam Square).
- Bar-B-Q Plaza (a grill-type franchise with yummy food)
- Somboon -- great Chinese food, can be found in a few places

Road Rules: India

HCC: The Lost Girls have been in northern India for just four days, and have already witnessed our first traffic accident. Frankly, we’re surprised we didn’t see a collision sooner, given the fact that mopeds, trucks, cabs, cows and elephants all share the same roadways.

And we’re thanking the gods we weren’t involved in a fender bender ourselves: The driver we hired, Sunil, constantly played a game of chicken with all the other road warriors.

While on a tour of the Golden Triangle (which winds between the ancient cities of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur), we dodged death when Sonil passed a bunch of mopeds on an uphill curve as a huge bus sped around the corner in the opposite lane. He jerked the wheel, almost took out the bikers and narrowly missed a head-on collision with the bus. The best part? The seat belts didn’t work. Awesome.

(Mom, if you happen to be reading this, I can already hear the hour-long lecture I’m going to get about being careful, so you don’t even have to say it. Besides, taking a bus would have been more dangerous).

But I digress. The accident we witnessed involved a Jeep hitting a motorcycle that carried a man, woman and baby (sans helmets!). We watched in horror as the mother slid off the seat—arms protectively wrapped around the infant—and landed on her back on the pavement. Amazingly, both she and her baby seemed OK, apart from a few minor scrapes. The man, however, was pinned under the hot bike with the wheels still spinning.

Before we could see if he was badly injured, Sonil informed us that the driver of the Jeep who caused the accident was going to be beaten. Sure enough, what seemed like hundreds of men appeared as an angry roadside mob, opened the driver’s door and proceeded to pull him out.

Sunil started honking like mad as he maneuvered around the growing mob and quickly sped away. “What’s going on?” I asked in confusion.

“If you hit people, you drive away fast. If you don’t, the men will beat you in payment for the accident. You only have five seconds in India,” he said. “If you don’t drive away more fast, people will hit your head until you have blood and must go to the hospital.”

“What? You mean you’re supposed to hit and run?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes! If you hit someone and kill them, you drive more fast. If you’re too slow, the crowd will beat you very bad. You may have to kill two, three more people in the way, but you drive fast,” he explains.

“What?” This seems to be my knee-jerk, astonished response. “But what if you lock your doors and roll up your windows?”

“Then they break the windows with stones and pull you out.”

“What about the police? Won’t the police arrest the driver—and protect him from the angry mob?”

“No, the police can’t do anything. But if the driver has a gun, the police or the mob will run away.”

It’s complete anarchy! “Um, OK. But what happens to the guy who gets beaten? Does he die?”

“No, he just has a lot of blood. And he has to pay in cash at the hospital for the man, woman and child’s bills and for their broken bike.”

“But what if he doesn’t have the money?”

“Then they keep his Jeep and he has to take a bus home.”

Riiiight. All we can say is that driving in India gives a whole new meaning to the concept of road rage. We lived to tell the tale—and we hope the driver did, too.
Holly

The Great Elephant Debate

HCC: When our tour guide, Sunil, told us riding an elephant was believed to be able to change my luck, I was all game. After all, For Me magazine, where my monthly column chronicling my on-the-road adventures was scheduled to appear, had closed after only two of the five stories I’d written getting into print. I was hoping to find another publication that would give my column a home.

But one look at the elephants’ sawed off ivory tusks and chained ankles made my heart sink. As Amanda and Jen climbed the ladder to mount the towering elephants, I backed down, telling myself no matter how much my luck changed for the better, it wasn’t worth contributing to the slavery of this beautiful animal.

Am I reading too much into this tourist attraction and taking things too seriously? Does choosing to boycott the elephant ride really do anything at all? What do you think about riding elephants, camels, etc: Hurtful or harmless?
Holly

An Intro to India

ADP: After a whirlwind tour of Rio de Janeiro and Salvador, Brazil, the girls and I took a short hiatus in New York City to stock up on supplies, hang with friends and otherwise fortify ourselves for the next leg of the journey.

We arrived in New Delhi, India about a week ago and after waking up in this steamy, spice-scented city, I finally understood how “normal” and “on-the-beaten-track” our trip has been so far! The girls assigned me the responsibility of choosing our first night’s lodging, and despite many hours of internet research, I ended up choosing a cheap hotel (still $12 per person, per night) a somewhat sketchy part of town. On our first morning, still quite jet lagged from the 14 hour flight, we woke up and walked out the front door into a chaotic side alley clogged with bicycles, rickshaws, cars, men frying bits of food in huge metal pans, half-naked kids scrubbing themselves down with soap in the gutter, women wrapped tightly in saris and gripping infants riding on the backs of mopeds. The air smelled like curry, car exhaust and sizzling vegetables; tinny, warbled lyrics sung by invisible Bollywood stars ricocheted down from open windows and only added to the odd sensation that somehow, we’d stepped into the opening scene from Indiana Jones Temple of Doom.

Jumping into an auto-rickshaw, we headed into the part of the city known as “C.P.”, a business district built by the British made up of three concentric street circles lined with tons of stores. Every surface we passed was spackled down with huge signs that looked like they were written Arabic script, but the language turned out to be—what else?—Hindi. We all grabbed the “oh shit” handles handing down for the roof as our driver careened through streets where lanes were totally ignored, horns blared from every direction and oncoming cars played chicken with one another at full speed.

Eventually we made it, mostly in one piece, to the official office of Delhi Tourism. The girls and I had merely hoped to pick up a few maps before breakfast, but somehow ended up getting strong-armed into a four-day guided tour of the Golden Triangle (Delhi-Agra-Jaipur) by an intensely talkative young sales guy named Ramen. A bit put off by the fact that this government-run office was actually in the business of hustling tourists, we tried to walk out, but our very persuasive host slammed down several huge ring binders full of photos on his desk and insisted that we admire them before he’d let us walk. Weak kneed from the ride over and by now, totally ravenous, we forked over $150 bucks apiece just to shut Ramen up so we could go find some food for-the-love-of-god.

Our happily commissioned representative then redeemed himself somewhat by throwing in a free sightseeing tour of Delhi and recommending a great South Indian spot just around the corner from his office. While 55 rupees for a vegetable dosa sounded suspiciously expensive at first, we did the math and realized that each meal sized entree would to set us back $1.10. We justified our grand tour by telling ourselves that at least the food in India would be cheap.

As it turned out, the four-day tour turned out to be one of our smartest purchases to date. The money we’d so reluctantly spent paid for a dedicated driver named Sunil (affectionately called Sunny, by us), who not only carted our obnoxiously chatty selves all over northern India in a clean, air conditioned car, but dispensed endless pearls of valuable wisdom and advice on everything from arranged marriages to unscrupulous shopkeepers to hit-and-run drivers (check out Holly’s blog later this week for more on that).

Our parents will be happy to know that he also pointed out the absolute absence of unaccompanied women on the streets after sunset and wisely suggested that we didn’t try to assert our American feminism by strolling alone at night or lingering at nightclubs (we had no desire to do either). He shocked us be revealing that certain hotel owners might actually try to make their guests sick by serving them bad food or tainted beverage, so that they’d be forced to stay and enlist the services of the in-house doctor. Of course, we have no idea if this tale is true, but when your local guide says “don’t drink the water,” you listen.

One of the most fascinating parts of our visits to major tourist destinations like the Taj Mahal (amazing) in Agra and the Maharajas Palace in Jaipur (unsettlingly erotic) was the fact that we—the dorkily dressed American chicks—were very much attraction to the locals. I lost count of the number of times that giggling women and groups of young Indian guys in aviator shades approached and asked permission to take a picture. As first we thought that they wanted us to snap a photo of their group, and were shocked to realize that they wanted us to pose in the photograph with them. There were so many requests for appearances that for the first time in my life, I had a rough estimate of what it might be like to be a D-list celebrity.

Who knew our tickets to stardom could be booked on Orbitz.com?

More soon...

A

Goooooaaaaalllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When spending time in Brazil, there are a few unofficial rules and must dos, such as:

Make like a local and hit the beach in a skimpy bikini or speedo; initiate impromptu caipirinha happy hours any time during the day; find a reputable capoeira school and sign up for classes; and, last but not least, psyche yourself up for the craziness and mayhem and attend a futbol match (that’s soccer, for you Americans). During our recent stay in Salvador, Bahia, Holly and I, along with our new friend and fellow New Yorker, Sam, hit the local stadium for this essential South American rite of passage.

Check out our Top 5 sites and sounds from the game:

1. The piercing sound of firecrackers each time the home team scores a goal. As New Yorkers, our first instinct was to hit the ground, until we realized this was all part of the fun.
2. The incessant use of unique curse words (our favorite is porra (pronounced bo-ha), which can mean anything from ass to son of a bitch, Sam explained) after any player makes a mistake, even one from the home team. We tallied over 200 uses during the first hour, but then got tired of counting.
3. The swarm of armed guards, donned with riot shields and firearms, required to escort the refs on and off the field at half time.
4. The gargantuan cups of frothy Skol, our favorite Brazilian draft beer, for a buck a piece accompanied by packs of hot peanuts wrapped in paper cones (3 for 50 cents). Oh yeah, and the homemade ice cream cones served straight from the vendors' coolers.
5. The constant beat of kettledrums, compliments of several well-conditioned Brazilian boy bands, which echoed through the stands from before the start whistle blew to after fans had long left the stadium.

For those of you out there who have the chance to catch a match in Brazil, it's well worth the few reais you'll have to shell out. The fans' sheer exuberance, fiery passion and unwavering devotion to the game rivals even that of the most die hard sports enthusiasts back home in the States. We can't wait to return to catch another match - especially now that we know how to appropriately swear in Portuguese! :)

---Jen

Capoeira Fever

Brazilians are fitness fanatics. Besides typical activities such as jogging and biking, you’ll find beach-goers playing soccer, volleyball or foot-volley (where you only touch the ball with your feet or your head). To break out of a workout rut, the ladies and I signed up for some capoeira classes at a studio in Salvador, the capital of Bahia state and the Afro-Brazilian center of the country. Capoeira, a combo of martial arts and dancing, began back in the 1500s when slaves disguised tribal fighting with music so they wouldn’t be punished by white landowners.

Classes kick off with drum beating, chanting and clapping. Pros, or masters, as they’re called, gracefully cart wheel, duck and kick around their opponents at a dizzying pace. When I attempted it myself at the studio, I shyly entered the middle of a circle of students. I tried to fall into a rhythm with my instructor, but ended up just trying to avoid getting nailed.

I became so engrossed in anticipating his next move and swaying to the music that I barely noticed my ragged breathing and sweat-soaked shirt. But it was impossible not to notice my aching calves and inner thighs the following morning. Who needs a treadmill? Any sport that feels more like playtime than exercise will keep me coming back.

HCC (Holly)

Gotta have that Favela Funk!

Shortly after arriving to Mellow Yellow, we were repeatedly asked the same question by our fellow hostel mates. Actually it was more like an assumed statement. “Of course you’re going to the Favela Funk party?” The favela whata? Wasn’t that some sort of bean? Oh, no wait, that’s fava. What the heck are these favelas we’ve been hearing so much about and how did funk parties get dropped in the mix? During the nightly buffet dinner, I finally got some answers from a group of friendly backpackers at the next table. Favelas, they explained, are famous Brazilian slums tucked in the hills above the city that are occupied illegally and controlled by drug lords. OK, gotcha. And we’re supposed to want to go party there?

We soon discovered that despite the seemingly dangerous conditions, favelas had recently become popularized among tourists and everyone who was anyone went to the weekly funk party. Still we wondered, was this one of those ‘everyone else is doing it’/after school special moments we were taught to just say no to or was it really safe to go traipsing into these previously forbidden barrios? After talking to a few more people, our fears were quickly squelched. Apparently, the favela leaders were welcoming visitors into their hoods in record numbers. Major companies have been sanctioned to conduct daily tours into several of the more famous neighborhoods and the hugely popular funk parties are completely gringo-friendly events. I had visions of a Brazilian Don Corleone sitting on top of the hill ordering ‘the family’ to buzz us all through the gates. How could we possibly pass up the chance to see this strange social phenomenon for ourselves?

What sealed the deal was the fact that our hostel actually rented minivans to safely escort backpackers en masse to and and from the party, plus they doled out bracelets for VIP access at the club. Right on! Where do we sign up? We added our names to the list at the front desk and ran back to our room to start getting ready for our big night on the (shanty) town. It was the perfect excuse to dress up in the fabulously fun clothes we’d purchased that day in Rio’s famous outdoor hippie market – our absolute favorite place to shop in the city. Since Holly had to stay in to work on her monthly magazine column, Amanda and I were elected to represent The Lost Girls that night. Along with a huge group of fellow hostelers, including a bunch of our new Irish friends from the night before, we headed out of Mellow Yellow for first favela funk party.

After almost a ½ hour drive through the city, we began winding our way up into the hills through narrow dark streets. Speckled throughout the area were small houses, local dive bars and bustling restaurants - nothing that screamed favela funk yet. Soon, we caught up with the caravan of cabs and combis and as we rounded the corner at the top of the hill, we knew we had arrived. Up ahead, groups of young club kids decked out in tight spandex daisy dukes, gold chains and muscle shirts, crowded the streets in front of the entrance to the club. Oblivious to the hoards of tourists pouring from the vans, the favela funkmasters let us pass without so much as batting a (black) eye. Ushered through the waiting line like cattle, we were quickly swept up in the stream of other partygoers flowing steadily into the gigantic warehouse ahead. Entering the favela funk party was like being transported into another universe – one where the walls pulse with Miami-bass type beats, immense crowds bounce and sway in perfect rhythm, sweat and steam fill the un-airconditioned space and where clothing is pretty much optional. Although the Mellow Yellow crew kept our outfits firmly affixed to our bodies, we were the clearly in the minority. Most of the local men were sans shirt and 9 out of 10 women preferred bikinis to party dresses (the 10th opted for a tube top and booty shorts). Although you could hardly blame them considering the sweltering heat and lack of oxygen flow in the building. Definitely a never-seen-before moment to add to our travel check list, though.

Hand in hand as to not lose one another, we wound our way through the packed crowds in search of the stairway to VIP heaven. After making the essential ascent, we finally found some breathing room (or rather a room where we could breathe). Perched high above the dance floor away from the main mass of favela revelers, the exclusive space granted us access to the funk scene without the claustrophobia of wall to wall bodies. Half of our group took drink orders and headed to the bar, while the rest of us made a beeline for one of several tables lining the rail to secure seating for everyone. Despite our obvious visitor status, we slipped easily into our surroundings with no protest from the locals. Over the next several hours, we rotated between dancing, sweating in 100 degree heat (even the guys in our group lost their shirts at this point; Note to parents: The guys pictured were our friends from the hostel, not strangers we met that night!), getting tired and sitting, sipping our cocktails between guzzles of water and then back to dancing again. This constant cycle continued until around 4am, when we realized our motorcoaches would turn back into pumpkins if we didn’t leave soon. Exhausted, yet exhilarated, we made our way outside to find a ride back to the hostel.

With our first favela funk experience under our (money) belts, we happily sank into the van cushions recounting our wildest stories from the evening. As we coasted through the city, attempting to beat the sun back to Mellow Yellow, Amanda and I couldn’t help but be a little proud of ourselves. After all, we’d gone deep into the heart of one of Rio de Janeiro’s most infamous ghettos and lived to tell the tale. From here on out, we could handle anything that came our way. Cause now that we’ve conquered the favelas, only a fool would dare 'funk' with us!

---Jen

FYI – Googling Brazil favelas and favela funk parties links you to some pretty fun sites. My personal props to Wikipedia for their in-depth analysis of funk balls and notable groups/artists.

All Roads Lead to Mellow Yellow!

Jen: Most of the time on trips like ours, bad luck and bumps in the road are simply a matter of chance. But sometimes life will throw out so many signs pointing in one direction, and for better or worse, we’d be fools not to follow them. Such was the case recently in Brazil. Before touching down in the birthplace of samba, capirinhas and floss-sized bikinis, we’d been told by numerous travelers to high tail it immediately North to hit the pristine beaches Brazil was most famous for. So despite being completely enchanted by Rio de Janeiro’s wild, colorful and deliciously sultry culture, we stuck firmly to our plan to head to Salvador (the capital of Bahia) after just three days. But despite hearing from everyone that you can get super cheap, same day flights, securing a plane ticket did not seem to be in the cards.

The only reasonably priced airline with daily flights, Gol, soon became the bane of our existence. For hours, we battled with their website for a reservation. We’d find the perfect schedule, then the site would crash and the price would rise drastically the next time we’d check. Then, we’d find another flight we liked, put in all our personal info and credit card numbers and be told on the last page that our request could not be processed. “Oh yeah, Gol, the concierge at our hotel said when we explained our dilemma, their website rarely works.” Gee, that’s awesome, we thought. How the hell are we supposed to get out of Rio? The kind concierge even called the airline for us, only to get double to online quote for the same flight later that evening. He suggested we drive out to the airport ourselves (umm, no way) or ask a travel agent for help (now, we’re talking).

Holly and I went out in pursuit of an outside company to help us. “Yeah, we can totally book tickets for you” the receptionist at a nearby travel agency said. “But Gol only takes American Express from non-residence.” Sigh! Back to the hotel we went to get the only credit card we didn’t have with us. “Maybe this is a bad omen,” I said. “Yeah,” Holly agreed. “It kind of creeps me out, like we’re not supposed to get on this plane tonight.” Neither Holly nor I were particularly superstitious, but this whole situation was getting a bit ridiculous. After intercepting Amanda at our hotel and grabbing her Amex, we headed back to buy our tickets, already! “Oh my God. Is that what I think it is?” Holly exclaimed as we rounded the corner. The door to the travel agency was gated and locked. That was it. The travel gods were trying to tell us something. STAY IN RIO practically boomed down from the sky. There was only one problem. We had nowhere to go. Our three night, dream vacation in Rio’s most lux hotel, the Copacabana Palace Hotel (a generous hook up from their PR rep in exchange for magazine coverage), was ending. And since we thought we’d be half way to Salvador by now, we’d made no alternate arrangements.

After the concierge successfully booked us on a flight for a couple days later (the airline rep finally got sick of us calling), we asked him if he wouldn’t mind ringing Ipanema Beach House, a low budget hostel recommended by previous travel friends, to see if they had any availability. I wanted to crawl under the marble tiles as his white gloved hand dialed the number, but it was our best option considering how much time we’d already wasted. “Sorry, they’re full,” he said. OK. No surprise there with the luck we were having. I wondered if the Copacabana staff would notice if we spent the night in the business center. It was bigger than my entire apartment back home and there were plenty of comfy couches to accommodate a few Lost Girls. “OK, we’ll just have to try the hostel I saw around the corner,” Amanda said. “It was like The Slippery Banana or The Big Chill or something like that.” So she and Holly dashed over to check while I safeguarded our stuff.

They soon returned with the first bit of good news all day…The Mellow Yellow was happy to squeeze us in. Yeah! We celebrated with a long swim in the Olympic sized Palace pool followed by a steamy hot shower in the spa/gym. We were technically still guests, right? Though a little bummed to be leaving our five star surroundings, we knew we had to return to our real backpacking lives eventually. Little did we know that our new digs would offer another side of paradise that didn’t require crystal chandeliers, turndown chocolates or room service.

The second we stepped foot into Mellow Yellow, we knew all the hassles we’d endured had happened for a reason. Not only did the place come complete with a full-sized bar/lounge, free internet, game room and Jacuzzi tub (ok, that was kind of weird, but we went with it), it was teeming with loads of young backpackers – most of whom were prime male hotties from Ireland, Australia and England. It was a Lost Girls’ dream come true. To top it off, there was an all you could eat and drink BBQ for only $10 starting in an hour. Whoo hoo, we were home!

We stashed our stuff in our new room and headed to the bar. Relaxing with a capirinha, we all breathed a sigh of relief that the series of seemingly unfortunate events had landed us in Rio’s coolest hostel and allowed us some more time to explore the city – something we all wanted, yet didn’t openly share. Realizing we’d been fighting our impulses to stay in town a little while longer, we promised to never break our “go with the flow” “follow where the trip leads us” road rules again. After all, why should we be in a rush to leave a place we’d fallen in love with at first sight? Rio had everything. Long beaches to run on, outdoor markets that rivaled those in NYC, amazing food, beautiful people and a world famous nightlife – one that sadly we’d yet to indulge in during our first three days here. Now, we had the chance to redeem ourselves!

Before long, we’d met a ton of new ‘mellow’ friends and were all planning which bars to hit up after dinner. And thanks to Amanda’s sly little camera trick – “Umm, could you please take a picture of the three of us? OK, now we need one with you.” – we’d inducted enough men into our UK Hall of Fame to secure a great group of ‘bodyguards’ for our first real night on the town. After all, we always headed our parents’ advice: Be extra careful when going out after dark. We were definitely safe; and finally happy for the first time that day.

After nearly two months of backpacking in South America, we’d learned one important thing: Life on the road takes many turns, but it’s the little detours along the way that are often the most fulfilling. Fortunately for us, we veered off on the right path this time. Cuz although we’ve found some great spots by following our guidebooks, it almost always pays to follow your gut.

So as we walked arm in arm with our newfound girl friends and muscle bound buddies, we gave a little nod of approval up to the cosmos for leading us to Mellow Yellow.

---Jen

The Boys of (Brazilian) Winter

Get Your Own! | View Slideshow

After seven weeks spent journeying through stratospheric Andean highs and deep green Amazon lows, we were bummed to leave Peru and Bolivia behind, but thrilled to hop a flight to one of the world’s largest and most sensual countries: Brazil.

Upon arrival, the salty, tropical air jolted us awake like a can of Red Bull. Once we’d dumped our backpacks at the hotel, we made a beeline straight for Copacabana Beach. While I’d half expected the place to be crawling with gorgeous Victoria’s Secret model look-alikes, the four mile crescent of cappuccino-colored beach teemed instead with lean, muscular men who ran along the water and practiced martial arts in the sand. Mouths agape, we watched as guy after guy with washboard abs and He-Man shoulders jogged past, seemingly oblivious to our ogling. Board shorts were non-existent; every single guy wore postage-sized spandex hot pants or Speedos. Back at home we’d probably laugh at a dude in bikini bottoms, but here at the Copa, the look actually seemed hot.

We stared at each other, slightly shocked, wondering if we’d wandered onto the “boys only” section of the breach, the Brazilian version of Fire Island. Deciding to conduct some research, we walked the entire length of Copacabana and back, barely restraining ourselves from reaching out and touching the Marcus Shankenberg and Tyrese body-doubles. The verdict: these yummy looking men were simply into looking good—not into each other.

Thrilled with our new location, the girls and I settled into our beach chairs with a cold Capirinha and proceed to watch (and photograph) the most interesting attractions that wandered past our little patch of sand. Here are our favorite boys of Brazilian winter—enjoy!

American Defined

Jen: Today began like most others on the road. Sleeping three to a room in our crash pad du jour, we were pulled from a deep sleep by the persistent buzzing of our ‘travel alarm’ – a.k.a. the timer on my $39 Fossil. I let out a frustrated groan; fumbling to silence the source of our pain (Us LGs don’t typically embrace mornings). Even through my early a.m. haze, something on the watch caught my eye. What is it? I thought, as I squinted to get a second look at the indiglo face. As the date flashed back at me through the darkness, I realized what it was – today was September 11th. As Manhattan residents for over half a decade, not only would it be the first time my fellow LGs and I wouldn’t be in NYC for the anniversary, this year we weren't even within U.S. borders.

Although we felt a bit isolated being so far from home on such an important day, Amanda, Holly and I had grown accustomed to our role as the resident Americans abroad. Throughout our time in South America, we were often some of the few or only U.S. visitors roaming the streets or inhabiting our hostels. Not that we minded really. We simply adored the vibrant culture, savory cuisine and inviting people we'd encountered so far. Plus, co-mingling with fun groups of Brits, Aussies and Canadians enjoying their gap years and walkabouts brought back fond memories of our post-college, backpacking days. But now that our travels extended beyond the standard European tours of our youth, we would be marked as American tourists in more than a dozen countries around the world. The pressure was on to represent! And while we always try to stay true to our cardinal rule of international exploration - - embrace the local culture and blend in whenever possible - - it’s hard not to stick out like a sore thumb when you look so different from everyone else. How did our pasty white skin, hiking shoes and North Face stamped apparel give us away? Ironically, the more we try to assimilate to our foreign surroundings, the more we appreciate the fact that fitting in back home is nearly effortless. Especially in New York City where the near 7 foot tall Nordic He-Man could be your kid’s soccer coach or the woman wrapped tightly in a peacock colored sari might be your new college professor.

So no matter how often we may feel like the oddballs during our adventures around the globe, today, more than any other, we feel truly fortunate to be able to return to a country where we’re as different from our neighbors as mutton curry and apple pie.

Check out the below article that best sums up our sentiment.

---Jen

(I received the below email forward from a friend a few weeks ago)

Headline: To Kill an American

You probably missed it in the rush of news last week, but there was actually
a report that someone in Pakistan had published in a newspaper an offer of a
reward to anyone who killed an American, any American.

So an Australian dentist wrote an editorial the following day to let
everyone know what an American is . So they would know when they found one.
(Good one, mate!!!!)

"An American is English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish,
Polish, Russian or Greek. An American may also be Canadian, Mexican,
African, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Australian, Iranian, Asian, or
Arab, or Pakistani or Afghan.

An American may also be a Comanche, Cherokee, Osage, Blackfoot, Navaho,
Apache, Seminole or one of the many other tribes known as native Americans.

An American is Christian, or he could be Jewish, or Buddhist, or Muslim. In
fact, there are more Muslims in America than in Afghanistan . The only
difference is that in America they are free to worship as each of them
chooses.

An American is also free to believe in no religion. For that he will answer
only to God, not to the government, or to armed thugs claiming to speak for
the government and for God.

An American lives in the most prosperous land in the history of the world.
The root of that prosperity can be found in the Declaration of Independence
, which recognizes the God given right of each person to the pursuit of
happiness.

An American is generous. Americans have helped out just about every other
nation in the world in their time of need, never asking a thing in return.

When Afghanistan was over-run by the Soviet army 20 years ago, Americans
came with arms and supplies to enable the people to win back their country!

As of the morning of September 11, Americans had given more than any other
nation to the poor in Afghanistan . Americans welcome the best of
everything...the best products, the best books, the best music, the best
food, the best services. But they also welcome the least.

The national symbol of America , The Statue of Liberty , welcomes your tired
and your poor, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores, the homeless,
tempest tossed. These in fact are the people who built America .

Some of them were working in the Twin Towers the morning of September 11,
2001 earning a better life for their families. It's been told that the World
Trade Center victims were from at least 30 different countries, cultures,
and first languages, including those that aided and abetted the terrorists.

So you can try to kill an American if you must. Hitler did. So did General
Tojo, and Stalin, and Mao Tse-Tung, and other blood-thirsty tyrants in the
world. But, in doing so you would just be killing yourself. Because
Americans are not a particular people from a particular place. They are the
embodiment of the human spirit of freedom. Everyone who holds to that
spirit, everywhere, is an American.


Wes Clogston
wesclogston@sbcglobal.net

Interviews with Each Other: Peru

We've just reached the end of our whirlwind journey through Peru, and are now taking off for the beaches of Brazil! Before we board our plane for shores unknown, we decided to interview each other about the best and worst of our trip so far. Here are our very candid thoughts about life as a Lost Girl:


Name one thing that you never knew about one of your fellow Lost Girls.

Amanda: I never knew that Jen had a braided-hair, bell- bottom hippie phase in high school, and I’m her best friend, for Pete’s sake! And I also never knew that she stripped to make extra money for college tuition. Kidding.

Jen: Feck off, Amanda. Kidding. I was appalled to discover that Holly doesn’t care at all about having a diamond engagement ring. She said ‘I would take a cubic zirconium.’ C’mon sister, it’s your one shot to get a big friggin’ rock. Seize the moment! Amanda and I are actively working to change her mind.

Holly: I didn’t know that Amanda has such an obsession with orange foods. Every time she sees a mango or pumpkin soup, her eyes light up. We think she’s deficient in beta carotene.

What mundane task do you find to be the most challenging and why?

Amanda: I expected laundry to be a bitch, but every town in Peru has cheap, same-day wash-and-fold service.

Jen: Body hair maintenance. Sometimes the shower water has been close to freezing, shaving was basically impossible. And, it’s hard to find the privacy to Nair when you share a tiny room with your friends.

Holly: Using the bathroom. I didn’t realize how much I liked using soap, water and TP.

What clothing item has turned out to be the most useful?

Jen: My black and white Champion hoodie sweatshirt cuz no matter where you go here, it’s always cold at night. And, if I wear it with a skirt or dress, I don’t feel like a total tool, as it matches just about anything.

Amanda: My Urban Outfitters dance tights. In addition to being trendy and fun, they keep my legs warm and roll away into a tee-tiny little ball for packing.

Holly: My brown Lycra wide-leg pants, because they’re comfortable for plane rides, can double as PJs and they work in both hot and cold weather. Unfortunately I’ve worn them so much, both Lost Girls can keep track of what thong I’m wearing everyday since the waistband is so stretched out. I’m on the hunt for a new pair.

Which item has barely seen the light of day?

Jen: My two dry fit short sleeve shirts. They only work well in warm weather, but when it’s hot, I’d much rather wear a tank top.

Amanda: My too-expensive black Nike one piece bathing suit. I expected to wear it for things like white water rafting and other outdoor activities, but a sports bra and shorts was always a better option.

Holly: My brown halter top. It’s not versatile, and really can only be worn when going out for the night. Usually, though, I opt for a sundress because it’s easier and works in almost any after-dark setting.

What was your biggest gross out moment?

Holly: Chicken feet in my soup. Also, finding a short curly in every meal I ate for a week straight.

Jen: Just how often people pick their noses in broad day light. Outright! They don’t even try to hide it!!

Amanda: Questionably brown smears on the walls in the Inca Trail bathrooms. We all wanted to barf.

What would you have done differently in planning the first leg of the trip?

Holly: I would not have checked a live vaccination into my backpack, then begged the ground crew ay the airport to let me retrieve it before the flight. I think that’s why I lost my backpack, which is too small and too heavy for me anyway. Next time I’d get one with a lighter internal frame and a huge side load zipper.

Jen: I would have skipped the dirty, sulfurous shantytowns of Nasca and Puno, as they completely depressed us. Even in the “best” hostels in town, the places were stinky and drab.

Amanda: We heard that Mancora and Tumbes (on the Northern coast of Peru) are really amazing surf villages, and we ran out of time to visit them due to an exceptionally long stay at high altitude. Next time, I’d aim for surf and sand over snow!

Please describe your biggest meltdown.
Amanda: Vendors in Peru never, ever, ever want to provide change, even when the bill is 12 soles and you hand them a 20 (meees? you no have change? you no have coins??). One night, after we’d completed our meal, the restaurant owner refused to provide change for our larger bill, meaning we couldn’t provide a tip for the waitress. By that point, I was so exhausted with people who clearly had change behind the desk lying and saying that they didn't that I nearly clocked him. Instead, I simply screamed my head off like the fat, embarrassing, fanny-pack wearing tourist that I so love to make fun of in other situations. The waitress looked stunned and eventually we found a tip for her deep within the recesses of our bags. But now, I categorically refuse to make a purchase (if possible) if the guy at the register tries to hold out on me.

Holly: At our first hostel in Cusco, we were stuck in a noisy, freezing cold dorm space with three other dudes—who proceeded to fart all night long in their sleep. I had to wear everything I owned to bed, including long johns, hat, gloves and scarf, just to make it through the night without shivering. Our door, which connected to the main bathroom banged with activity all night long. Those factors, coupled with a landmark hangover, nearly caused me to lose it.

Jen: Cab drivers often pretend that they know where you want to go, and are too proud to admit it when they don’t. Holly and I were late for a get together at the Miraflores Park Hotel—a major landmark in Lima—and the guy started motoring in the opposite direction. I was tired and extremely hungry (the root of my evil crankiness) so I openly expressed my frustration to him in broken Spanish. “Seriously? You don’t know where you’re going? It’s a major hotel!” Holly tried to disappear between the cab cushions and I just continued venting to her. I guess I’m just spoiled by the kick-ass NYC cab drivers.

Most humbling moment on the road?

Amanda: Having to bare my ass before a Peruvian doctor in order to get a steroid shot in Cusco.

Jen: Squatting over truly disgusting latrine toilets on the Inca Trail, then trying to deal with my “girly issues” in these same horrifying bathrooms.

Holly: Having my bodily functions tested in Puno to make sure that I didn’t have an intestinal parasite. Amanda and Jen cheered me on from outside the bathroom door (“2…4…6…8…C’mon, Holly you’re doin’ great!) and thank god, I didn’t have any little critters to worry about.

Biggest disappointment?

Amanda: That the food in Peru was actually really delicious. I fully expected to lose 10 pounds on this first leg of the trip, but I’m pretty certain that my love handles have stayed intact.

Jen: So many people speak English in Peru that I didn’t get to practice my Spanish as much as I thought. I figured that I’d be bilingual after two months, but I wasn’t able to immerse myself enough in the culture to make it happen. Although I did improve my vocabulary a ton.

Holly: Getting up at 4:00am to view huge condors as they soared over Colca Canyon. Not only did our 5:30am bus never show, but when we finally got to the site, only a single pair of birds made an appearance for a mere 10 minutes. After all that, we got stranded in the desert for another 5 hours. Overall, not the best investment of our time.

What was your biggest compromise?

Amanda: I’d always planned to spend the majority of our nights on the road in classic backpacker hostels---big rooms, lots of bunk beds, fun connections with new people. But unlike Europe, many of the towns here don’t have one notorious spot where young travelers can make friends and still get a good night’s sleep. So, we’re lodging primarily in ultra cheap hotels, and finding a social scene elsewhere.

Jen: I didn’t realize how much work it would be to maintain the blog, keep up with email, plan the trip (my main assignment) and learn to become a photojournalist. Plus, the ultra slow technology made every task 10 times slower, so I got frustrated that we were spending days at a time in an internet café, rather than having a real, authentic experience.

Holly: I miss my boxing, yoga and Pilates classes. I didn’t realize how important they were to maintaining my sanity until I had to go without. Now, I still try to find a place to run, but there’s no substitute for Central Park.

On scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate the Peruvian men?

Amanda: 5: Super sweet, but too short for my taste

Jen: 4: Not enough muscles; I like them big

Holly: 4: They don’t take no for an answer, especially at the clubs.

The Birthday Party

ADP: Even in an overstuffed metropolis that’s located thousands of miles and an entire hemisphere from the one I just left, there’s simply no hiding from Murphy’s Law. As I discovered on the night of my 28th birthday in Lima, the less you want bump into someone, the more likely you are to come face to face. But let’s start at the beginning…

I’d met Raul on my second swing through Peru’s capital city, just a few days before departing for the Amazon jungle in late July. He and his drinking buddy introduced themselves a way that might be considered suave in the local machismo culture, but seemed to me about as canned and unsophisticated as Cheez-Whiz: he sent over an “anonymous” bottle of champagne.

The waiter presented it to our table and said insisted that we accept before he’d reveal the identity our patron (who made himself just a bit obvious by hovering a few feet away). On a budget and more curious than anything else, we accepted the Dom knockoff and proceeded to sip the bubbly until its sender finally asked if he and his friend could join us.

To our mild surprise, Raul turned out to be one of the lounge’s co-owners and had just received his MBA in entrepreneurship from a university in Boston. He was well-spoken, poised and answered my endless stream of questions about the Peruvian politics and culture with aplomb (and responded to my inquiries about the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms without blushing). In direct opposition to his buddy, a gastroenterologist who’d somehow received a black eye and was so drunk that his breath required its own alcoholic proof, Raul seemed the perfect host. So, despite the fact that our parents had warned us against getting into cars with strange boys abroad, we decided to cab it over to Voce, where Raul assured us that we’d move right past the velvet rope and into the VIP section upstairs.

He was true to his word—we entered without paying and climbed the steps to the perch overlooking thousands of bodies dancing to the house music pumped out by a god-like DJ high above.

The scene was incredible, but the clientele in the VIP section consisted mostly of wasted dudes who would not take no for an answer. Every time Jen, Holly and I would start to dance, we literally had to pry off men who would slip their bloated bodies between us or writhe grotesquely behind us.

He “This is my girlfriend! We don’t like men!” Jen shouted over the music as she draped herself over Holly, in a vain and misguided attempt to remove the thorns from both of their sides.

“Jen, I don’t think that saying you’re a lesbian is going to deter them!” I screamed at her as some guy grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward him.

Raul occasionally rescued us, but mostly seemed content refilling his cocktail at the bar as we tried to remove ourselves from the Night at the Roxbury nightmare.

I’m not sure how late it was, or how long we’d been dodge dancing when a significantly drunker Raul finally decided to cut in and dance with me, a little too close and too breathy for comfort. I immediately wanted to go, but when I tried to pull away, he became insistent that I leave the girls behind and go home with him.

“Not a chance,” I said. “We don’t separate. When we go, we go together.”

Machismo rearing its ugly head, he didn’t accept the answer, and become more insistent that I come back to his place, with or without the girls.

If my life were an after-school special or even a feature story in the New York Post, this would be the part where I’d feel guilty or beholden and agree to ditch my girls to take off in a strange car with some dude I’d just met. But earlier, I’d spoken with Holly about not giving shit if you’re disappointing some random guy, especially when it’s clear when what he’s after, and her words were fresh in my head.

As a consolation prize, I ended up throwing my email address at Raul and thanking him for a fun night. Why feel bad…I’d never had to see him again, right?

That’s where Murphy’s Law, mentioned earlier in this story, comes into play.

Fast forward one week: the night of my birthday, and it was Sunday once again. We’d planned to ring in my late 20s by indulging in a delicious meal and a Pisco Sour at the just opened and very trendy restaurant Tanta. Knowing just how important it is to be a pretty, pretty princess on one’s big day, Jen and Holly bought me a kiddy tiara which I was to wear throughout the meal. Thrilled that my girls remembered, I donned their gift with pride.

In incredible spirits (especially considering my unhappy proximity to the big 3-0), we slipped into our table at the restaurant and glanced around for the nearest waiter.

That’s when Jen’s face froze. “That isn’t…Raul, is it?”

We all turned slowly in our chairs to follow her gaze, and agreed, from the back, the guy sitting with a big table of friends (all dressed in trendy, high-design threads) looked suspiciously like our champagne patron.

Mortified, I stood up, not sure if I should bolt or stay. Unfortunately, a strategically positioned mirror that I hadn’t noticed made the decision for me: from my new vantage point, Raul and I were face-to-face, neither sure what the next move should be.

He turned around to face me, and in a split second, I decided to take the ultra-fake, kisses-kisses sweetheart route.

“How are you?” I gushed, taking a few steps over to give him a big hug. “We had such a great time last week!”

Almost imperceptibly, his face changed from deer-in-headlights to a more relaxed expression and he broke the tension further by introducing me to his mixed group of friends. Once our two groups had shaken hands and were in the midst of small talk, I quietly whispered. “Hey, I’m sorry for bolting last week. But I was just a little uncomfortable and…”

He cut me off, deeply embarrassed, it seemed, by his own behavior, and apologized profusely for acting like an ass. I felt relieved, thrilled actually that I wouldn’t have to spend my birthday dinner sitting a table away from a guy who I’d rejected so resoundingly just a few short days before.

It turned out, Raul and his friends were nearly done with their dinner, but hearing that it was my birthday, decided to have an impromptu get-together at one of their houses to celebrate the night. Would the girls and I like to attend?

I was actually shocked. I figured that the guy would just been happy to get away from this terribly coincidental run-in without an embarrassing confrontation. Instead, he was throwing me a party.

We agreed to go—but the girls and I decided to take our own transportation.


Two hours, an incredible dinner and a couple Pisco Sours later, I found myself clinking classes with a dozen new friends in an ultra-modern apartment in the hills overlooking a Lima’s dramatic cityscape. Maybe it was the sparkly princess crown I never took off, or maybe he just decided to show me a more gallant side of himself, but Raul did a great job of treating me like lady all night.

Ninety nine times out of hundred, Murphy’s Law brings you back to people, places and experiences that you never wanted to deal with again. But every once in a while, it gives you nearly missed second chance to change a first impression.