Hey, follow me at http://www.tumblr.com/tumblelog/datelinecynthiana… Much more current stuff going on there….  Surly Shirley says Oink!

On the way up to Port Cunnington Lodge, on the Lake of Bays, we saw a sign for maple syrup (pronounced, I believe, MAYpull-sir-up) and drove along winding farm roads till we finally got the place. A wacky old farmer (very “Red Green”) was poking around under his huge tractor and just started rambling on to John about bolts or something—for, like, 5 full minutes. Took another 5 to get him to call the other guy (his son?) to open the sugar shack and sell us some sir-up. Haven’t tasted it yet, but maybe next weekend.

Peach trees on the farm are finally yielding — like crazy!

You’ve heard of “Cats Down Under the Stars”? Check out “Dogs Down Under the Bed” (in surround-hound).

The ultimate in extended-season farming! Last night we rode down to one of the patches that John had already mowed down for next year… and found three pounds of hearty stalks just begging to become dinner. I don’t call him the “Asparaguy” for nothing.

Cat and mouse.

Just another working day on the farm. Veronicat has decided that Aunt Mommy needs a little help, so she’s teaching me to type while she paws at the screen. I’m not getting any faster—in fact, it’s a whole heck of a lot slower—but it’ll make a great excuse if I wind up missing my deadline.

Picture of me filed under protest.

The trip may be over, but the journey continues. Back in NYC, life seems so…quiet, and slow, and leisurely, and clean. People are so polite! The streets almost feel deserted (though I did take a train at 8:30am today, and was pleasantly reminded of India). I just posted a few photos from Varanasi, and I’ll do a bigger edit this weekend and post some more here and on facebook, perhaps with some actual notes.

I had such high hopes of posting daily commentaries, and uploading photos, and keeping everyone up to date on my various comings and goings and ooh’ings and aah’ings… and I have clearly not succeeded in that mission.

But I had an absolutely extraordinary trip. “Mind-blowing,” as Sascha would say.

Right now, it’s 3:30 am local time, and I’m in the Delhi airport—not quite where I started, and yet it feels full-circley, in a poetic (aka sleep-deprived) kind of way. My flight doesn’t leave for another hour, the computer is 94% charged, I’m caught up with email, my next editing assignment is downloaded onto the trusty hard drive, I’m well-fed and -hydrated in the “Premium Lounge,” thanks to a gift of a VIP pass. Just uploaded 3 totally random (and forgotten) photos from a hundred years ago (aka 3 weeks ago)—nothing newer because i haven’t uploaded the next 300 photos from the last 2 weeks. But I will get around to that!

Last night I did something I thought I’d never in this lifetime do: See the Taj Mahal with my own eyes. Under the nearly-full (super)moon, I stood in silence with 49 other visitors from around the world and gazed at its dark and eerie amazing-ocity. This morning we awoke at 5:45 and did our best to scramble back there to view it from another angle (well, they’re all the same, aren’t they?) as the sun rose over otherwise unimpressive Agra (and that’s being nice). We watched eagles and kingfishers soaring around, and adorable little kids came up to the barbed-wire divider and posed professionally. It was heart-warming and touching, until they uttered that ubiquitous chant. No, “not Hare Om,” but “ten rupees.” (Pathetically, we saw one little boy with a backward “10” penned onto his dirty little forehead.)

Then, not quite guiltily, we returned to our Palace (hotel), hung out at the pool, took a sauna and steam and had wondrous Ayurvedic treatments (and me, a much-needed pedicure), and a pounding hot shower, which in the aggregate were almost enough to wipe 6 weeks of sweat, dirt, dust, grime and the gods-know-what-else off me and revive me to a physical state I hadn’t felt in weeks. Life IS good.

On the long crazy drive back to Delhi, we passed Vrindavan, Lord Krishna’s birthplace and probably THE craziest celebration of the old dude’s birthday, a holiday they call Holi. It seems to involved buying lots of new, colorful clothes and bling, and then basically playing paintball with everyone who crosses your path. We met 3 otherwise normal-looking grown-up men, enjoying a roadside dinner, their clothes and skin completely neon pink. The giant and elegant temple we passed on the way down 2 nights before was transformed into a Vegas nightclub: flashing neon rainbow lights, with celebrants left, right, center—literally. People were praying in the median of the highway. (Then again, we did see a guy galloping on a horse bareback on that same highway.)

OK, it may be time to board. Sorry, no time to proofread… More later…!

The Indian All-Star Carb (and Fat) Diet I think I know how they came up with the design of the saree. It’s got something to do with a high-carb veg diet, and a ton of ghee. The amount of carbs I have eaten in the past fortnight is astounding. White rice and white-flour bread at every meal, usually potatoes, and ghee-schmeared gravies that could sink an armada. Throw in a Kingfisher or two, and you could give Dr. Atkins a heart attack. (Oh wait…) Seriously, I’m craving a prison diet. Any calories burned shaking for 5 hours a day (which I estimate to be in the 15K-20K range) has been more than offset by the Indian All-Star Carb (and Fat) Diet. Delicious of course, but enough already! I need some protein-loading. Or maybe I’m finally ready for a juice fast. But Madame, You Must to Haggle Like that great scene in “Life of Brian”—where he just needs one shoe to escape the mad’ing crowd but the souk-keeper makes him haggle—all shopping here involves bargaining. And not the fun kind, where you walk away proud that you got a fair price without cheating people who live on a buck thirty a day. Shopkeepers here (well, in Rajasthan) will follow you to the next shop, stand outside your eatery and then follow you back to your hotel if you don’t buy their overpriced wares. The price will go down a quarter every block until they’re finally offering the price you wanted to pay in the first place, 5 hours ago. And they do it with such fake politeness that you feel like the schmuck for walking away. I want to have a T-shirt made that says: * No, I’m not from France. * I don’t know the name of the hotel I stay in. * You don’t really care what my name is, so stop asking. I especially like when they say, You are so beautiful, you look like a model. (Yeah right, after all those carbs.) It’s enough to make a girl swear off shopping forever. Well, except that everything really is gorgeous: the fabrics, the jewelry, the beatific deity statues, the painted boxes… Full disclosure: I did bring an empty suitcase for the express purpose of shopping, and I will only say that it is now full.