Gazing out the wet bus window as we left Dharamsala, I felt immediately welcomed back to the India I left behind weeks ago. Cows, monkeys, goats, horses, camels, workers carrying giant loads on their heads and gaggles of schoolgirls in matching blue salwar kameez (Punjabi pant suits) with white dupattas (shawls) walking along the side of the road all served as my welcome committee. Even when a turbanned Punjabi Sikh man practically sat on my lap on the bus and then proceeded to yammer away at me in incomprehensible English, I couldn't wipe the euphoric smile off my face. Oh it's so good to be back.

Punjab is one of India's most prosperous states and the homeland of many thousands of Indians who've migrated to or gone to study in the West. As such, it's not uncommon to hear American, English or Canadian accents spoken by visiting non-resident Punjabis here for holiday or making a pilgrimage to the holiest shrine of the Sikh religion, the Golden Temple. As a result of this widespread introduction of Indian culture in the West, many of the sights, sounds, smells and flavors of Punjab are familiar to any of us who've seen turbans or eaten naan. 

After checking into my dingy, hot, overpriced yet conveniently located guesthouse in the Punjab capital of Amritsar and having a shower to remove the day's black build up of grime and pollution, I walked across the street to the Golden Temple. After performing the requisite removal of my shoes, washing of my feet and covering of my head, I entered the complex. I was awestruck. In my opinion, this place is even more atmospheric and beautiful than the Taj Mahal.

So called because of the 100 kg of pure gold covering the main dome, the Golden Temple is a large complex surrounding a sacred pool in which the ornately-adorned temple itself sits. Open 24 hours a day 7 days a week, the Golden Temple complex sees tens of thousands of Sikh pilgrims and tourists each day. Walking clockwise around the pool I watched as turbanned men and boys swam, families bathed and blessed newborn infants, men in traditional Sikh dress (blue robe, orange sash and turban, huge knife in a hip holster) prostrated deeply before the temple entrance as volunteers whizzed around the place keeping things tidy and running smoothly.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), the most interesting part of the temple to me was the kitchen. In accordance with the wishes of one important Sikh guru, Guru Nanak, 35,000 people are fed free meals at the temple every day.  A constant stream of people sit in neat rows on the floor of a large dining hall as dedicated volunteers sweep through ladeling dhal (lentils), tossing chapattis (flat bread and the staple of the North Indian diet) and pouring water. After mealtime, diners deposit their shiny metal plates and cutlery into the hands of the first member of a bucket brigade that doesn't stop until the dishes are washed, dried, polished and returned to the front of the line to begin the trip again.

I paid a visit to the kitchen where I was enthusiastically greeted and taken on a tour. First stop, the chapatti dough mixer where a stack of 20 kg bags of flour reaches to the ceiling and an imported-from-America industrial mixer kneads the dough to make lunch for thousands. Next stop, the chapatti rolling board; twenty women and men rolling out balls of dough before handing them off to the oven where another twenty people sit with longhandled spatulas turning the soft doughy circles as they bake up to perfection. Next stop- the dhal pots, where more volunteers tend to water and lentils bubbling and stewing in giant hot tub-sized metal vats. Of course I took about a million photos.

Just as I was about to leave the temple I met Rupa, a lovely 25-year old Punjabi girl who beckoned me over to talk to her and her cousin. I was shocked. In my five months in India I've only been approached by one other woman and she wanted to put henna on my hands for 100 rupees. Rupa's studying for her Masters in Computer Science here in Amritsar. When she's finished in a month, she'll move to Toronto to be with her soon-to-be husband, an English Indian whom she has never met. Today we went shopping for a gagra choli (Indian formalwear: a short tight-fitting blouse with a matching floorlength skirt and matching veil) for me to wear to Burning Man. Unfortunately they were all at least $100 and entirely too hot to wear in the desert, but it was fun trying them on. Afterwards we had tea and talked at Rupa's house before returning to the temple for sunset. It's fun having a female friend.

Tonight I had the best tandoori chicken on earth across the street from the internet cafe. Tomorrow I'll take an evening trip to Wagah, a town on the Pakistan/India border where apparently they put on quite a show every night at sunset. More later.

My blogger added a new WYSIWYG feature so now I can easily do all sorts of funky things like, uhh, write in colors and oh let's see, make numbered lists. Here are my nominations for top 5 desserts in Dharamsala:

1. Chocolate caramel squares at the no name chai shop in Bhagsu
2. Chocolate cake at the Chocolate Log in McLeod Ganj
3. Chocolate chip cookies at Trek 'n' Dine in Dharamkot
4. Shalom la malka (Hello to the Queen) at Funky Chef in Bhagsu
5. Banoffee pie at Sky Pie in Bhagsu

Hello to the Queen, the introduction of which is attributed to Israelis (though no Israeli I've met had ever heard of it before coming to India), is a sickly sweet concoction of crushed cookies, bananas and ice cream covered with hot chocolate sauce. I think what really happened is that someone with a bad case of the munchies went and simply threw everything sweet he could find in the limited stock of an Indian kitchen into a bowl. Some of you might be familiar with Banoffee Pie and if not, you should be. Make a crushed biscuit crust, pour on a layer of toffee (sweetened condensed milk boiled in the can for two hours), toss on some bananas and chocolate sauce, and if you have access to a refrigerator and a relatively steady supply of electricity (i.e., few places in India), whipped cream.

There are three small movie theaters in McLeod Ganj and I've spent some of my recent rainy nights catching up on the movies. I saw Fahrenheit 9/11 (gulp), Shrek 2 (very good but the ending wasn't very realistic) and The Butterfly Effect (easily one of the worst movies I've ever seen).  I still feel pretty out of the loop when it comes to American cinema and look forward to the surprises awaiting me in the New Release section at Blockbuster.

Gee, has life in Dharamsala really gotten so dull?  Yoga continues to go well- I can almost do a headstand on my own. The weather continues to suck- it rained all night and morning, causing the door of my guesthouse room to swell and refuse to close. It's currently tied shut with some high-security twine. While my time here has been everything I wanted it to be, I do think it's time to move on from this comfortable mountain tourist haven. I'm thirsting for the real India I know and love; you know the one where my only dessert choices have names I can't pronounce and contain unthinkable amounts of ghee (clarified butter). There's simply not enough hassle, pollution or head wobbling around here to keep me interested. I think I'll find what I'm looking for in the western state of Punjab. 

Despite my efforts to live without watches and calendars, reality has set in that my days here are numbered. I'll be heading to Thailand in just a few days to spend about three weeks visiting Angkor Wat in Cambodia (at long last) and get some R&R on a beach- maybe even Koh Chang for a third time. I come back to the States for Burning Man at the end of August followed by a short trip to New York (Sept. 21-26) and then my dear friend Jen's wedding in Boulder on October 1. I'll be back in San Francisco on October 3 and then god-only-knows what I will do then. But let's not think about that- it goes against my recent efforts to be more present. (Thank you, Eckhart Tolle.)

The monsoon has hit Dharamsala with full force. Due to its location in the southernmost range of the Indian Himalaya foothills, stormclouds gather and thicken, trapped between the mountains until they reach saturation point. It's currently hailing buckets outside.

This morning, Paul (who arrived four days ago from Parvati Valley) and I took advantage of a rare and incredible opportunity and saw His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, live and in the flesh! A few times a year when he's in town (rare in and of itself), he opens his temple and teaches on various topics pertaining to Buddhism.  While my current understanding of Buddhism limited my comprehension of the already-fuzzy weakly-signaled radio English translation of his spoken Tibetan, it was a thrill just feel the energy in a templeful of Buddhist monks, Tibetan refugees and Westerners like me, jostling for space just to catch a glimpse of this wonderful man's radiant and warm smile. How this guy can remain so jolly despite living in exile with ongoing tensions between his people and China is a mystery to me, but I assume it has something to do with his supreme enlightenment.

Yoga with Zoli is coming along well. He is a patient, attentive teacher and every day I see a little more progress in my flexibility and strength. I've even started practicing some asanas on my own. To my 2 1/2 hours of daily yoga, add the 1/2 hour hike to and from class, plus all the walking I do around the village and this place is really whipping me into shape.

I ditched cooking class. I just couldn't take the chaos, unmeasured spices and mystery ingredients in Mrs. Kapoor's kitchen. Time to invest in a good Indian cook book.

I'm staying at the same guesthouse where I stayed last time I was here, in the hillside village of Bhagsu. (Bhagsu is 2 km from McLeod Ganj, where the Dalai Lama lives. This is a few kilometers from the town of Dharamsala. Though few travelers stay in Dharamsala, the name is often applied to the entire area.) It's a family place and I love it.  (Meet Parsi, his lovely wife Guddi, their charming children Ravi, Ramesh, Madu and Allison.) They even have two 10-day old twin goats boinging and bahhhing all over the place. They are too cute for words. Living at their place makes me feel like part of the family and reminds me I am in India. Sometimes it's easy to forget in a place full of Tibetans and Israelis.

The morning I left for Manali, the family discovered their 8-year old mama cow had slipped in the night, separating her back right hip rendering her an immobile lump on the ground. When I returned, I was sad to see she was still there sitting in a pile of her own excrement, engorged from being unable to be milked, looking about as forlorn and miserable as a creature of a cow's intelligence can look. A few mornings after I came back this time, she died. Parsi called the insurance man and I watched with the entire family as the insurance man snapped away with his camera, collecting proof to file a claim. My feelings wavered between sadness for the family, shock at seeing my first dead cow, and amusement about the fact that only in India would a cow have a life insurance policy.

Off to yoga... the hail stopped.

Finally back in Dharamsala with a decent internet connection. New photos up today including Kathmandu, the lovely northern India state of Himachal Pradesh and best of all, the stunning high-desert Himalayan region of Ladakh (please don't miss these, they're my pride and joy).

In other news, the day I left Manali after meeting with Burger, I received an email from a recruiter at Intrepid telling me I've been accepted for an interview! Unfortunately, I have no idea when or where the interview will occur; it may not be for several months. Regardless, I'm thrilled and happy to wait and see what happens.

In the 12 hours since I arrived this morning, I've forgone sleep in favor of getting my butt in gear to get started with some courses. I started an Indian cooking class today that was fun but not quite as hands-on as I'd hoped. Today's menu: vegetable biriyani and vegetable korma. Despite my feverish attempts to keep notes and measurements, I quickly learned that real Indian cooks (like any other I guess) use more intuition than they do measuring spoons. This could be interesting.

Tomorrow, I'll observe the preparation of paneer butter masala and vegetable pakora and start my first yoga class in the forest with a Yugoslavian named Zoli.

Me no blog long time. Hope everyone at home had a fantastic 4th of July, full of watermelon and fireworks. I have no idea what I did, I didn't realize the date until the 5th. And, a happy belated birthday to my niece Nicole, whom I love and adore and miss so much. She turned 11 on July 1.

So, Chris, Paul and I stay in Manali for a 2-day/2-night outdoor Full Moon party thrown by a crew of party organizers and DJs from Goa. Though we wake up at 2 AM to arrive at the party before sunrise (dawn starts damn early around here, like 4:45) we are thwarted by a downpour that lasts three hours. We stay awake playing our friend Matt's invented card game Trip 'til the rain stops at 5. We then hop a taxi and hike an hour uphill through a small village to the party venue; a large grass clearing atop a mountain overlooking the Kullu Valley below. The morning sunlit Indian Himalayan peaks poke up behind the lower foothills as clouds and mist shift in and out.

We dance to wicked trance, sleep and talk all day until we can't take anymore (around 5 pm) and begin the descent back home. As we walk down, we pass several uniformed policemen walking up. "Where's the party?" they ask us. We point to a blue tarp-roofed chai stand above. After a few niceties they're off, we later learn, to close down the party. This party had supposedly been granted "approval" (in the form of baksheesh) by the Himachal Pradesh government. Turns out the organizers didn't buy enough time and everyone still there was searched on their way out; anyone found in possession of drugs was given the option to post immediate bond in the form of a few hundred rupees baksheesh. Oh, the corruption! It's everywhere.

After the hike down, we jump in a taxi van. We near a police checkpost. While some police have been up the hill shutting down the party, it seems their cohorts have been setting up road blocks below to catch anyone they might have missed. Our driver begins to slow and an officer makes a move toward the van. Then, in an unexpected and bold twist, the driver floors it! Speeding away at top speed leaving the police in his dust, off he goes and with no looking back. I look out the back window and see the officer who had approached our taxi flailing his arms haplessly. Chris, Paul and I snap out of our sleep-deprived slumber and bust into a fit of hysterics.

After a good night's sleep we leave Manali for the nearby Parvati Valley, a hotbed of Israelis with a particular herbal interest in the area. In the valleys of north India, marijuana plants grow like weeds in every yard, on every roadside, in every guesthouse garden. There's even a huge bush growing smack in front of the Manali police station. In the tourist hang-outs of the Parvati Valley, hordes of shawl-swathed Israelis wile away the days in an interminable circle of passed joints and chillums containing India's finest purchased at rock-bottom prices ($3-10 for 10g of hash depending on quality, so I'm told).

We quickly leave the lazy hazy town of Kasol on a 4-day trek to Kheerganga, a small village built around natural hot springs. The first day, we meet up with a fantastic crew of Israelis (shocking!), including wacky Izhar who insists on wearing his lucky red ripped t-shirt he'd been wearing during a motorcycle accident, and Shahar who lived in the States for two years as a child and speaks English with a perfect American accent.

While there seem to be a lot of hot springs in India, none of them have been remotely interesting to me. Either they're hot enough to boil rice, have a men-only policy, or are in some setting that doesn't quite befit what one thinks of when one pictures hot springs. These hot springs were perfection. The men's pool is outdoors, fed by a hot spring just above it and overlooking the steep Parvati Valley below and forested mountains all around. An occasional glimpse of 22,000 foot peaks is afforded when the clouds cooperate. The women's pool is enclosed in a wood structure with two giant skylights. While the view isn't quite the same, we girls decide we're the lucky ones because inside, we could more loosely interpret the bulleted list of rules posted above the pool.

Yesterday I parted ways with Chris and Paul in Kasol to return to Manali for the third time, this time more for business than for pleasure. I recently applied for a tour guiding position with Intrepid and my lovely wonderful English buddy Mary connected me with her friend Burger, an Australian guy who works for Intrepid and lives here in Manali with his American wife Tracey and their cherubic tow-headed son Kailash. They've been wonderful to me and are letting me use their spare room while I ply them with questions about the job. A referral from him could mean a lot, so fingers crossed!

I'm leaving tonight to return to the village of Bhagsu near Dharamsala where I was a few weeks ago. I'm planning to spend my remaining few weeks here actually doing some of the things I talked about before; yoga and cooking to start. Until then.