I came, I saw, I stayed.

I love my new apartment.  It’s kitschy, quirky and a little nuts.  It has interesting character and frankly, needs help.  So does Joel, which is where I come in.  He has no idea how to organize himself, and that’s what I’m quite good at.  I’ve been here three days and I’ve already painted the bathroom, organized the kitchen and have made a massive dent in the stacks of expired ‘Emergency Food’.

I’m having a blast!

It’s been since January 2008 (when I got kicked out of Canada) since I had a proper home and room of my own – I’ve been sharing a crashpad or just crashing in general and I’ve gotten tired of it.  The reason I love this situation is that it’s a home, but it’s not MY home – I still don’t have strings tying me down.  I have commitment issues, it seems.

I’m currently trying to find the closest laundromat, drinking a yummy chai latte and enjoying the silence of a million electronics plugged in at once while the rain falls outside the window.  Bliss.

For reference, here’s a couple before and after pics:

The left half of the kitchen, pre-organizing.

The right side of the kitchen and a tiny peek of the bathroom, pre-organizing.

The post-organizational kitchen

The post-organizational bathroom.  Still needs sorting bins on the shelves, but I’m happy.

Thus begins the exodus of disorganization.  I’ve already called for a pick-up-drop-off laundry service, and am happily tucking into sorting out the second bedroom!  I have to say, it’s super fun to organize someone else.  I’m going to turn this into a job.  I’ll call it the Little Lady Agency, and rent myself out to men who need their lives organized.

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In case I forgot to mention this previously…

I’m a big fan of FairTax.

I try not to get too political on my blog (mostly because I’m busy having a great life and srs biznss is booooring), but I was reminded today by ridiculous government spending about WHY I fly under the radar.  I would happily fly even further under the radar by not reporting income/paying taxes, except it’s FORCED ON ME by mandatory tax deductions from my paycheck.  Since I make so little already, I usually get money back, and I’m required to file taxes to receive them…blah blah blah.

Mail It Back – US Census commercial

Great use of government funds, asshats.  Also, way to go on the bail out money.  Do I need to come up in there and show you  how it’s done?  I fed my ex-husband and I on $68/month when we were poor.  You guys are doing it wrong.

Anywho.  So. FairTax.  Go read the link.  At a most basic level, it abolishes income taxes (yay, no more loopholes for the rich!  No more unreclaimed tax money by people doing their own taxes! No more April 15th!).  Instead, everything – goods and services – has an un-get-around-able 23% tax.   You need Starbucks?  Great, so does the mob.  You need a doctor, you pay the tax.  No one gets around it – it significantly impacts under-the-table dealing and money laundering (no, it’s not all-encompassing, and yes, things will still get around the law, but it does a significantly better job of taxing those who seem to get around the law already).

While we’re at it, make marijuana legal and tax it.  Two years from now we’ll all be happier and there won’t be any federal deficit.

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Life List #1 – Yoga at Dawn on the Taj Mahal, October 2009

I took a really awesome trip at the beginning of my leave of absence last year – I may have mentioned once or twice that I went to India.  Maybe? I thought I might have.

One of my favourite things about the trip was taking the overnight train from Varanassi to Agra.  We arrived with the sunrise, deposited onto a raised train station platform that housed a sleeping cow, stacks of bricks and various colourful indigent people curled up with their belongings.  Outside the train station, there were (of course) throngs of people, crowded around. Coolies calling to help us with our baggage, we shrugged on our backpacks and headed toward the taxi queue.  A short ride through a surprisingly clean city and we arrived at the Hotel Agra ($9 a night, but the trade off for price was bed bug bites) at 8am.

In America, arriving at a hotel at 8am would get you NOTHING.  In India, they didn’t have a hotel room ready for us, but they opened the kitchen to offer us breakfast and let us nap in a ‘waiting’ room with a tv and a couple of beds until the room was ready.  Total kindness and quite delicious – breakfast of chai and honey toast on the roof, watching the early morning mist burn off, exposing the beauty of the nearby Taj little by little.

Having missed seeing the sun rise at the Taj Mahal that morning, we decided to spend the day relaxing after a not-so-restful train ride the night before (I ended up with an unshakable cold from the freezing air conditioning) and see the Taj bright and early the next morning.  That night, we walked 50 meters to the Oberoi Amarvilas, a five star, luxury hotel ($600-3300/night is definitely luxury).  We had read in the Lonely Planet India guide that their hotel bar was expensive, amazing and worth a visit.  After our austere living in an ashram and the rigors of cross-India travel, we figured we deserved a night of cocktails in exquisite surroundings.

Walking up to the hotel, though, proved to be a little more difficult than we’d realized.  Stopped by several guards with large guns, they made us wait at the gate house.  As it turns out, no one just ‘walks up’ to the Oberoi.  Apparently, we looked like riffraff with our less than luxurious clothes. I didn’t exactly pack high heels and expensive dresses when I packed!

I didn’t look THAT bad!

The guards with guns called Reception to find out if we could be allowed entry. Reception said no.  The guards turned us away.  Clare and Alida started to go.  I stood my ground.  I know that prudence is sometimes the better part of valor, but I was positive they wouldn’t just outright SHOOT me.  Okay, I was *fairly* certain, but I stood my ground anyway.

“I would like to speak to someone at Reception.”

“No, no, no.  You must go.  Very busy tonight. Not allowed. Must go. Must go!”

“Absolutely not. Please ring Reception back, I insist on speaking with a manager.”

After much hand waving (but no threatening motions with guns, thankfully), the guard in charge called Reception back and handed me the phone.

“Good evening.  Yes, hi. This is Maigen Thomas.  My travel companions and I would like to come enjoy a drink in your hotel bar this evening.” … “I do understand that you have an exclusive group of people staying in your hotel and that all rooms have been booked.  I’m not interested in a room, I would like a drink.  In the bar.” … “I have, in hand, a copy of the Lonely Planet – India and in it there is an entry for your hotel which states that your hotel restaurant and bar are open to non-hotel guests.  Are you disputing this information?  I should let you know that I’m a travel writer for a website based in the United States, and I would happy to post the information that your hotel is less than welcoming and I’m sure that the information in the Lonely Planet can be changed to reflect this.” … “Oh, so we can come and enjoy a drink at the bar?  Yes.  I understand the entire restaurant is full.  Thank you, we promise to stay in the bar area.”

I passed the phone back to the head guard, who confirmed the information and allowed us to pass.  Clare and Alida were laughing at my flagrant mis-information (they weren’t *lies*, they were just half-truths.  THIS is a website based in the US and I DO write about travel!) and thrilled that my moxie got us through the gate!

That evening we had many glasses of expensive local wine (pinot noir from India isn’t bad, but it wasn’t really great), and enjoyed some amazing conversation.  Light snacks were brought to us (in lieu of dinner in the restaurant, we just kept asking for more refills of the puffed lotus seeds and salted peanuts!) and we eventually meandered onto the patio to enjoy the beautiful balmy breeze and gorgeous view of the Oberoi compound.

Later in the night, two extremely handsome, tall men wandered out on the balcony to enjoy a cigarette.  One of them caught my eye and came over to speak to me.  Deep blue eyes, about 6’2, well dressed, broad shoulders – oh my. We ended up sharing a cigarette and chatting for quite a while.  It was lovely flirting with this handsome Austrian man, but I can’t remember his name.  I do remember making plans to meet at dawn at the Taj Mahal, though.

The next morning, rising early and enduring a harrowing, bizarre tuktuk ride through Agra (in the opposite direction, it appeared, from the Taj) causing Clare to have a freak attack and yell at the driver.  He got us there safely, but irritatingly, we found out we could easily have walked.  It was kind of expensive to get in to see the Taj, but was breathtakingly worth it.

Walking up the long pathway to the main building, I was stunned at how beautiful the building looked in the misty light.  Just as I was crossing over the main path to the shoe holding area (they require you to wear shoe covers or go barefoot), I looked up to the balcony area and there he was.  My handsome date.  Waiting for me, wearing jeans, a dark sweater with a collared shirt. Dark shades.  A nonchalant half-wave-half-salute.  And a smile.

I blushed.  It has to be said, it might be one of my best dates ever – even if I can’t remember his name.  There was nothing more to it than a slow stroll around the world’s best known monument to eternal love, but it was amazing for exactly that reason.

Then, as the sun crested and the heat struck the side of the building, I was inspired.  A sense of peace and balance came over me.  I laughed, I couldn’t believe how unbelievable it was – I’m in India!  At the Taj Mahal!  Whatever possessed me to come here, I thanked the urge.  I thanked the Universe for providing the way and the means.

So, of course, I did Dancer’s Pose.  Because it’s my favourite celebration of balance and joy.

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