Angry NYC Cabbie and how I survived the ride down to SoHo

The cabbie pulled over to get me at the corner of 78th and broadway. In the predawn darkness, it was hard to discern whether he was Indian or African and I was grateful for his question about which route to take, as it allowed me to confidently place him somewhere between Pakistan and India.

“Ve tek Vest Side Driwe yeh?”

We drove along West Side Highway with my friendly driver cursing loudly at cars who dared to press on their brakes along the way. He narrowly missed several pedestrians, but undeterred continue to lurch the cab toward jay-walkers at every opportunity. Fortunately , I had left the apartment in a rush and had no time for breakfast. We arrived 20 minutes later, my fingernail scratches visible on the pleather banquette beneath my sweaty palms. My stomach gurgled with gastric juices now well agitated by the sea like swells traversed at break neck speed in the car. I thanked my driver, tipped him well, and accepted his heartfelt blessings for my family, and entered the hotel lobby grateful to be alive.

Bilbao bound, Gehry Guggenheim and Welcome to La Rioja

We left Barcelona after a lengthy baggage check-in at the airport which required the emptying of one suitcase and redistribution of toiletries into the other suitcase so as to respect the strict 23.5kg baggage limit imposed by the Franko-era-esque airline regulations. My stash of pilfered mini hotel shampoos and conditioners safely aboard the aircraft, we flew to Bilbao where our chatty chauffeur did not allow his complete lack of spoken English to interfere at all with his prolific discourse. His accent was deeply Basque and struggle as I might to understand his musings, I could not make sense of it. I resorted to smiling politely and the occasional nod, which seemed to satisfy him. We arrived at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao and had a tour of this most impressive Frank Gehry masterpiece and its contents. Our guide Javiera is an art student at the University and a punk rock devotee. Her electric blue highlights and EMO make up contrasted with her traditional Basque-inspired museum uniform, resulting in a twisted yet charming effect. Joining us on our tour was a senior couple from the midwest who were straight out of central casting. Javiera did an admirable job tolerating the rotund husband's frequent inquiries into whether the permanent collection was on loan from an American museum.

After the tour we were picked up by our prolific chauffeur who delivered us to the awe inspiring Marques de Riscal Hotel in the La Rioja wine region. The hotel is another work of Frank Gehry and it is spectacularly set against the rollicking vineyards of the lush Spanish countryside. We checked into our suite and I was thrilled to find a plentiful variety of mini Caudalie bath products. You see, my travels will be taking me to France to my cousin's villa in St. Tropez, and chic mini toiletries are something I always bring as a bit of a running joke. I emptied the entire selection into the hotel laundry bag, and after locking it away in the room safe and asking the maids to replenish our toiletries, headed out for a walk of the expansive grounds.

Dinner that evening was outdoors in the tiny medievel hamlet of Laguardia at the restaurant Los Parajes in the central square, where we enjoyed the best burrata cheese on earth and the most divine meal of the trip. We kept ordering pinxos as each was better than the last, and I suppose I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter suggested we might have eaten enough and perhaps should consider dessert.

Back in our hotel suite at 1am, the toiletries had been restocked and after tucking the beautiful bottles and razor kits into the safe, fell into a glorious slumber.

Shoes Before Breakfast, Marc the Revolutionary Guide, Tapas in El Borne

I awoke at 8:45am and as the electric blinds parted, I was faced with the beautiful sea glistening in the morning sunshine. A 45-minute yoga video opened my heart and hips to the day, and prepared me for breakfast. En route to the dining room, I couldn’t help but notice an adorable shoe boutique called Prima Ballerinas directly opposite the restaurant. I felt compelled to enter and within found the most charming selection of handmade leather sandals, ballet shoes and wedges.

A disdainful looking French couple was busy ordering the salesgirl around with the effortless contempt of deposed royalty. The wife was the color of old leather, a look only achieved through decades of extreme sun exposure and the chain smoking of unfiltered cigarettes. She barked orders out at the young sales clerk while simultaneously talking on her mobile phone and criticizing the service she was receiving to her husband, also on his mobile. Ignoring the French couple, I assessed the merchandise, and felt irresistibly drawn to a pair of silver sandals adorned with Swarovski crystals. The display shoe was in fact my size, a European 38, a clear sign from above. I slipped the supple leather onto my foot and it fit perfectly, tres Cinderella.

With childlike exuberance I approached the sales girl, who was partially hidden from view behind a tall and teetering stack of shoeboxes she was holding at Madam’s behest. I ask her ever so politely and in French, if she might ring this pair of sandals up for me and then continue catering to the needs of Madam. From behind the boxes the sales clerk smiled at me pleadingly with her eyes and then looked longingly at Madam for consent. Madam, never breaking from her mobile phone discussion, and quite obviously disgusted by the interference of “l’Americaine” nodded reluctantly, as if to say, “Go ahead you useless idiot and be quick about it.”

I paid and was delighted to have made my first purchase before breakfast, not something one does every day. After a satisfying breakfast of natural yogurt and walnuts we met our guide Marc, and driver Fernanado, who would be taking us out for an overview of Barcelona. At the Museum of Catalan Culture Marc explained to us how Catalonia is not part of Spain at all. I found this curious as I was reasonably sure I was indeed in Spain, having gone through passport control upon my arrival.

Marc went on to explain that in fact Catalonia is far superior to Spain and that the inhabitants of Barcelona and other Catalonian cities would be better off if they could officially separate from Spain. Unfortunately the Spanish Constitution does not allow for a state to separate no matter how superior they may be. Marc explained as an important point of reference how the Catalonian government recently outlawed bullfighting due to reasons of animal cruelty, and that the rest of Spain was outraged. This outrage outraged Marc.

Having been raised in Montreal and lived through the separatist movement first hand, I felt it best to simply switch the subject to various lunch spots in the Gothic section of town called El Borne. This prompted Marc to share with me how in Catalonia one calls the traditionally served tasty shared dishes found in small restaurants throughout the cities and villages, “tapas”, but that in the Basque country they are called “pinxos”, which Marc pointed out is clearly ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, I must say I find them delicious. Marc took us to an ancient synagogue in El Borne as well as to the site of a recently discovered Roman villa, and to both the Modern Art and the Picasso Museums. That evening we enjoyed dinner at “Moments” restaurant in the new Mandarin Oriental hotel and were in bed by 2am.

Baggage failure, Spanish lessons, Bright Whites, and The Case of the Grandiose Chocolate Box

I arrived in Barcelona, now joined by my adorable husband, feeling refreshed and relaxed. I cleared immigration and headed to baggage claim for a one-hour wait at conveyor belt #4, which would end in defeat. Sadly, my suitcase would not be joining me in Barcelona that day. But fear not dear reader, for being the savvy traveler that you know me to be, inside my enormous roller bag carry-on was a two day supply of fresh clothes (including evening attire), toiletries, Atkins Carb-control power bars, and cinnamon chewing gum because fresh breath is always a priority. I filed my missing bag claim with the unsympathetic electric blue eye-shadowed woman at the kiosk, and exited the baggage hall. Frankly after my exquisite journey to this point, I was dumbfounded as to why there is not a special First Class Lost Baggage Claim area cordoned off with royal blue velvet rope, and plan to write to BA forthwith.

I found my smiling driver holding a sign with my misspelled name. He spoke no English, and so with my clever on-the-spot transformation of Italian into Spanish, (simply end every other word in either “os” or “ra”, employ liberal use of “si, si, si”, start sentences with “jo vengo al…”, or “vamos al hotel porfavor”) managed to make pleasant small talk with the driver who informed me it would take approximately 30 minutes to get to the Hotel Arts.

The marvelous hotel is situated on the beach and my check-in was conducted by a lovely young Spaniard who apologized for the General Manager’s inability to welcome me personally to the hotel as she had been called away to Abu Dhabi for the opening of a new hotel there. I assured him that this inconvenience was completely understandable given the circumstances. We were then entrusted to an adorable Dutch hostess with big blue eyes and a constant giggle. She asked if we were here for a special occasion and I told her that it was our 18th anniversary. From that moment on, the young woman would be wishing us a “Heppy Hooneymoon” at every chance. Her uniform consisted of a multilayered midnight blue floor length skirt and matching jacket. The skirt was so ample that I feared she would trip over it at any moment and found myself trying to edge in front of her so as to break her fall when the inevitable spill happened. In response the woman would tactfully quicken her pace in order to retake the lead and show me the way to the elevator. And so it was as we walked along the hallway, politely racing one another and exchanging the leadership position off an on. I finally gave up hope of saving her and allowed her a commanding lead as we approached the elevator.

She escorted us to our suite and showed us how to operate the somewhat confusing espresso machine and much more confusing remote controlled electric blinds. After conquering the in-suite electronics, we showered and headed out to meet our Spanish friend Bernardo who had arranged a private tour of Gaudi’s famed Segrada Famiglia Basilica.

Following the tour, we walked along the Passieg de Gracias where all the high-end shops are located, and passed two other famous and very whimsical Gaudi buildings along the avenue. After much walking, we enjoyed some light bites at Tapac 24, yummmmm, a much loved local Tapas Bar. One word of caution, if ever served a delicious tender off the bone meat dish with truffle undertones, please do not ask what it is until having completed your consumption. Trust me.

We stopped at Massimo Dutti to purchase white trousers for Bernardo and David as we will be attending the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona next week and all-white attire is de rigeur. After then veering onto the bustling Las Ramblas Avenue and stopping to collect some mother-of-pearl selier spoons at a fabulous design shop, we headed to our 10pm dinner at Dos Cielos atop the Me Hotel. This Michelin starred restaurant does not allow gentlemen to dine in shorts and so fortunately David ducked quickly into the Banos and changed into his new bright white pants, and we were seated immediately on the terrace, aided in no small measure by the illumination gained off of David’s gleaming white trousers.

Our 8 course dinner was delicious and somewhat of an athletic undertaking for we were not yet accustomed to the 3 hour-long dinner format. After the pre-dessert, the dessert and the post-dessert courses, the waiter arrived with 3 beautiful jewelry boxes emblazoned with the Dos Cielos logo. The waitress stood by my side as I opened my box, eagerly anticipating a keepsake. Instead I found the cushioned white satin interior to contain nothing but a single chocolate truffle. My disappointment was difficult to contain. The waitress then explained that the truffle was filled with passion fruit and that “deh bosc muss eh’stay at deh restaurant.” Seriously? As if I would have made off with the box. Besides which, who fills a perfectly good jewelry box with chocolate and who fills a perfectly good chocolate with fruit?? Needless to say, I left my chocolate in its casing untouched.

Back at out hotel at 1:30am and feeling very cool, I donned my eye mask and went to sleep. Buenos noches.

Barcelona Bound, First Class Imposter Alert, Edgar the Obsequious

Dear Reader,

It has been ever such a long time since my last trip, which if you missed it was to the magical land of India in late March of this year. I am happy to report that I am on the global travel road once again.

I dropped the two younger kids off on Thursday morning at the airport for their plane to summer sleep away camp north of Toronto. My eldest I entrusted to my mother who will be taking her to Paris for culture, baguette and excellent practice of her French. As for me you wonder, well I hopped on a flight destined for Barcelona via JFK to meet up with my hubby for an 18th wedding anniversary trip through Spain. Before reaching Barcelona I had the pleasure of being welcomed by the British Airways First Class Check-in Agent. She seemed genuinely concerned with my well being which I always appreciate.

At JFK I cleared the private access First Class security screening line and found myself in the terminal surrounded by gates and shops. But where was the First Class Lounge? An officious looking BA Flight Attendant was walking my way and so I stopped to inquire as to the whereabouts of the elusive lounge.

Lorna: “Excuse me, could you kindly direct me to the First Class Lounge?”

BA Agent (blond pageboy haircut, chubby, blue eyed, pastel pink lipstick smiling): “Do you mean the Business Class Lounge?”

Lorna (trying not to appear offended): “No,” (smiling extra widely), “I mean the First Class Lounge. Do you know where it is by chance?” (sounding more British by the moment in the hopes of being better understood by agent whose clotted cream consumption has detrimentally affected her hearing)

BA Agent: “Is your seat in First Class?”

Lorna: (smiling so widely cheeks are cramping) “Yes, seat 2K in fact, that’s me.”

BA Agent (looking me up and down carefully): “Oh, well please follow me and I’ll show you.” Pausing meaningfully, “It’s actually called the Concorde Room,” she explained, instantly outing me as a JFK BA First Class First Timer. She moved surprisingly swiftly on her stubby legs, “and they will need to look at your boarding pass so you might like to get it ready.”

Lorna: “Thanks ever so much,” keeping up pace while fantasizing about an airport buggy manned by a turban sporting Sikh, careening wildly out of control into the acerbic agent and trampling her.

Sure enough the royal blue velvet ropes to the unmarked Concorde Room appeared before me. I walked through the opening in the ropes with swagger and the electric glass doors opened for me. Inside a sophisticated silver haired blue suited gentleman greeted me and asked if he “might have a look at your boarding pass Miss.” Overjoyed that A) he did not call me “Ma’am”; and B) I had the genuine First Class boarding pass in hand, I held the pass out for inspection with a slight flourish. The gentleman nodded appreciatively and motioned for me to follow him inside the inner sanctum.

Suddenly, a 40-something year old Hispanic gentleman in a blue suit appeared, and I kid you not, bowed ever so slightly to me. “This is Edgar,” the silver fox announced. “Ms. Borenstein, Edgar will attend to your every need. Please enjoy,” and away he walked back to ward the front leaving me with Edgar.

“Welcome, welcome Meez Borenstein. I am Ed-Gahr, and I well be jor bottler juring jor stay here. I am supposed to geev jo a twenteh meenoot espeech regarding deh lounch. Bot if jo prefer, I jost geev jo deh ab-reev-ee-ate-ed esplanacion.” Obvioulsy I opted for the shorter esplanacion.

“Theez lounch iz jor leeve-eng rhoom. Do as jo pleez. Dat iz et.” Edgar smiled obsequiously and yet endearingly. “Now, ‘how can I helpeh jo?”

The lounch was set up like a series of swank modern Upper East Side living rooms, replete with art deco lamps, oversized coffee tables surrounded by crisp leather chairs, and comfy extra deep couches in muted grays and silvers, nesting on plush carpet. Edgar found me a lovely corner spot and began plying me with warm cashews and marinated olives. He informed me that he was present should I desire conversation and was well versed in cinema, literature and the planning of weddings. Edgar told me all about his bridal blog and shared a bit too much on the characteristics of all “Bridezillas”. He was particularly fond of his analogy whereby he likened the planning of a wedding to the purchase of Manhattan real estate. “If jo want a biew oh da park, will cos’ esstra.”

After an enjoyable dinner in the lounge, I headed for the plane and was welcomed by purser Graeham who was positively exuberant at my decision to fly BA. Graeham was showing the other First Class passengers, one at a time, how to use their pod amenties including the newly installed fully reclining seat/beds. When it came to my turn, Graeham said, “I don’t imagine you need much of an explanation Miss Borenstein, you are familiar with the cabin aren’t you?”

God bless Graeham was what came immediately to mind. I didn’t have the heart to correct his touching error, and so simply gave out a mild giggle of knowing laughter which Graeham greatly appreciated. Luckily I had watched his prior demonstrations and had at this point full mastery of the pod.

After take off I enjoyed an appetizer of poached lobster and then informed Graeham that I was ready for sleep, and so he dispatched one of the flight attendants to make my bed with a comfy duvet and pillows whilst I changed into my BA First Class Sleeping Suit in the lavatory. It was a bit large as I had been handed a size Medium but as the woman in 1K pointed out, “Who wants to sleep in something tight.”

I love BA, I love BA, I love BA…………..

Ananda, I am Vata hear me roar, Ganga Aarti

This morning we bade farewell to Hirsch, Mr. Jith, and Bala in Delhi, and flew to the town of Dehradun situated in the foothills of the Him-al-yas. We were met at the airport by our colorfully turbaned and thick mustachioed driver, who whisked us up the mountains to the idyllic site of the Ananda Spa. The Spa sits in the center of a sprawling mountaintop haven, owned to this day by the Maharaja, and which contains the Maharaja’s palace. Ananda is a serene wellness center where the staff to guest ratio of 5:1 makes for a luxurious and friendly atmosphere. The perpetually genuflecting staff call out “Namashcar” every time they pass you and the al fresco dining room waiters remember how you like your earl grey tea (with lemon thank you) and that you prefer sparkling water. Upon arrival we were greeted with flower necklaces and a traditional welcome whereby a small prayer was offered and a red saffron dot placed between my eyes to ward off evil while musician played the sitar and flute.

I then had my Ayurvedic and Wellness Consultation with the resident Ayurvedic doctor, Dr. Shabyran. The kind doctor explained that he would do a brief intake to assess my Ayurvedic body type (there are 3 types and depending on your type different foods are encouraged and discouraged) so that I could follow a special food and beverage regimen while at Ananda. I informed him that I knew I was not a Vata but unsure as to whether I might be a Pitta or a Kapha. Dr. Shabyran gave me a sideways glance, “let me be the judge of that” he seemed to be saying. A few questions later, the most embarrassing of which required me to classify the nature of my stool as “dry”, “oily”, or “moist”, and the good doctor pronounced that I was very clearly Vata. So there.

He then went on to describe in specific detail the telltale signs of Vata; she prefers to drink water at room temperature, often suffers from indigestion, suffers from knee pain, has skin that is highly sensitive and on and on. Dr. Shabyran gave me a deep knowing look, “nailed it!” his soft brown eyes announced. I was cautioned to never skip meals but eat often, to avoid cold foods, and to ensure that I had sufficient fat in my diet to combat my tendency toward dryness. This will now serve as my favorite excuse for why I must indulge in full fat cheeses and add cream to pretty much everything. I am also to avoid cauliflower and other “windy” vegetables and legumes such as lentils as according to the doctor “tey wheel tend to mek you even gahseeah tan you neture-alee ahr”. I assured him that I am no “gahseeah” than the next person and that even when I am gassy it doesn’t have an odor, in response to which the good doctor simply smiled and said, “Tis the sem for all Vata. Too much ayahr, too much weend.”

I then relaxed into a 4-handed Manipuri Massage, Ananda’s signature Ayurvedic treatment which is a full body scrub followed by a deep tissue massage employing two massage therapists as well as warm poultices filled with detoxifying herbs. After my massage, and feeling the warm post massage glow flowing throughout my every chakra, I changed and headed into the town of Rishikesh to attend the holy ceremony of Ganga Aarti.

Rishikesh is the yoga capital of India and the place where yoga is said to have been created. It is also the home of the annual International Yoga Festival which I imagine is like Lollapalooza for Yogis. The town is situated on the banks of the Ganges and pilgrims flock here all year long to pray by the holy river which itself is an incarnation of the god Shiva, and to cleanse themselves by ablution and dare I say it, the drinking of the Ganges water. Having been taking the precaution of drinking 2 tablespoons of Pepto Bismal daily as a prophylactic stomach protector while in India, I cannot fathom how anyone would dare drink directly from the river.

Our driver parked the van by the riverside, ditched his turban, and led us through the village past women selling flower and food offerings for the gods. We then boarded a small wooden boat and crossed the Ganges along with colorfully dressed pilgrims excitedly chatting away. We then disembarked and walked through the cow strewn streets (there are an enormous number of sacred cows in this country), taking time to visit the local Ashram where young Indian boys from Brahmin families are sent to live and study Hinduism and Yoga from the age of 8-18. The saffron colored robes of the boys are as immaculate as their carefully combed hair. I spotted one young man, so beautiful that he could have been a Bollywood movie star playing the role of a young priest in training at the Ashram. I may have come across as a bit of a camera stalker to the young man, who did look mildly uncomfortable when I trained my lense on him repeatedly.

We found seats on the marble steps beneath an archway leading down to the river and thus seated amongst the pilgrims, the boys and their Swami, enjoyed the hour long chanting and singing of the Ganga Aarti ceremony. Candles were lit, incense burned, offerings tossed into the holy fire and holy river, and the Swami’s muse led the crowd in melodic verses of “Om Shanti, Shanti Om”, as well as several stanzas of an old Beatles song (seriously who knew that “Hari Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hari Hari, Hari Rama, Hari Rama, Rama Rama Hari Hari,” were actually the words to a holy Hindu prayer sung on the banks of the Ganges at dusk). I sang along to that part with gusto, eliciting smiles from several of the younger boys. The boys swayed as they sang, hands above their heads in exultation to mighty Shiva, Krishna and Rama.

The service was magical (video clip attached) and as the sun set and the service came to an end, we made our way back across the river by footbridge, carefully avoiding holy cows and their patties, under the cover of darkness.