I've been keeping a pretty grueling travel schedule and have not been able to send out an update for a while, so this is an official warning...you may be sick of me after reading this.

We left off with me getting ready to go to the Taj Mahal. We woke before the sun and took the three hour train ride to Agra. Upon arrival, Matt and I were met with the usual crowd of beggars holding children with eyes filled with hunger well trained in the art of begging. If it were just as easy as giving them a couple dollars worth of rupees, the problem would be solved. Having learned the hard way, if you give to one you are swarmed by fifty equally deserving and equally aggressive beggars. It's a tricky thing to harden your heart, but in India it happens with shocking speed.

On the way to the taxi stand, we were thwarted by a smartly dressed older man who promised a full day of sites with a money back guarantee if we weren't provide us with a fantastic day. He handed us a journal filled with rave reviews from travelers gone before us and asked only that we fill it out if we were satisfied. He was a character and we sped off toward the Taj just in time for sunrise. Before letting us out, he warned us of the "sharks" that would be waiting for us. His strict instructions were as follows; Do not use a guide, do not have someone take pictures of you and do not buy the crafts in the surrounding markets. We solemnly promise and in the next three hours we break all three agreements. Even as we approach the site of the Taj, a polite but persistent man follows us and for the price of 100 rupees, agrees to take us around. In the tradition of his father and grandfather, he has devoted himself to teach the tourist all the mysteries of the glorious structure. We finally agree, but pinky swear not to disclose our betrayal to our new friend and Tuk Tuk driver.

Like all things exquisite, it is hard to describe her beauty (I will refer to the Taj in female terms, since like a ship, she exudes female characteristics). The glow from the sun's reflection bouncing off the pristine white marble gave off the impression that she was just waking up and lazily stretching in the morning light. Built as a labor of love, her story would also be woven with death, greed and insanity. She is flawless and I realize as I try to capture her image with my camera, that I will not be able to reproduce in either words or photographs her magnificence. I'm limited to technology and a lexicon that will never do her justice. At first site of the Taj Mahal I am rendered speechless. She is grand, flawless and sits in perfect symmetry on her foundation. I steal a moment in silence in an effort to engrave the image into my memory but return as our guide begins to retell the historic and epically romantic story that was the catalyst for so much beauty and devastation. A labor of love so illustrious always seems to come at a cost so high that destruction is sure to fall in its wake. The story of the Taj Mahal goes that the king lost his dearest love and third wife during the birth of their 14th child. She knew her time was fleeting and made the king promise her several things before she died. The first was that he would never marry again. The second, that he would erect a structure that would forever house her body, but more importantly be so beautiful, that their love would be immortalized in its composition. He fulfilled both promises. After 7 years of design submissions, she finally came to him in a dream and gave him the secrets of a building that would never be rivaled. Not long after, a Turkish designer submitting a duplicate to what the king had dreamt and construction ensued. Twenty-two years later the Taj Mahal was completed. At that time, the king, lost to an opium haze decided that he needed to spend eternity with his beloved and began the construction of an identical mausoleum across the river. This time it would be built in black onyx, the perfect contrast to her white marble and would be connected by a bridge over the river below. It would be the yin to her yang and they would forever hold hands in eternity. But over the years the king had lost support and he was no longer in favor in the eyes of his kingdom. In order to preserve the secrets of the design and ensure that it could never be duplicated, the king had ordered the limbs and tongues be cut off of the artist and tradesman. Needless to say, the people in his country felt betrayed and angered. His middle son used this as the perfect opportunity to take over his fathers rule and in the act of his coup, proceeded to kill the rest of his siblings. Once this was completed, he imprisoned his father in a fort nearby with a view to his precious Taj. He would die looking at the creation he loved the most, but would never set foot on again. The second Taj never went further than breaking ground.

Matt and walked the perimeter separately taking in its magnificence. I now understand why it remains a wonder of the world. The precision and detail is unrivaled and the mathematical perfection of her cemetery would hold the even the most free form of architects at awe. After three hours we left the premises and did a little shopping, thus breaking the second promise. I purchase two small jewelry boxes with stone work emulating the design on the exterior walls.

The rest of the day is spent in the military fort/prison that held the king until his death as well as a quick trip to the "Mini Taj" which sits on the other side of Agra. Towards the end of the day, our driver takes us back to the original Taj, but this time we go to the bank across the river where the second Taj would have been constructed. On our walk to the river we are joined by a group of rambunctious young boys. Some selling post cards and books, while another stands confidently on the back of his camel and demands money for a picture. Two of the more reserved boys flock to Matt and we take a seat on the river bank waiting patiently for the sun to set. We can see the crowds linger on the expanse of almost translucent white marble, but I find great comfort in the soft grassy dirt pile, where I'm surrounded by these curious young kids and herds of grazing goats. It's peaceful and I sit happily with the other locals who have gathered at the end of their day to partake in the splendors of the majestic building at sunset. Their fixed gaze tells me that this scene never grows old and her glory never wilts with time and familiarity. The hours slip away. The boys draw on my journal and wrestle with Matt. It's an intimate time and feels as spectacular and memorable as the view we look upon. I wander up and down the river banks to capture the fleeting moments of the sun. The Taj again becomes duplicitous as the rivers reflection boast of her glory. Darkness wins over light and we say goodbye. I cannot help but wonder how limitless these boys future would be had they been born of a different caste, a different country, a different time. Their knowledge would be scholastic and the fine art of the hustle would elude them. But the reality is they will not go to school and the money I give them will not purchase books, but more postcards and calendars for selling. This is their truth and I cannot superimpose my value system.

One final stop leads us to a master craftsman who tells us of his lineage to the original builders of the Taj. He is an eleventh generation master and has obtained a governmental grant to pursue the dying art of stone cutting and design. He has a school and many apprentices below seeking the master status and preservation of this dying art. At the end of the day he is also a salesman and pushes his wears aggressively. We buy two pieces and leave with his card. I realize how difficult it is must be for an artists. Even if you obtain a name and a degree of success, in order to survive, you must also humble yourself and wear that hat of a salesman. If you do not command an audience or obtain suitable patrons your art will live only in your world and duly die quietly with you. Life is a series of compromises.

We return to the train station, say goodbye to our lovely driver and buy the ticket back to Delhi.

In the next couple days, the decision is made to leave Delhi and take a flight down to the beaches of Goa. Our first night was spent in a shack on stilts, making me wonder if it could hold it's own weight let alone the additional load of us with our substantial bags. It did and I cannot complain about spending $5 for beach front accommodations. Having not seen the beach in daylight, we went to sleep unaware of how beautiful a scene awaited us in the morning. As expected, Goa was idyllic and relaxing for me. Matt on the other hand did not find the same peace and decided that the ambitious plan to run his business while traveling was not going as anticipated. He made the difficult decision to return to NYC and take care of the business. He intends to return before the end of the year. I was sad to see him go.

I left the following day on sleepless overnight bus to Hampi. I listen to the entire collection of Miles Davis until I get to "On the Corner" which got too funky for my mood. I switched to the Magic Numbers. The road was rough and riddled with roots and potholes. This made our journey a series of erratic swerves in an attempt to avoid them which more often than not, become deep jolts as we plowed through them. I watched the sun rise over the rice paddies and note that waking up at dawn was becoming more of a norm than sleeping in. My arrival at Hampi came none too soon.

The beautiful ancient city looks like nothing I've seen in all my travels, let alone in India. I'm blown away by the Roman looking archetype of the ruins. Southern India in no way resembles the impacted feeling of the North. Rolling green hills speckled with huge boulders make up the landscape. From these hilltops, one can see ancient ruins for miles. I roam around and try to picture what life was like in the height of this civilization. The people were loyal to their gods, and the temples with their massive idols are the main attraction. They are larger than life and their display is orchestrated perfectly in the morning light. It feels good to aimlessly wonder. Occasionally I see another onlooker, but today, in my limited time, Hampi is mine without distraction or interruption. The hours pass quickly and I pull myself away from the pillars that seem so organic, that they appear to have grown out of the ground. I say goodbye to the baths of kings and queens that are gentle placed in the fields as though they were natural ponds. Take a final look at the climbing ruins that roll over the backdrop as though they were mounds of dirt. The whole place is spectacular. The laborers, designers and dreamers were able to give this site something that eludes modern architects and an engineer....What was created is bold and timeless. It's lasted centuries not only structurally, but they assembled something that functionally and culturally would be cherished for as long as the materials would hold.

When the time comes to leave Hampi and head to Penakonda to meet my cousin who's living there in an ashram, I hire a driver and prepare for the six hour journey. He speaks very little English and insists I sit in the backseat. We pass through countless villages; all appear to be mirror images of the next. People do laundry, sit and talk to their neighbor, gangs of dogs run through the streets and dirt covered children climb on red plastic chairs. At one point we pass an enormous plant that the driver explains (with great difficulty) is a mine that employs close to 11,000 people. It's unclear what material they are working with, but I began to see a thick coat of orange colored powered over everything. The roads, leaves on trees, even the thread bear clothes of the locals. It's bizarre, but my driver's English is not good enough to clarify the phenomenon. It's as though God has sprinkled orange dust from above and the people neither can nor want to come clean.

About three hours into the journey, my driver asks me if I can drive. I say yes and he immediately pulls over to the side of the highway. I push my shock aside and clumsily take the wheel. As soon as he's convinced I'm capable of driving on the other side of the road, shifting gears with my left hand, he leans his seat back and relaxes. The roads in India are tortuous and the drivers go by a code I've not been inducted in. I focus and begin to enjoy being on the open road. The countryside is rich and the highway is bordered with green fields and animals grazing. Somehow, we pass through all checkpoints undeterred and undisturbed. People that realize a white woman is driving whip around and point. Other than that it is a pleasant drive. My driver is pleased and shocked a woman has mastered the skill and it makes me think the reputation of bad driving that plagues my gender has crossed international lines.

We arrive in Penakonda in about six hours. We pass through the gates after an intense security checkpoint and my cousin Johanna meets me immediately. I'm a site and I've not taken a shower in two days. Johanna and her friend Cindy on the other hand look angelic. They're donning ornate white dresses and long white pants. They look like elegant tailored pajamas and I admit to myself I'm looking forward to trying on a pair of my own. I do not romanticize my sand encrusted, thorn ridden sweat pants and dirty shirt. Without embarrassment, Johanna walks me through the ashram grounds and to the apartment. I take a shower and get changed into the required, but lovely outfits. As we make our way along the compound, the combination between the white dress and white marble floors gives me the feeling that I'm gliding rather than walking. We go to the hut where several large tin pots of prepared food wait for us. We are joined by several other devotees and an engaging conversation ensues. Families, travel, last residence, anecdotes of India are all shared. I'm surprised that the residents have not ventured out of the idyllic ashram walls more. Johanna, who has been there for the better part of 10 years, has a very short resume of Indian journeys. It becomes clear that the residents have made great sacrifices to come to India in pursuit of their spiritual path and everything else falls second to their service. This is a dedication I admire and I'm glad to witness first hand what has drawn members of my family to this place.

The women are lovely, attentive and I have a great meal on the cement floor of the hut. A time of worship follows in the temple. I hear the harmonic voices of about 40 women and five men. The Sanskrit chants are soft and sound more like poetry than mantras. There is a lovely feeling of community and it's clear that a kindred thread ties these people together. On the way back I get a better look at the compound. It's beautiful. Surrounded by 15 foot walls, there is a feeling of safety and isolation. They're in the middle of a city, but on so many levels they exist in a world of their own. The fact that it's located in India seems practically irrelevant. The ashram is well lit and a pleasant glow illuminates the decorative gardens and huge trees. It is good to see Johanna. She is beautiful, direct, sensitive and serene. She welcomes me openly and treats me like family.

Unfortunately, my stay at the ashram was limited to a couple days and I head to Bombay to catch a flight to Thailand. As usual, Bangkok is fun, fast paced and there is an underlining pride in the development and westernization that I hadn't experienced before. Thailand's long term plan to shed it's once rural struggling image and be recognized as a thriving first world country is in full effect. Still, the city takes great delight in its sacred and decorative temples and the citizens still loyally serve the monks and the Buddhist church.

Two days after I arrived in Thailand, I head up north to the old capital of Sukhothai for the Loy Krathong Festival. To say that it was a beautiful display of culture, costume and lights would be an understatement. Set to the backdrop of some of the oldest intact ruins in the world, the people of Thailand gathered to celebrate the traditions from centuries ago. The festival of lights entails days of food, music, traditional dancing Mui Thai boxing and fireworks. These activities revolve around the nightly release of decorative floating flower arrangements that are lit with candles and sparklers and sent down the river or into the lake. A prayer for health and wealth is made upon its release in hopes for an auspicious following year. The floating prayers gracefully drift away and make what must look like an enormous birthday cake of candles from above.

After three days of the festival and I head back down to Bangkok to wait for the arrival of my brother and sister in law (Clayton and Jessica). I was especially excited to have them join me here in Thailand for several reasons. Jessica and I have a history is this country. We met here six years ago while we were both studying and traveling. We became very close and in my single prophetic moment, I let her know that one day she would marry my brother. This in no way interested her, but over a year later they would met and the rest is history. Having them in Thailand felt as though things had come full circle and I was like a little kid on Christmas eve waiting their arrival. The added element that made this visit so special, was just before leaving for the trip, they found out Jess was pregnant. It was an amazing time and getting to share this development with them made the trip even more extraordinary.

They arrived from Nicaragua after three days of grueling travel and hit the ground running. A day tour of the Bangkok temples, fittings for tailor made suits, a morning at the floating market and the compulsory daily massage took up our time. After several days in Bangkok, Jess, Clayt and I headed down south to the Island of Kho Pi Pi . I think we all needed a couple days with a slower pace to catch up on rest, shake their jet lag and in my case, do some writing. As the trip progresses, so does my approach to the project. I'm continually viewing this as work and tackling each day as a series of goals I need to accomplish. Having them there proved to be extremely helpful. They delivered a fresh approach, sound advice, a new wave of energy and the confidence that comes from being around people who love you.

My time at the beach was filled with diving, climbing and resting. Kho Pi Pi was devastated by the Tsunami and is still in the process of rebuilding. This has not stopped the influx of travelers that loyally return to their favorite island with each trip to Thailand. The water is warm and clear and the crowd is tan and lively. Unfortunately Jess was battling a serious case of morning sickness, and no matter how tough she tried to be, it became clear they needed to get home. But they did not leave without giving me one of the most special memories of my life. On an early morning in Bangkok, the three of us sat around the screen of an ultrasound machine listening to the melodic beat of the baby's heart. It was a mind-blowing moment that I was grateful to be a part of. They left shortly after and I went back to work, with a new sense of purpose.

That's more than enough for now (if you guys actually made it through). I will be sending out updates more frequently so that you will not have to endure a novella every time I catch up on my adventures!

Thanks for your support and please feel free to pass these updates along to whomever you think may be interested. Spreading the word is very important for this project and I'm so grateful that many of you have already connected me with other travelers.

God Bless,
Heather