You became too much to bear and so I ran away. I’ve become a grief refugee. I know I can’t escape you completely but I came to stay in a place where contentment exists. Where the energy of honest people and joyful chaos fill in the gaps of the day so that it bursts with life. They’re not mine but I can borrow them for a little while. It is a second-hand happiness. It is a life raft as I navigate through a stagnant ocean of despair. You’ll still be there, just on the other side of familiar shores , but maybe hope will be there, too. I guess we’ll see.
grateful for and inspired by jonny sun’s goodbye, again
Are your bags packed? We’re going on an adventure! At first I didn’t know if I was taking this trip because of you or in spite of you. Either way, I had hoped this international escapade was going to be an escape from you for a little bit. Now I know you’ll be with me every step of the way. You’ll be the only one with me. My excitement about my first solo travel experience has given way to the realization that all it means is I won’t have someone to share it with. “Solo” is really just a rebranding of “alone.”
This pandemic has been undeniably difficult on everyone but it’s been downright brutal for travelers and those of us who like to write about our adventures. I’m a go-big-or-go-home kind of explorer – I take an “airplane or it doesn’t count” approach to my official excursions. However, since that’s not happening any time soon, I’ve elected to stay home. I have crossed a few tasks off the checklist that has been growing over the years but the constant all work and no play of the pandemic has grated away at my already paper thin sanity and capacity for positivity. I have been home. For months. With no end in sight. Although I have accepted the fact that 2020 will not allow me to jet off to Amman or Cartagena, it has also taught me the significance of simple pleasures that are still readily attainable. The pleasuriest of all simple pleasures is ice cream. And that, my friends, is what finally dragged me out of the house and decide to go small.
Small business, that is. Over the past few months, I have been repeatedly impressed by the ingenuity and creativity of small businesses to adapt to circumstances that I’m sure were never a part of any contingency plan. One of the most indulgent and delicious business moves has been from Bucks County ice creamery, Owowcow. Taking a favorite page out of every 20something’s playbook – the bar crawl – the small collection of shops created their own Tour de Cow. Guaranteed to generate both cheer and cash flow, Owowcow issued a challenge to it’s customers to visit all five of their locations in order to win, what else, more ice cream! Evidence has shown that social media bragging rights have also been a big draw. Like any good challenge, this one provides a way to up the ante. If you visit all five outposts in one day (and show your receipts to prove it) you are also rewarded with a free, exclusive t-shirt. The gauntlet had been thrown, the prizes revealed and I was up to the challenge. I recruited a trusty sidekick to pilot the Hyundai Elantra, packed the Lactaid pills and set out on an ice cream road trip adventure.
With the coordinates for all points of interest carefully input into TripIt, we navigated to our first dairy destination. The inaugural stop on our quest brought us to our regular Owowcow shop located in Wrightstown, PA. Here we were supplied with our indispensable map, better known as the official Tour de Cow stamp card. For travelers interested in side quests, the map also provides information concerning nearby adventure opportunities such as grabbing a slice at Vince’s Pizzeria, boating at Lake Galena or exploring the trails along Neshaminy Creek. While these are noble pursuits and ideal for combating the effects of extreme sugar intake, our focus was singular and we chose to stay the course without wavering in order to complete our mission in one day. To obtain the necessary card stamp, a purchase must be made. The pressure of making a flavor choice can be overwhelming but the benevolent masterminds of Owowcow have graciously provided an opportunity for some relief. Again being inspired by the methods and proven practices from the world of adult beverages, an ice cream flight is an option on the menu. Instead of selecting just one or two flavors, you are able to maximize your variety quotient with a total of five scoops. My sidekick decided that this was to be his Tour de Cow destiny and declared that he would consume a flight at every location. I had no doubt that he would be able to fulfill this lofty goal but I knew attempting such a feat myself would likely bring my ice cream journey to an untimely end. However, I agree to join him in this first task. Between the two of us, we sampled ten unique flavors. With our expectations and our blood sugar levels set high, we were off to the next venue.
After departing our usual Owowcow shop, the adventure truly began as we were now venturing into uncharted territory. TripIt directed us along the brief, next leg of our ice cream expedition to Chalfont. We arrived unscathed at the large, stone firehouse that had been transformed into the most recent addition to the Owowcow empire. After passing a graveyard rendered innocuous by the midday sunshine and locating a place to deposit the car without issue, we discovered an immense chalkboard heralding the current flavors of the day. This information was vital in achieving the least amount of time indoors and therefore increased our ability to safely social distance. Once inside, however, we realized that this precaution was mostly unnecessary as our presence only doubled the number of individuals who occupied the impressive structure. Selections were made quickly – another flight of entirely new flavors for my companion and an ice cream pop that resembled an epicurean Good Humor bar for me – then we followed the single path out of the building and rounded back to our vehicle. Here is where we were most tempted to deviate from our course and adjourn to nearby Peace Valley Park; a locale which sounds like an ideal place to spend some quarantine time. Alas, our frozen treats began to give out well before our commitment to our cause ever could. The sweltering heat was merciless and demanded immediate ice cream consumption which did not allow for a detour. Under the shade of a large oak, we furiously ate our delectables while they maintained some solidity and us some dignity. As we did, fellow ice-cream-loving travelers waved at us from a pandemic-friendly distance and requested flavor recommendations. We happily obliged and shared witty reparteé on the joys of day ice creaming – a luxury only second to day drinking but certainly more acceptable on a Tuesday. However, this was no time to make friends and we hastened to our ride as the couple entered the shop. We were only on stop number two in what had become a serious mission in gluttony.
The drive between Chalfont and the subsequent shop would be the longest of our journey; 55 dairy-free minutes of glorious air conditioning. Although I had never previously ventured to Easton, PA, it has been on my travel radar since Sesame Street presented a thrilling expose on the inner workings of the Crayola Factory. I never imagined that ice cream would be what eventually brought me to this mining town and I certainly never expected to leave without a fistful of fresh crayons but both were true of this day. With the doors of the factory currently sealed shut, we were left with no other option than to stay steadfast to the task at hand. The Elantra snaked through the narrow roads of steep hills covered with homes in muted tones of grey, brown and faded slate blue. This is a town of hard work and, for some, a hard life. For a brief moment, I was aware of its uncomfortable juxtaposition to the frivolity of an ice cream shop. But sometimes happiness can be found in the most unlikely of places which is usually where it is needed most. Eventually we reached the bottom of the hill and found ourselves at Simon Silk Mill – a renovated, rustic-on-purpose space that seems to be a popular aesthetic in the slowly, gentrifying parts of the Lehigh Valley. Sequestered away beyond the craft brewery, day spa and balloon sculpture business sat ice cream haven number three. Upon entering, I discovered that shouting my order through my mask and the din of the air conditioning was necessary. The employed guardians of Owowcow, the Teenage Girls, were as polite here as we had found at all previous locations. A second scooper did her honest best to suppress a look that straddled the line of surprise and horror when my companion proclaimed we were doing the entire Tour de Cow in one day. She handed him his third, consecutive, ice cream flight as I took my small cup and vacated the building. It was then that we encountered our one true adversary of the day (save for the inevitable food coma that would ensue) – lanternflies. Known for generating flora killing mold, this invasive species had recently infested the area and were decimating the local plant life. My trusty sidekick is usually a gentle hero in times of insect invasions but these particular monsters were subjected to his size 13s. This was how our time at the Easton Owowcow unfolded – alternating between spoonfuls of creamy delight and stomps of unashamed murder. Our stop culminated in the demise of no less than 15 lanternflies. With our valiant contribution in saving the trees of North Eastern Pennsylvania adequately complete, we returned to the safety of the vehicle to travel to our penultimate destination.
Sunlight pierced canopies of shady, tree-lined roads slowly gave way to brilliant farmlands fully lit in the golden hour as we cruised our way to Ottsville. The Owow OG, the first location established in 2009, appeared suddenly out of long stretches of desolate fields, like a sweet-cream mirage in an otherwise snack-barren land. It’s a small outfit that shares an out of place brick building with an even more out of place surf shop. This left us somewhat perplexed as the only waves in sight were those of amber grain. Still, the unexpected dichotomy, along with the revered relic of a payphone outside, added to the charm of the scene. The shop itself gave off an air of cool panache, a quiet confidence seemingly from knowing it held the title of first and therefore best of the Owowcow family. If reveling in timeless summer vibes was the mood of the moment I was all too happy to follow suit. Naturally, this was the perfect location to procure a classic cone with one of the month’s signature flavors, sweet buttered corn. One can only assume that the kernels used in this creamy creation were sourced from a location within walking distance of the shop’s front door. We took our cone and yet another flight out to the parking lot with asphalt set ablaze by the late afternoon sun. The heat produced an instantaneous melting effect and the muscle memory from years of accomplished drip control nearly had me mask first into the top scoop. Fortunately, I remembered just in time to remove my shield and save my snack before it became a splat on the blacktop. We finished our treats gazing out onto the fiery horizon, reflecting on how far we had traveled and how much we had accomplished. A sudden bark from a nearby domesticated beast sent us reeling back to reality and set our determination to complete our final mission.
The time had come for the last stop in our ice cream quest. Making it to the ultimate destination meant traveling back to our homeland, a trek that literally took us over the river and through the woods, to the only Owowcow east of the Delaware River. We arrived in Lambertville exhausted, sweaty and filled with dairy but we were ready to claim our prize. A flag emblazoned with the patron spirit of all things ice cream, the noble cow, welcomed us to our victory with a friendly wave. We were poised to reap the hard-earned rewards of the day. Feeling audacious due to our successful conquering of the Tour de Cow, we requested that the pedestrian sundae usually provided as a sweet trophy be upgraded to the impressive 10 Mile Peach Sundae. This extravagance seemed a much more worthy way to celebrate our triumph. The shop’s scoop slingers honored our requisition with no objections. However, this final act of utmost gluttony was ultimately our downfall as the sheer volume of sugary substances contained within the large vessel was our undoing. No matter, the battle had been fought valiantly, we conquered the cow and we departed from this last mission with the spoils of our success – the coveted t-shirt and a few pints of ice cream to bring back to those who remained back at the homestead. We motored off into the sunset feeling victorious and strangely proud of our particular prowess. With our adventure now behind us, we did the only thing more ludicrous than consuming five servings of ice cream in one day – we went home and had dinner.
You might be thinking that this was an excessive effort for a sugar high and a “free” shirt that came out to $72.80 in ice cream sales. Not to mention, of course, a highly dramatic retelling of the day’s events. Why not just go to the frozen foods section of the nearest grocery store for a quicker and cheaper fix? While Halo Top is fine most days, these are not most days – in case you were unaware. This is no time for diet ice cream. I am also painfully aware that neither Ben nor Jerry need any more of my money. Plus, I am a total sucker for swag. In this prolonged space of uncertainty and unrest I say bring on the full fat! Bring on supporting a local business! And, for the love of ice cream, bring on the joy! What started out as a simple day trip, a respite from the doldrums of life lived indoors, ended up becoming a humbling eye-opener. I realized that it was unfair of me to write off Summer 2020 as a complete wash. More than that, it showed me that adventures are all around us, if only we stop long enough to find excitement and wonder in our everyday lives. It’s not the plane ticket or passport that makes a trip worth taking, it’s the mindset.
Tour de Cow Final Stats:
Miles Traveled: 132 Hours it Took: 6-ish Calories Consumed: Don’t know. Don’t Care.
First Stop: Wrightstown FLIGHT Mango Cream Lime Cream Mexican Hot Chocolate* Banana Caramel* Garden Berries
Second Stop: Chalfont ICE CREAM POP Strawberry Shortcake Pop
Third Stop: Easton MEDIUM CUP Sweet Honey Cream Honey Lavendar
Fourth Stop: Ottsville SMALL CONE Sweet Buttered Corn*
Fifth Stop: Lambertville SUNDAE Mile High Peach Sundae
*Personal Faves
Tour de Cow Playlist:
Sugar Sugar – The Archies
Ice Ice Baby – Vanilla Ice
Banana Split for My Baby – Louis Prima
Ice Cream – New Young Pony Club
Pour Some Sugar On Me – Def Leppard
Vanilla Ice Cream – She Loves Me Broadway Cast Recording
Build Me Up Buttercup – The Foundations
Ice Cream – Mika
Sugar Dumpling – Sam Cooke
Sellin’ Ice Cream – Master P
I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch) – Four Tops
We’re only five hours into our flight and I’m officially starting to get antsy. At least, I’m estimating five hours – we’re traveling across time zones and my watch is already set to Delhi time, so it’s really just my best guess at this point. Airplanes are sort of like casinos and cubicles in the way that they have an unnatural ability to manipulate minutes and hours. Anyway, it has already been a long flight. Thinking I was clever, I booked both a window and an aisle seat assuming no one in their right mind would voluntarily take a middle seat and, therefore, equal more breathing room for both of us. When we checked in earlier today, the airline attendant noticed our seat requests and smiled at us as she let us know she X’ed out the seat between us. Success! Or so we thought until we boarded the plane and begrudgingly found someone else in our row. The row directly in front of us had two vacant seats, one of which we suspect belongs to our unwelcomed row mate, but since she’s the only person on this flight that does not speak a lick of English, I guess we’ll never know. She’s also lacking in the concept of personal space, so, there’s that.
I’m currently writing from the middle seat while she sits crossed legged in what should have been my boyfriend’s seat – her naked, fat foot staring at me like a bad omen of things to come. Needless to say, my plan majorly backfired. Although, maybe I should be grateful to her; the only reason I am able to write is because she accidentally hit the light button on OUR armrest, providing me with some serious glow in an otherwise darkened cabin. Also, thanks are due to the baby who finally stopped wailing long enough for me to form a coherent sentence in my own, already noisy head.
I’m happy to be writing, it’s always made me feel in control and is a familiar part of who I am. It’s nice to turn to that now as I’m flying further and further away from ANYTHING familiar. Save for the boyfriend, of course, who is contentedly sitting next to me working on his fifteenth Hidato puzzle in a row. (They say it’s supposed to be the next Sudoku…we’ll see.) Its times like this I appreciate his calm and laid back personality most. I know that there will be multiple times throughout the course of these next two weeks that he will be my only saving grace. Maybe it’s just where I’m at right now – meaning my seat as well as my life – but I’m not emotionally ready for India. When we decided on this trip over a year ago, it felt like a distant dream. When we booked our plane tickets five months ago, I was excited for a new adventure. But a lot of life has happened in not a lot of time and dealing with my own chaos has left me with little energy to deal with the chaos waiting to greet me in Delhi. I’m tired and I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle the assault to my senses brought on by the vast extremes of an entire subcontinent. Six hours into my flight now. I’m still eight hours away from starting a journey I’m not entirely sure I want to take.
After
I abhor this new trend in which people say, “Oh my God, this is EVERYTHING!” How pathetically lazy – please make the effort to choose appropriate words and then use them to communicate effectively. That being said, I must admit that India was indeed everything. It was breathtakingly beautiful and hard-to-look at ugly. It was relaxing to the point of boring and stressful to the point of madness. The sheer amount of bodies that inhabit one space at any given time was overwhelming and yet the feeling of isolation was inescapable. It was color and joy and light and darkness and despondency all at once. That’s what makes India such a mystery – depending on where you look (or what you choose to see) it’s either magic or mayhem. All the time. That’s what makes India such a fantastic challenge. And that’s why I had to go.
For as much as its everythingness left such an imprint on my heart, I know that it won’t be long before I start forgetting the minute details, the specific nuances of my 16 whirlwind days in northwest India. Even now, as we endure what surely must be the world’s longest flight – one that is exponentially more unpleasant than its predecessor – it feels as though the memories are being ripped from me with every fleeting mile closer to home. It’s as if India herself won’t allow me to bring the entire experience back with me; in an effort to maintain her mystery she holds on to a part of you and faintly whispers, “you will be back.”
But I must make a noble attempt, however futile, to thwart India’s efforts. For as much as it distresses me to realize that it truly is impossible to remember everything, there are some moments that I refuse to forget:
Every National Geographic worthy snapshot that went undocumented because they whizzed by too quickly from the view of the train window or because the camera was tucked safely away as we navigated the bustling, narrow bazaars.
The sketchiest airport pickup that involved one beat up car, three drivers and two horrified passengers.
The interactive experience of going to see a Bollywood movie. The next time I’m annoyed by an obnoxious patron at the local AMC I’ll ease up on the passive aggressive sighing and think back to the massive amounts of both hooting and hollering from the Indian teenagers throughout the entire film. The addition of the national anthem, an intermission (or interval) and technical difficulties with the elaborate red curtain made the rainy afternoon activity all the more interesting.
Practically everything about our camel desert safari. I think that specific 27 hours in India deserves its own post. Stay tuned.
Galtaji, or the monkey temple as it’s apparently called, could have easily been the setting of an Indiana Jones movie. It had an eerie, mystical quietness about it that felt more like the scene before someone rips your heart from your chest than it did a sense of spiritual peace and enlightenment. I was tentative but still on board with the whole experience until one of the temple priests unlocked a door that looked as ancient as he did and invited us inside the tiny chamber. Commence panic! I eventually escaped unscathed, save for the 100 rupees he demanded after forcibly tying a string around my wrist. I suppose it was worth the terror and the equivalent of $1.45 since I’m still wearing the damn thing.
Ayurveda massage is probably soothing but only if you don’t have personal space issues.
Finding Hazrat Nizam-ud-din Dargah is even more difficult than remembering how to pronounce it. Looking back, I wish I had taken more time to fully embrace the experience but after frantically trying not to lose my guide who rushed through the crowded maze of a bazaar leading to the shrine my head was spinning. How ANY tourist finds this place is beyond me! If I had a bit of a heads up about the rabbit hole I just fell down, I suspect I would have appreciated the mysticism of it all much more. It was also the first time I was required to relinquish my shoes and leave them unattended. While that initial parting left me uneasy, it didn’t take long in our two-week journey for me to realize I would always be reunited with my footwear.
The homeless children and unrelenting women who not only knock on the car windows begging for money as you are stuck in the inevitable traffic but also peer inside of them to make sure you really see them. It is impossible not to see. The poverty that pervades the Indian way of life is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed and is overwhelming to take in.
Our train companions: the unassuming military man on his way to a base right outside of Jodhpur and the young woman who looked barely into her 20’s and already had two girls of her own as well as a growing jewelry business. Lucky for us, she also had a heart of compassion for two tired, uninformed travelers. Not only did she let us know when to get off the train in Delhi but she also called us a cab and kept the rest of the touts at bay until we were safely on our way to the airport.
Transportation in general is quite a marvel in India. Motor scooters can be packed up to six deep, one of which being an infant sandwiched between adults and older kids for, you know, safety purposes. Aside from the ubiquitous tuk tuk, the motor scooter seems to be the most efficient way to transport yourself and significant other, an entire social circle, a 5’x7’ pane of glass, or your pet goats. Outside of the congested cities, overstuffed feed trucks (which evidently do tip over on occasion) and overpopulated buses dominate the highways. Both of which will happily warn you of their presence with a melodious horn that is the Indian equivalent to the one from the General Lee on the Dukes of Hazzard.
The welcomed entertainment of the reality competition television show, Super Dancer, and the surprisingly engaging miniseries, The Trip – both of which made a very long night in Agra more bearable.
Willingly and happily accepting the racket of tying a string to the marble latticework screen of the tomb of holy man Salim Chishti at Fatehpur Sikri in order to make a wish. Yes, it is certainly a tourist trap, but it was a pleasant part of the entire experience nonetheless. If I receive my wish like Emperor Akbar did, or so the legend says, I must return to untie my string. While the chances of me receiving my wish are about as good as being able to identify my string from the hundreds of thousands that are tied on the walls, I certainly hope that I do NOT receive the gift for which the tomb is primarily known…child birth.
The crystal gallery that strictly prohibits photography. Sounds like a not-to-miss experience, right? Lonely Planet seems to think so but I’d have to disagree. Oh well, lesson learned. Seriously though, if you’re ever in Udaipur, don’t waste your money. Just check it out on Trip Advisor. There, I just saved you 550 rupees. You’re welcome.
Sugar cubes – is there a more charming way to sweeten your masala chai tea? I think not!
Sometimes the best travel experiences cannot be researched, planned or put on the schedule. After a fruitless afternoon of trying to figure out what the rest of our trip would look like without our driver, we ventured out to a recommended shop that somehow ended up being an expensive spree despite the disappointing goods. Feeling a bit dejected, we took our first tuk tuk ride back to the hotel. Holi was upon us and as we motored down the streets of the Pink City, fireworks heralded the official start of the festivities. Suddenly, motorcyclists started weaving through traffic, each carrying a blazing torch of reeds. These daredevil distributors were descending upon the city from the Maharaja’s palace bringing the light from the royal fire to all the bonfires of Jaipur. The streets began to glow as the faint smell of smoke coupled with the increasingly boisterous chanting. A palpable sense of celebration was in the air and we, quite serendipitously, were in the middle of it all. You won’t find THAT in any guide book!
The German mother and son duo – Barbara and Jan – who we said hello to on a rooftop in Jodhpur and said our goodbyes to on a rooftop in Jaisalmer. In between, we toured a fort and a mausoleum together and enjoyed a good-natured giggle at four young blonde girls trying to buy sarees as we watched from a nearby café.
Monkeys playing in the tree across from the rooftop restaurant at our hotel. They were having their own raucous Holi celebration to the delight of the hotel guests and the chagrin of the hotel staff.
I got to live out the fantasy of milking it for the paparazzi because, in India, sometimes being of the Caucasian persuasion makes YOU the star attraction. We drew our own attention as we toured forts and palaces and monuments and smiled politely as another hoard of school kids or 20-something dude group asked to take photos with this pale girl and her 6’3 white boy. The most preciously awkward of these moments included a father who was overly eager to have his young daughter take a photo with the American – the kiddo was clearly mortified. Still, he continued to insist, I continued to oblige and she continued to scowl as the photos were snapping away.
There are countless other memories that may or may not stay with me as the days following our adventure turn into months and years. I am sure, however, that I will never forget the lessons I’ve learned as a result of my experiences because they have truly changed me. Or maybe it is not that they have transformed me as much as they have revealed certain truths about who I actually am and it’s my job to do the changing if I so choose. The revelations were jarring at times and left me bewildered as to how I could be such a stranger to my own self and, in selected instances, how far away I am from who I wish I was. I am remarkably distrustful and more fearful than I realized or would ever care to admit. This crazy world seems to be losing its collective mind more and more by the day so, on the surface, that mentality might seem justified but I fear that it may also keep me from experiencing some wonderful opportunities. After meeting numerous people who are legitimately free spirited and adventurous, I discovered, much to my horror, that I am neither of those things. I am calculated, controlled and cautious – while other people have flights of fancy, I have color coded itineraries perfectly laid out in Excel spreadsheets. Yes, this allows me to move efficiently and quickly through life, which I do, sometimes at an alarming rate. I don’t think these traits are inherently bad ones but I also don’t know if they are truths about myself that I’m happy to accept. I used to believe that I wanted to travel the world and live abroad and make big, daring, scary life choices. But being so far out of my comfort zone made me all too aware of how much I really crave the comfortable. Security and courage – which one is honestly more important to me? Am I even strong enough to give up the former in the hope of what the latter could achieve?
It’s amazing how being away from everything you know shows you how much you don’t know, especially about yourself. But some things, of course, are constant and should be expected no matter where you roam. In my vulnerability and surprising moments of self-discovery, I learned that heartbreak travels with you, even to the other side of the world. I accepted that it’s ok to cry about the grief I left at home because I knew it was going to be waiting for me when I return. A lot of uncertainty will be there as well, a lot of difficult questions that demand answers. But I am grateful for the softness and humanity I exposed within myself through the hardness of this astonishing country. I’m grateful for the opportunity to reevaluate who I am and what I want and how I choose to go on from here. I have travel to thank for that. I have the lingering sent of patchouli and the taste of cardamom to encourage me to keep discovering and, little by little, shape a new me every day. And if I ever need another reminder, I’m sure Shiva will be more than willing to offer one.
.chasing bluebirds. 