Pretzels
One of the random things that I miss about being home in the U.S. is pretzels. Every once in a while we see them at our local shop called “Master Baker” but a small bag costs almost equal to $5 when of course at home it cost $1 for a huge bag. So we only bought a bag once. It must have been for Christmas. So then a few weeks ago we had someone from the U.S. bring us some. We were just finishing that bag and then the other day I was at Master Baker with my mom. The shop owner who is a plump middle-aged North Indian held up a bag of opened pretzels and said, “You like these?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “I opened it, I don’t like it, you take it.” Then he had one of his peon’s (they actually call any worker who does earns a peon) tie it in a plastic bag and handed it to me.
Everest
While the Pope prepared for Holy Week, the children of India for Holi, and “Free Tibet” protests reached a climax after 46 years I few in a small airplane along with about fifteen other tourists on Budda Air to tour the Himalayas. I never imagined that I would get to see the tallest mountain in the world, but there I was looking at it. It might sound cheesy but the only thing I could think was, “Glory to God, Glory to God, Glory to God in the highest!” (below is a picture from the window of the plane) 
That morning we woke up at five thirty and were out to catch a cab by six. We were prepared for a fourty-five minute drive to the airport, but it turned out that without the traffic it only took fifteen minutes. So we were at the airport very early. The flight was supposed to be at 7:30. We bought cokes and candy bars and sat down to enjoy our breakfast. This simple airport was a great place to people watch. Soon we began to notice a large number of extremely tall Caucasians carrying trekking gear. One giant was carrying crates that must have had about 100 eggs in them. We never did figure out where those people were from. In contrast to the huge white people in their high tech hiking gear, there was an old Napali couple in traditional wool. I think that elderly Napalis might be the cutest old people on the earth. We got up so they could sit down. Just then we realized that we could walk through the security line at any time, as most places in this part of the world security relies more on being “patted down” than any censor. Then the wait began. This was a much nicer part of the airport, but we couldn’t enjoy it because we were anxious for the announcement of our plane. There were no television screens and no intercoms, just a lady that would call out a number and take the ticket baring the correct number. Only she wasn’t very loud, and we couldn’t always understand her. We were flight 203. She called 201, she called 202, she called 204, she called 205, and we were beginning to wonder what happened. Did we miss our plane? Was our plane cancelled? Bert tried to ask the lady but she would even look at him. Finally one of the lady’s assistants took our tickets and we boarded the bus that would take us to the plane.There were a bunch of early retired overweight American men taking picture after picture even before we were on the plane. There was the lady from Jourdan and the lady from Pakistan that we talked to on the shuttle back to the airport, there was a newly married Koren couple and I was there with my friends Bert and Evelyn. I don’t know if any of the passengers were Nepali. That made me sad because there are over a million people living in Kathmandu and very few of them have ever seen Everest… but I was going to see it.
Once we were in the air, the flight attendant came around and let us each look for a few minutes out the cockpit of the plane. Then she started coming around and pointing out to us which mountain was which. She pointed out a holy mountain that no one was aloud to climb. But to me, they all seemed holy. Holy because they point to the Glory of God. The glory of God that we only get glimpses of until the glorious return of Christ.
Now it is night before Easter and those mountains remind me of the Creator who made them and who rose Jesus from the dead. The Creator who overcame death–who concured it for us. And, just as I was not worthy of such an experience as seeing the highest mountain it was nothing that I did that made me deserve God giving his own son. God just loved us and loves us so much that he gave his son.
Aside on Blogging
I know it has been too long since I’ve written. I’ve had a fabulous birthday, I went to Dehra Dun, Kathmandu, and Agra, and thought about many ordinary and extraordinary things. My problem is that I start to write a post, but I want it to be better so I don’t publish it write away. Then other things happen and I feel like writing something else so I start a new post and the process continues again and again. I may not seem like a perfectionist but it that way I am… So as I new blogger I need to just get over it and publish my random musings. So I’m going to try.
Grandma gets Henna Tattoo!
Thanksgiving weekend my grandma Margie went with her sister and niece to a harvest festival in the San Jose area and there they found and Indian woman giving “henna tattoos” (mehndi). They thought of me, decided it was an international trend and they had to get them. Cool grandma–huh? It made me smile. But, I almost fell out of my chair when I heard they paid $35-40 a piece. Here it is 100 Rp ($2.50) or so for two hands!
