Happy 50th birthday, mami!

Something I wrote on my mother's birthday, November 27:


My mother was obsessed with Princess Diana. I was only 17 years old when a fatal car crash in a Paris tunnel ended Lady D's life. That day, my mother was glued to the television. Even though the news channel repeated the same information and images every hour, my mom would not let anyone touch the remote control. She simply watched television and cried.


I am not sure why mami was fascinated by Princess Diana. They shared the same age, short blond hair, light eyes and bright smile. They had also married older men. Maybe my mom secretly wished she had also been a princess.


When I consider my mother's life, the biggest thing I see that she and her idol had in common was their belief in helping others. My mother was the most generous person I know. She incessantly collected old clothes and unused toys from friends and family to donate to our local church. When she could, she gave away food or money to others, even when she herself was in need. It is my suspicion that Princess Diana's charity work is the reason she won my mother's admiration. 


After Lady D's death, my mother rushed to buy the single that Elton John dedicated to his late friend. "Candle in the wind" is the song that I remember my mom playing over and over again. When it was released in 1997, it was renamed "Goodbye England's Rose." The name seems fitting now that I've returned from a trip to England.  


As I remember my mother's birthday today, I see her much clearer now, I understand her better. I wish she would have lived to at least half a century but these things are out of my control. Her candle may have ended long ago, but it burned mighty bright while she was still alive.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZGnZEF6-_w&feature=related

The Angel Dance

                                                                                                                                      

My sister tells me her daughter cries at night because she misses grandma. "When is abuela coming back?" she asks between tears. My sister's heart breaks a little each time she has to explain that grandma won't be coming back at all. "But why?" 

How do you explain death to a 5 year old? How do you break a child's heart by telling them the person they love and miss so much is not coming back? How do you explain that death is final?

My niece was my mother's best friend. Every day after coming home from work, mami would have a special treat for Natty. Maybe it was a toy or candy. Or something outrageous like a pink velvet cowgirl hat. Whatever it was, mami and Natty would giggle nonstop when they were together.

Natty really brought out the inner child in my mother. I honestly feel this helped her live longer. My mother was always sick, most times not feeling well enough to even get out of bed. But when Natty was around they would play together, laugh together and get into trouble together. 

When my mother died, we told Natty that abuela had gone "with the angels." This seemed to suffice. Natty understood that angels lived in heaven. She even came up with her very own angel dance. When you asked where grandma was, Natty would flap her arms while twirling around the living room.

It's been two and a half years since mami left us. Natty was only 3 years old then. I knew that she remembered grandma but I was shocked to hear that she cries at night because she misses her. What did my sister tell her?

"When someone dies it means they are not coming back. It's ok, though. Because that person lives in our hearts." As my sister rattled on with her explanation, tears streamed down my face, neck and onto my lap. I could not stop crying. I wanted so much to be silent, to pretend everything was ok. I didn't want to hurt my sister. Miles away in Italy, there's not much I can do. I mean, I can't even hug my sister or niece. So, I not-so-quietly expressed my pain in sobs.

Yesterday, Natty turned six. I remembered the day she was born. When I arrived at the hospital, my mother was holding her. There was something different in her face, a look that was foreign to me.  She stared at Natty with a serene, loving gaze. I did not quite understand it then but I recognize it in a heartbeat now. That look was sheer love radiating from my mother's face. I know that this love lives on, wherever she may be.

I'm sure mami is touched that Natty remembers her abuela so fondly and vividly. I hope she's sending hugs from above. Who knows? Maybe mami is doing her own angel dance.

Raising my glass

The little boy who once chased me around our backyard has turned into a man. My youngest brother is now a husband. Someday he will become a father.  


Today I raise my glass to Jesus and his lovely bride Mary. They have seen the best in each other and have found fortune in their love. Where there is love, there is joy. Joy is a fruit of happiness and those who eat from its tree are blessed.


May the path of those bound by love and promise be paved with compassion, understanding, caring, respect and deep commitment.


To Mr. and Mrs. Colón! Salud! 

Seeing the light

Pain was an old friend I got used to carrying. Somehow, it always made its way into every suitcase I packed. Like a ghost, it was my silent travel companion. 


In India, it accompanied me to every temple and church. It was the cause of the tears I shed along the Arabic Sea. Instead of focusing on the dolphins floating along the Goan coast, I looked out on the horizon and nursed my broken heart.


Pain does not require a passport and thus made its way to Italy with me.  As I knelt at St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, grateful I was beginning my new journey last spring, my merciless companion was busy at work.  Tears, pregnant with pain, trickled down to my bent knees as I prayed for peace and a mended soul.


Once the school year began, my concealed enemy permeated every wine and cheese tasting I was supposed to be enjoying. Much like a sensor you cannot control, my depression came and went as it pleased. Determined to beat it, I busied myself with school, new friends and more travels.


This summer, somewhere along a dusty road in the Romanian countryside, something shifted.  As I walked uphill carrying a 20 pound backpack, I stopped to take in the view. Small blueberry bushes exhibited their lush fruit. A dog barked in the distance. Morning clouds had scattered, allowing the sun to warm my skin. I thought of Mami. 


Since losing my mother two years ago I have walked a path painted in shades of grey. While there have been bursts of color along the way, depression pinned me to a shadowy corner. But that morning in Transylvania my load felt lighter as I climbed towards happiness.  


Life sometimes becomes an uphill battle but my mother taught me that you must persevere. You must do what it takes to power through. Do you know what happens along the way? You shed layers of unhappiness and before knowing it, you see the light again.

Spicy Rose Tip of the Day

Next time you enjoy papaya think twice about tossing its seeds! Papaya seeds, glistening black pearls encased in the center of the fruit, can be used to tenderize meats. This is all the work of an enzyme called "papain" that helps digest proteins. Place the seeds on a small plate and let air dry on a windowsill. When dry, place in a pepper mill and grind onto your favorite marinade.  Curious about papaya? Click here.

If Heaven Wasn't So Far Away

As I was folding my laundry this morning, with the radio in the background, this beautiful country song played. It reminded me of my mom and others we've lost along the way. I hope you listen to it!

Empanadas and Samosas

Inside my closet, behind a stack of neatly folded sweaters, lays a box I seldom open. Inside are memories of my mother: a worn zebra patterned diary from her teenage years, an old Valentine’s Day card she sent me and a small sachet where she kept a Buddha I sent her from my travels in Malaysia.

There is also a royal blue velvet pouch where I keep a lock of her blonde hair. Opening this pouch is like tearing my heart wide open. Thus I limit my contact with it. I reserve my peaks inside the velvet pouch for when I miss her most, for when I miss caressing her beautiful golden locks.

As my 31^st birthday approaches, I can’t help but think of the great woman who gave birth to me. How did she feel the day I was born? How many times did she smile and kiss me as she held me in her arms for the first time?

Five years ago, before I moved to Miami, my mother prepared a photo album for me. It contained all of my baby pictures, including some leading up to when I graduated elementary school.

On the very first page of this album is a picture of me when I was only 10 days old. My mother’s handwriting indicates the date was June 21, 1980. Back then I was just a bundle of joy with round cheeks and brown eyes. How happy she must have been to hold her first baby!

The album is packed away in one of the many boxes I left behind when I moved to Italy but the image of me as a newborn baby is seared in my memory. Now, three decades later I am still wishing my mother could hold me tight and be there to celebrate my birthday.

Mami used to make the best empanadas for me. For my 27^th birthday, the last one I spent with her, she made the most delicious ground beef empanadas ever! Seasoned with adobo and sofrito, they had just the right amount of sliced olives in them. That year, she even went a step further and made guava and cheese empanadas for dessert!

Instead of making them in the traditional half-moon shape, Mami had a peculiar way of folding empanadas. She made them in a triangle shaped, like samosas. Jokingly, she would call these triangular empanadas “carteritas,” or little purses in English.

Curious, I asked why her empanadas looked like samosas.  Her response: "Tata, “carteritas” are perfect for parties because you can get more empanadas from the same amount of dough. Duh!" Oh, a mother's wisdom...

This year, I’m honoring her memory by making empanadas for my birthday. It’ll be hard to find all the ingredients in Italy but it will make me feel much closer to the woman I owe my life too.

Sunday Dinner at Rosa’s

There was nothing like gathering around the dinner table at Rosa’s house on Sunday evening. With children laughing and the aroma of freshly baked cornbread dancing in the air, we engaged in our weekly dining ritual.

Sweet potato soufflé dressed with browned marshmallows, buttered corn and oven-fried chicken were Sunday dinner staples. Buttery pound cake or silky sweet potato pie were the crowning glory of these fine evenings.

As we savored dessert, the steam of mint tea would rise from our mugs and intermingle in our conversations. Smiling faces would burst into laughter and the evening felt complete.

In Italy, I have access to great food, wine and cheeses but I miss those Sunday dinners at Rosa’s. The love and comfort felt around the dinner table still touch me.

I’m reminded of a time I felt compelled to cook for the family.

Nervous about the dinner, I searched for recipes and slaved away in the kitchen hoping everyone would like it. More than anything, I wanted to share my gratitude to Rosa for being a loving adoptive grandparent to me. Her love and support allowed me to flourish as a cook and as a person.

After searching for recipes that would be perfect for the occasion I came up with a menu: roasted bell peppers stuffed with savory rice, oven roasted chicken marinated in 40 cloves of garlic and basted with an apricot mustard sauce, cheesy jalapeño cornbread and great-grandmother Peggy’s pound cake for dessert. Dinner was a hit!

This Sunday evening, as I sit in my Italian kitchen 4,000 miles away, I’m reminded of the strength, love, friendship and generosity of Ms. Rosa Malloy and her wonderful family. Here’s hoping they’ll be many more Sunday dinners to share…Cheers!

Missing my mother: two years later

The Delaware River, the spot where we spread my mother's ashes

The day my mother had open-heart surgery I was convinced she would die. As the doctor sliced her chest open, my brother Jesús and I left the hospital. We decided to shed our tears at home, privately, instead of the hospital’s cold and unwelcoming waiting room.

In the comfort of his twin bed we laid side by side, crying uncontrollably. Words were blurred as the river of pain splashed across our faces. We tried to console each other in the few seconds of freedom from our tears.

Hugging each other in that tiny bed we calculated the details: mami would be cremated. We knew this was her desire and we were ready to follow through with it.

Hours went by and we nervously made our way to the cold waiting room. There was no one in sight. “Oh no, this is not good,” we thought. We started crying as soon as we saw the doctor.

The man in scrubs delivered the news: mami had made it, the surgery had gone well. “What?! Thank heaven!” we exclaimed at the top of our lungs, as we held each other tight.

We were led through a long corridor that connected to the intensive care unit. Peaking behind a white curtain we saw our mother.

She was sleeping on a stretcher that seemed barely big enough to hold her. Wrapped tightly in white blankets, she reminded me of a newborn baby. Atop her chest was a small teddy bear clutching a heart between his paws.

“The teddy bear is for her to squeeze when she coughs,” the nurse said, explaining that it was important that the stitches along my mother’s chest didn’t come undone.

It took months for my mother to recuperate but she did it like the champion she always was.

My mother lived for seven more years. The day we lost her, none of us were prepared. But we followed the plan accordingly: she was cremated.

Her ashes were scattered in the Delaware River one lonely spring afternoon two years ago. I envision her remains traveling through the river and into the Atlantic Ocean, freely navigating the waters of the world eventually reaching every continent.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her blond hair, green eyes, and her beautiful freckled faced adorned with a perfect smile. She was and continues to be my inspiration.

Gracias mami por todo lo que me diste y enseñaste. Te amaré y recordaré por siempre. Bendición!

Mint and Tomatoes

My father, the inspiration behind this story

A moving piece I wrote for my Sustainable Gastronomy class:

When I was 7-years old the fence of our backyard was covered in mint. The mint bushes grew tall and abundant, their fragrance perfuming every inch of the perimeter around the fence. One day I discovered you could actually eat the leaves. Papi said, “Es menta. Cómete una.” He encouraged me to try it because it would refresh my breath.

Hesitantly, I plucked a leaf from the nearest plant, carefully inspected it, and put the tip in my mouth. The smell of the mint assaulted my nostrils and urged me to take a bite. My teeth pierced the leaf and my tongue swirled it around my mouth.

“Hmmm,” I thought. The mint in my mouth felt like breeze cooling my tongue. I loved it!

For the rest of the summer, I plucked mint leaves every time I walked by the fence. Sometimes I would leap out of our little frog-shaped pool and run to grab a mint leaf. I would call out to my brothers and sister to come try it. Then we’d walk back to the swimming pool munching on mint and leaving our wet footprints on the sidewalk.

That was the summer I discovered tomatoes. My dad would spend countless hours in the sun pruning and staking his tomato plants. When the tomatoes finally ripened they were bright red with a hint of orange.

My father would pick them right before dinner and I was his little helper. Trailing behind him, I would carry big round ripe tomatoes which seemed enormous in my small hands. Afterwards, we would sit at the dinner table and he would serve fresh slices on each of our dinner plates. The tomatoes were sweet and juicy, elevating our humble dinner of rice, beans and meat to gourmet status.

When I think of my childhood I always go back to mint and tomatoes. Unbelievably, my father grew both in our tiny patch of backyard that was situated between two brick houses. A cook, a farmer and a lover of the land, my father instilled in me precious values that tied my urban childhood to the Puerto Rican farms he grew up in.

Every summer when I plant tomatoes, I know my father’s legacy lives on.

Great news!

                                                                 Photo: Hispanic Kitchen

Hispanic Kitchen, a hispanic food networking site, picked up one of my Examiner.com stories! I'm thrilled! Read on: http://www.hispanickitchen.com/profiles/blogs/queso-blanco-make-your-own-its

Here's the original: http://www.examiner.com/ethnic-foods-in-miami/queso-blanco-easy-to-make-and-muy-delicioso

Sipping Chai in Piemonte

Tonight chai warms my heart and soul. As I press the warm mug to my chest, I inhale the spices that seem to dance in perfect harmony with each other. Just like a stone laying in the sun, I absorb the heat from the cup and instant warmth spreads through my body.

Although I’m surrounded by the Alps, this simple cup of creamy masala chai transports me to my days in India. The tantalizing scent of cinnamon and ginger trigger memories of long journeys through the mountains stretching south of Mumbai to Goa.

One cold morning we stopped for breakfast at a mountainside open-air restaurant. The drop in temperature had made my fingers stiff. With my stomach growling and with the urgent need to warm up, I ordered tea before our breakfast.

Minutes went by and our food arrived first: upma, idly sambar, potato vada and uthapam. Every dish was deliciously spicy and fulfilling. Impatiently, I awaited my chai with the same enthusiasm children reserve for dessert after being forced to eat their vegetables.

Finally, it arrived. Steam rose from the tiny cups it was served in. The masala chai stood before me, I bowed my head and inhaled a swirl of spices that woke up my senses and urged me to drink. Just one sip was enough for me to close my eyes and revere its creaminess.

Rich, creamy, sweet and fragrant. This is what masala chai should be. Why had I had never experienced chai like this in the United States? Was the method of preparation different? What were these Indians doing that the ones in the United States were not?

It all came down to the quality of the milk used in its preparation.

In India, the milk was fresh and did not have a two-month expiration date (unlike a lot of milk varieties sold in the United States).  You would be surprised how much extending the shelf life of a product decreases its flavor.

Here in Piemonte the milk is fresh, wholesome and rich. Combined with black tea and spices, it becomes the perfect vehicle for a divine chai experience.

I may be miles away from India but tonight, as I press the hot mug against my chest and close my eyes, I am back driving through the mountains on our long journey to Goa.

Bella Italia!

Someone pinch me. Am I really here? Did I just arrive in Italy and make my dreams come true?

I stepped foot in the Universitá di Scienze Gastronomiche today and my heart wanted to burst with joy. Every step I took inside the old palazzo that now houses the school seemed to lead to a dream.

A beautiful smiling face greeted me. "Are you Rose?" It was Hanna, the registar's secretary who has helped me on my way since last October when I found out I was admitted to the school.

Everything in Italy is slower, things seem to move at a snail's pace. Eating, drinking or anything involved with food requires time to savour it.

Upon arriving at Torino airport my friend Silvia and I ordered a panino "to go." Blasphemy! There's no such thing as eating on the road.

As Jerry from the panini stall explained, "Food is to be enjoyed in Italy. It's a gift, an opportunity to stop and enjoy life. Why not take 5 mintues to enjoy your coffee?"

The guilt picked at me a little but I had to wrap up the conversation, grab my sandwich and hit the road. I was already late to get to Bra. I figure it's only my first day in Italy. I'll learn as I go...

Belgian waffles and the Jersey Shore

The heat from the waffle iron is so strong you can smell it throughout the house. It is my cue for pouring the banana-nut batter hot into its sizzling heat. As I drop every ladle of batter into the iron my mind fogs with memories from winters long ago.

I am transported to Long Beach Island in New Jersey, a strip of beach towns that is the epicenter of Jersey Shore living during hot summer days. LBI, as it is known to locals, is formed of little beach towns that have amazing restaurants.

Ironically, winter was my favorite time to enjoy an escape to LBI when I lived in New Jersey. Cold days assured no crowds, no traffic and a lot of privacy.

Winter days offered the perfect contrast to the warm coffee sold at Uncle Will’s Pancake House. Located in the little town of Beach Haven, the restaurant offers the best breakfast in town.

Huge Belgian waffles topped with a mountain of whipped cream arrive at your table as your eyes try to adjust to the size of your breakfast. I found it nearly impossible to finish any waffle I ever ordered.

If you are ever in town, make sure you stop at Uncle Will’s Pancake House. You are guaranteed a filling breakfast and a great cup of coffee.

Pani puri and the chaat God

I dreamt I was eating pani puri last night. Upon awakening, I was instantly transported to the Indian town of Thane, a suburb of Mumbai that is the hometown of my Indian family.

On a warm and humid night in Thane last month, I found myself in the company of a very gracious married couple and their newborn daughter. The husband has known my Indian family his whole life and welcomed us by taking us to his favorite "chaat" restaurant.

"Chaats" are  Indian street snacks. They are cheap, delicious and available on any steet corner. 

As we made our way through the crowded streets I could see the line that formed from the restaurant to the sidewalk. People of all ages were standing in line. The restaurant had indoor and outdoor seating but it was too crowded inside.

While the men in our group went to purchase the chaats, us ladies tried to secure a seat on the ledge of a small wall that separated the restaurant from the sidewalk.

Moments later the men showed up with a plate of chaats on each hand and a bunch of forks. We each grabbed a fork and ate from the same plate. All the chaats were crunchy, spicy and creamy. Just delicious!

My absolute favorite snack that evening was pani puri.

Essentially, pani puri is made up of thin deep-fried wafers that are cracked and stuffed with a filling of chickpea, potatoes, cilantro and spices. Each individual stuffed wafer is immersed in two spicy broths, one green, the other brown like tamarind. The broths are at room temperature and vary in degrees of spicyness. “Puri” is the name of the deep fried wafer, and “pani” refers to the flavored water.

Pani puri is eaten in rounds. You are handed a small bowl and only one snack at a time. You eat one while holding it over the bowl and letting the spicy broth drip into it. Once you are done with the five or six rounds (depending on who is selling it) you sip the spicy water from the bowl. Mmmmm….

You are supposed to eat pani puri like sushi, all in one mouthful. This always seems to be an impossible task for me. I have a hard time chewing the whole piece so I end up feeling self-conscious about having my cheeks protrude with so much food in them.

This makes my Indian brother laugh every time. He loves challenging me to eat a whole pani puri in one big mouthful. Usually, I nearly choke while attempting this feat. I hold a napkin over my mouth in an attempt of seeming more ladylike. Somehow I don’t think my tactics help.

The night we had pani puri in Thane, I noticed the wife of our gracious host asked the vendor to please give me the smallest puris. She did not know I noticed but her kindness warmed my heart. Now that I was armed with small puris I was sure I could stand up to the challenge of eating them in one mouthful.

With my Indian brother edging me on I stuffed each puri in my mouth and ate each one the “proper” way. As he poked fun at me, I tried not to choke on each puri and make a fool out of myself in front of all these strangers who seemingly had no problem managing such a large mouthful of food.

As I was sipping the spicy water from my bowl after successfully eating my round of pani puri, my Indian brother pointed to an old poster glued to a cement wall.

The longed-haired man in the poster had a beard and was dressed in a white tunic. He looked like a religious leader.

“You see that man? He’s the chaat God. You made him proud!,” he joked.

There’s no such thing as a chaat God but I found it so hilarious I couldn't stop laughing. Since then we have pretended he exists.

Someday I will master the technique of eating pani puri gracefully without requiring the Hemlich maneuver. Only then will I know I made the chaat God proud!

HERE'S A VIDEO DISPLAYING HOW TO PROPERLY EAT PANI PURI

Family warmth: "You're gonna miss this"

Tucson, Arizona

Old salsa music is blasting in the background. Tiny hands are tangled up in mine. Tonight there are no nightclubs or bars for me. On this Saturday night I belong to my 4-year old niece. She has chosen to interrupt my dishwashing and invite me to dance in the living room. How could I refuse?

As we twirl around dancing, her blue eyes light up and laughter fills the room. The warmth of her palms stretches from my hands to my heart. This is happiness.

The classic salsa songs remind me of my childhood. I picture myself as a 6-year old dancing in my parents' living room singing at the top of my lungs. I could chose to feel sad everytime I remember my mother but right now I am focusing on those beautiful memories. I feel so fortunate I am able to dance these songs with my niece.

My sweet blue-eyed angel snaps me back to reality.

“Auntie Rose, lift me,” she says through her giggles. 

Those words are enough to inspire my best Dirty Dancing imitation. She runs to me and I lift my princess up in the air as we spin round and round. I love being silly Auntie Rose J

Salsa gives way to country music and we two-step. Before I notice, my brother and his 2-year old son join us. We all hold hands and dance, our legs moving in funny directions.

My beautiful and very pregnant sister-in-law finally joins us and we dance together as a family in the midst of crayons and toys. I savor every moment because I know I will be leaving for Italy in a few short weeks and I will miss my family dearly.

Then Trace Atkins’ “You’re Gonna Miss This” comes on. This is an emotional song about growing up fast then wishing we could turn back time. 

As the song plays, my brother tightly embraces his daughter as they slow dance. My sister-in-law and I are sitting on the couch. She's holding her baby boy to her chest and kissing his head lightly. My hands slowly find their way to her arms and we hold each other.

Every one of us adults is softly weeping as we meditate upon life: the kids grow up so quickly, I’m leaving for a year, and we will never get back the time that has passed.

As I caress my sister-in-law’s belly, the tiny baby inside her kicks. We smile at each other as we feel the slight flutter of her legs.

This is family life and it fills my heart with the deepest of joys. Amen!

"Horn OK Please" and other lessons I learned in India

In India, it's ok to honk

Cars honk endlessly as they zip in and out of traffic. Tiny rickshaws burst at the seams with extra passengers, some of whom have their legs or head poking out in an effort to make more room. Women wearing colorful Punjabi dresses and saris sit sideways in the back of motorpeds, some cradling babies in their arms as they make their way through the congested streets.

Vendors selling fruit, snacks, coconuts and souvenirs flood the sidewalks. Pedestrian traffic spills onto the streets because sidewalks are too crowded. Stray dogs sit lazily in a corner basking in the sun. But nothing makes people stop walking, they continue their path uninterrupted. Somehow, the seeming chaos flows in perfect harmony. No one is struck by a car, no one falls out of a rickshaw or off a motorped.

This is life in India: a dizzying dance of 1 billion people living in a land that is a third of the size of the United States but with three times more people.

In order to survive in India you need to be a quick learner. Can you imagine the skill it takes to cross a busy intersection with no traffic lights? It involves a lot hand signals, brisk walking and praying.

Here are some of the lessons I learned:

1.      You must not stay in your lane while driving. Although there may be lines painted on the road, no one observes them. There are just too many people in India and the easiest way to get around, especially in their small cars, is to ignore the lines and make your own lane. Which brings me to lesson number 2…

2.      You must honk while driving. It is not rude, it is a courtesy! Every truck in India has a sign on the rear that reads: “Horn OK Please.” This is truly a matter of public safety. With so many cars on the road and makeshift lanes, how else will someone know you are approaching?

3.      Don’t bother walking on sidewalks. There is no room! Just make sure you are alert at all times to avoid getting hit by a rickshaw or a moped.

4.      A family of four fits on a scooter. Including babies and kids. Unlike the U.S., there is no law against having children on scooters. People ride around with their kids all the time. During my time there,  I never saw any of them get struck by a car or fall of the scooter.

5.      You must drive aggressively. It is OK to pass cars while driving through a curve. Believe it or not, the oncoming drivers are expecting this. They will give you a courtesy honk, slow down and allow you to get back in your lane.

6.      When asking directions don’t bother saying “please” or “thank you.” You must stick to the point. Example: When you approach someone, simply say “Statue of Liberty.” They will gladly give you directions. Then you’ll drive off without even so much as a “thanks.” When I inquired about this lack of courtesy to an Indian friend, he said “Indians cut to the chase. Who has time for all that?!”  

7.      Respect. When traveling it is important to respect the customs and traditions of the country you are visiting. India is a modest country so I covered my chest and arms whenever the occasion required it. Take the time to learn about the country you are visiting before you get there. Once there, learn and try to understand your surroundings.

Reserve your judgements. For instance, if it seems bizarre to see kids on mopeds with their parents, remember that cars are expensive in India. Some people can only afford a moped. So people do what they need to do to get to work and transport their kids to and from school.

Holy Cow: Welcome to India!

What people forget to tell you about India is that you should never strike a cow. Yes, we all hear about cows intermingling with traffic on busy city roads. Spotting cows on the street becomes something we look forward to as travelers – a type of game we revel in as we try to capture it on camera.

Yet, no one tells you prior to your arrival that striking a cow, more specifically, running it over with your car, is the biggest “no no” you can commit. Hurting or, god forbid, killing a cow will surely guarantee you will go straight to Hindu hell. Even worse, you will be socially ostracized unless you make great amends.

As one of my Indian friends put it: “You will hurt the owner’s feelings…and you’ll have to pay reparations for the damage.” In short, you will have to apologize and pay the owner whatever he deems the cow is worth.

You see, cows really are holy in India. They are considered givers of life. Their milk literally feeds a nation – whether it is turned into buttermilk, milk, yogurt or cheese. Whatever the byproduct, dairy is what keeps this mostly vegetarian nation of nearly 1 billion people fed.

Cows are so revered that there is actually a national “cattle appreciation day.” In Maharashtra, the state that is home to the city of Mumbai, this holiday is called “Pola.” Once a year, farmers celebrate by bathing their cows and ox and feeding them the best grass or grains available. They decorate them by painting their horns and, if needed, cover them with a cloth to protect them from the cold. I swear I am not making this up!

Given all this, don’t even think about ordering a cheeseburger at an Indian McDonalds. It is not a myth that they don’t serve beef.  Every McDonalds has a sign outside their restaurant advertising that they do not sell beef or beef products. So get your beef fix before you leave the United States.

Or do what I did. My first meal back on American soil? A cheeseburger, of course!