Katie came from Mumbai via Delhi. Amelie came from New York. I came from Hanoi. We converged in Bangkok for one night, then took off for points south, lolling at a tres gay, absolutely beautiful beach where we did little but sun and eat for three days. The thing that’s excellent about the beach is that one’s neurons go into heat hibernation, firing perhaps once or twice a minute. Traveling solo around the world requires the capacity to function in sensory overload mode pretty much all the time. Having my brain on holiday was a welcome change.

Here are shots from our fabulous sojourn. Part one, not because I’m being clever, but because I’m having uploading issues. What else is new. This is the developing world, after all.

*****

Happy Katie – always a lovely sight.

Amelie’s legs – another lovely sight.

Siam, resident heartbreaker, will show you to your table at the restaurant straight ahead.

Where the cream in your curry comes from.

Cutealicious boys love to mug for the camera the world over.

The hotel’s longtail anchored in a lagoon in the center of an island. We snorkeled nearby.

 My bed draped in mosquito net and sunlight. Limestone islands through the gauze.

 

More to come.

So here I am in Kashmir, India, my vote for the likeliest spot for nuclear conflagration between India and Pakistan over control of the divided state. Throw in some Kashmiri independence insurgents and the War on Terror, and you have a recipe for fun.

And I’m here.

Because, didn’t you know, Kashmir is also ski-and-snow capital of India, home of the Himalayas, where tourists throng to sleep in houseboats under a phalanx of stars and trek through the mightiest mountains in the world!

Or so I let a Kashmiri travel agent in Delhi convince me. If Delhi – by far the most appallingly polluted and overwhelming place I’ve been, ever, knocking Cairo out of first place without the slightest bit of effort – hadn’t had me by my pair (think above the waist), perhaps I would have reconsidered.

So here I am in Srinagar, summer capital of Kashmir. This is nothing like Delhi. It doesn’t even seem to be anything like India. This is central Asia. The only thing that lets me know I’m in India is that the shops have English signs – oh, and the fact that you can’t go for more than 50 feet or so without seeing an Indian Army soldier toting a machine gun.

The journalist in me couldn’t resist the absurdity of vacationing in Kashmir. But until 1990, tens of thousands of mostly Indian tourists came every year. I’m here to learn why.

And now some are coming again. You wouldn’t know it from my visit. Crowds gather when I am near. Jaws literally drop open. It’s like I’m a celebrity. Angelina Jolie here to snatch another baby. Or a spy. I am definitely the only Westerner. There aren’t even many Indians. With the authorities, I keep the “journalist” thing to myself. Meet Jennifer Pinkowski, “consultant.”

Pretty photo posts of Thailand – including the much-awaited baby elephant shots – were supposed to be posted tonight, but various technical difficulties have conspired to not let that happen. Kashmir isn’t exactly wired.

Tomorrow morning I’m off for a three-day trek in the Himalayas. More when I return!