When I Travelled

What do you mean by sprinkled with 24K gold dust? K asked the waitress her finger scrolling down the variety of teas and coffees listed on the menu. Gold dust is sprinkled on the tea, ma’am. No, but what is it made of? Umm… gold, ma’am. I looked at M and we both rolled our eyes. And how does that taste? K asked her. I am considering jumping into the conversation to help out the waitress. But I figure she is probably used to all these questions about gold, working at the Burj al Arab where all that glitters is gold. Gold paint, gold TV screens, gold thread upholstery, gold shop facades – the place would give King Midas an identity crisis. We have indulged our pockets in a not-worth-its-miniscule-weight-in-gold high tea of assorted tiny sandwiches on gold platters and pastries garnished with gold leaf. I remember from my science lesson that gold falls under the heavy metal category. Not when it is consumed I realize. It rests lightly in the stomach and has me fantasizing about a light-on...

"That has to be the best bowl of pesto pasta I have ever eaten," I pat my tummy, push the bowl away and smile at C. She cocks an eye brow at my hyperbole. "Okay. Definitely in India," I acquiesce. “But that is not a statement I expected to make here.” I twirl my arms around. We are on the second floor of the café-restaurant squeezed among shops and on the narrow pedestrian-only street. The establishments here have jostled with each other to squeeze into a spot and thus can only grow vertically for more space. Kitschy floor cushions placed around squat tables make up the seating plan and the interior décor. But, my ‘here’ is not a condescending reference to the non-fine dining non-Italian themed café. I mean the larger ‘here’. Benares. Varanasi. Kashi. It has many titles – spiritual capital of India, one of the most religious Hindu cities, and the like. The Indian city that serves the best pesto? It had not yet been bestowed with that one. Half an hour ago C and I we...