Frohe Weihnachten!

Christmas was lovely here in Tirol. They celebrate on the 24th here, and Baby Jesus brings the gifts, not Santa Claus. In fact, Santa Claus does not exist here (his predecessor St. N

iklaus is celebrated on December 6th). I was assigned the task of decorating the Christmas tree at the Mayr family home, and happily did so, with gold, red, and silver balls, little chocolate liquior bottles, and straw angels and stars. I was happily surprised to find similar ornaments as those of my own family, like the old tin birds with metal clips attached so it looks like they are purched on the branches. Meanwhile I enjoyed some local white wine and attempted at carrying out a conversation in beginner's German and beginner's English.

Dinner was delicious: we ate salad with local pumkin seed oil dressing, a Bavarian radish dish, almond snow peas (my own concoction), followed by local potatoes, cheeses, salmon, and pork sausages that we each cooked on this nifty contraption called a raclette. Dessert was vanilla creme pudding with blood oranges. Klaus's parents and brother were very kind and fun, and the challenge of communication actualy made the night even better!

München, Deutschland

Winter Solstice was a memorable occasion this year, despite the lack of snowy weather here in the Alps. The plan was to hike up to the cliffside above Kufstein (to the spot from where the Bavarians shot cannons at the castle and took over three hundred years ago) and celebrate the return of the sun a la the Celts with a big 'ol fire and thermoses of Glüwein (a yummy libation of hot spiced wine) with a big group of friends. As the day grew into evening, and the wet rain continued to melt away the snow, more and more people decided it was not a night for being in the woods. The wood was purchased and the Glüwein made, however, so four of us trekked up the slushy slope with two umbrellas and built a fire. The rum and tea and Gluwein, along with the warmth of the fire and layers of clothing, convinced us it wasn't raining anymore, and we had a grand time. We talked of running around naked in the woods (purely for the sake of celebration, of course), but I decided I was wearing too many layers of clothing to bother. Klaus and Anders performed a rendition of a solstice dance. Hiking in the woods at night is pure joy!

*********

After a week of relaxation, hikes in the snow, and lots of chocolate, cookies, and schnapps, I decided it was time to escape to Munich for a few days. I caught the train, and anticipated finally trying out some of my newly learned Deutsch without the help of my native speaking friend...

Two days of walking in Munich brought some nice sights: two traditional Christmas markets with little wooden ornaments and creatures made of moss and bark, streets lined with pastel painted and variously architected apartment buildings, the Glockenspiel with its circling Bavarian figurines and the medieval courtyard of the Gothic church where I drank Glüwein, designer stores and their interesting window displays, a bakery that served up yumminy cinnamony marzipan walnut bread, a multi-storied wooden Chinese tower with a spiral staircase, beer and saurkraut down down down the stairs at a traditional Keller (beer cellar), and the Viktuelmarket with more cheese than I have ever seen in one place!

Munich is an interesting confluence of Bavarian and Catholic tradition, a very-present modernity marked by trendy restaurants, 21st century glass and wood, and remnants of '50s futurism and mod design. The scene was a pleasant bustling, with the sincere joy of Christmas spirit. Somewhere in there, the Turkish minority fits in, with its kebab shops, fruit stands, and Muslim women, heads covered, pushing around children in large baby buggies. All in all, it was a pleasant few days in 'the big city.'

Castles and Snow

I arrived in Kufstein, Austria yesterday morning, after a mediocre overnight train ride from Paris to Munich. It is snowy here, in the Alps, but the winter has only just begun and it is actually warmer than Paris. It is hard to believe I have only been here two days, as I have already done so much! My friend Klaus, who I met in Istanbul, has been a great and welcoming host.

We hiked up the sledding trail to view the sunset over the town of Kufstein, it's castle, and the distant snowy mountain peaks. This area is a very popular place for tourists and for snowboarding, skiing, and sledding competitions. The mountains are gorgeous! Last night we went out with Klaus's friends for a birthday party (damn do those Austrians drink!). Much of the conversation was in the Tirolian dialect of German, but people were often kind enough to translate for me in English, and I was heartily welcomed into joining into the jovial laughter of the circle of friends. They are very proud to be Tirolian, and I could imagine this crowd at a heavy metal concert, though they are all sweethearts. We went around the table telling what animal we would be, and it turns out we are all predators.... . I learned of a tradition here where men dress up as demons to scare winter away. Apparently there is a large bonfire, and the men carry large branches, wear large bells, and drink heavily; it can get a bit violent, but seems like a really fascinating tradition. We will spend Winter Solstice with a fire in the forest and New Year's up in the mountains at a cow farm.

Today we drove to a nearby village to take a walk around a frozen lake. Steamy clouds rose towards the sun from the lake surface, and tree branches were covered in geometrical ice crystals. I love the quant traditional architecture of the buildings here! The houses, which I think I would call lodges (sometimes decorated with deer antlers), have carved wooden balconies, which actually call to my mind the wood design in Nepal. On the drive from Munchen, I spotted towers with fantastical domed roofs. There are two castles in Kufstein, one which I can see from Klaus's balcony. I will explore them soon...

Paris encore

"Between the religion d'amour and the latist 'ism... one had better ride on a carrousel all day."

- D.H. Lawrence on Paris from Women in Love

I was amazed as I watched the transformation of my ability with French over the two weeks of language study in Montpellier. As a Colombian woman I met here in Paris says, to learn a language, you really have to be forced to use it for communication. I can only imagine how much months of the program would improve one's language. Nonetheless, I was happy to leave Montpellier and head back to Paris. I do miss the delicious pastries from my favorite boulangerie, and speaking French so much...

Paris is wonderful; it's streets and metro ways full of history and interesting people. Montmarte, famous for being the artists' hang back in the day, is my favorite area, even with the tourism. There are cute cafes, funky boutiques, sweet little stone streets and steps that wind up and down and around the hill of Montmarte. (Nearby are streets and streets of fabric, button, ribbon, and costume stores!) Some of the window displays here are fantastical pieces of hand-crafted voila-ing behind glass, colorful bragging about the goods within. I have been very aware of the fashion here, much of which is pretty conservative and normal, if fancy. But there are also great boots and myriad hats, and lots of real and faux fur. There is a Parisian-ess of funky, spunky witchiness and putting-on-the-ritzness. I think it is reflected in the black wrought iron, the yawning gothic gorgoyle window sculptures of Notre Dame, and the sketches from Moulin Rouge by Toulouse Latrec.

I have now visited four out of the 157 museums here. I spent five hours at the Musee d'Orsay. Among the thousands of pieces and objects, the museum houses an exquisite collection of Art Nouveau furniture and Impressionist painting. Wow, let me tell you, Monet and Van Gogh just blow every other Impressionist out of the water. One of the temporary exhibitions was of the museum's collection of pastels. Degas- oh la la. Wow. The art I viewed affected me more than I can express in the remaining six minutes of my internet time...

I have also walked for miles and miles and miles. Yesterday on a street I happened to be walking along in the Marais, I stumbled upon one of the oldest houses in Paris, from the 15th century! On Monday I went to one of the flea markets here, Le Marche aux Puces, wandering in the maze of antique stores until I was numb with the cold. Oh the things Paris has thought!- textiles, taxidermy, vintage clothing, hats, jewelry, buttons, keys, skulls, lens contraptions, feathers, shells, leather books, doll eyeballs, teacups, perfume bottles, ivory knick knacks, bloomers, metal green man scultures...

Needless to say, I am enjoying Paris.

Tout est le français.

(It is strange to write in English, because I am not speaking English at all here in Montpellier)...

I realized that most of my French language experiences have been during the winter- classes at PSU in February, Montréal in thigh deep snow, and now Montpellier in 6° weather (Celsius, which I think makes it in the upper thirties in Fahrenheit?). Winter is a time of suspended action- when bears retire to their caves and the life nectars of flowers retreat into bulbs in the ground. People use clothing and their positions to create barriers against the cold, against the world outside their bodies. Buildings and homes, too, are closed, creating miniature walled cities of warmth.

Like Montpellier in the cold, I feel shut off from the world, muted. I am winter like the still, empty, cold sand of the beach. Il y a une distance entre moi et le monde. People here don't really speak English, which is good for learning French, but it means I can't communicate with people so well. We speak only French in the house where I stay, and only French in the classes. I haven't met many people, so I spend my days wandering the stone streets of Montpellier and drinking espresso and eating de les croissant chocolats by myself, surrounded by dancing and prancing foreign words. I am getting better at speaking French, though! Even my thoughts are beginning parler à moi en français. I am thinking again of living in Montréal, Québec. France is a little too fancy for me; everyone dresses so sharply. The pastries and the lingerie show off delicately, proudly, deliciously, from the shined glass windows of boutiques and boulangeries.

Montpellier is a very old city, with beautiful stone carvings and wrought iron decorating the buildings. There are fountains throughout la centre ville with green moss growing and glowing on them. J'ai visité la plage (the beach), aussi. The sky felt so expansive, and the clouds were beautifully varied textures of pastel colors, une belle peinture. Two people galloped on horses along the beach, trés romantique, non? A few days ago, a rainbow was a visage of hope pendant the clouds held back their tears.

Cette une coincidence que mon anniversaire etait le meme jour que le fete de Saint Catherine. Alors, I got to drink champagne and eat quiche and petites French desserts during a party held for my host's family! My classmates also sang Happy Birthday to me in French. And I received some very nice e-mails (including dancing frogs).

Learning a language is trés trés dificil, as is life sometimes. I am realizing that I just have to have faith that there will be improvement, that the mistakes and efforts are worthwhile and are actually beneficial experiences.

Ah, Paris! Oui, oui.

I arrived in Paris on the 20th, after an actually restful nine hour flight (somehow, I successfully avoided all but a mild sense of jet lag). I found a great internet network where you can find a couch to surf upon anywhere in the world. The whole system is based on generosity and trust- how's that for renewing one's faith in humanity? Bianca, a theater student here in Paris, has been my host here. She has allowed me to stay in her apartment, with my own key, and with free use of her computer, the kitchen, and hot shower. I have also gotten to hear about her art- the puppet show set to live medieval music- and been invited to a masked party and opera put on by her friends (unfortunately I was feeling too tired to attend). I am now at her parents huge Parisian apartment, by myself, surrounded by antiques and meubles exuding cozy homeness. Wow, I am feeling so blessed and trusted!

I have spent the last two days being a tourist in Paris, and pretending I speak more French than I really do (a lot of mercis and smug smiling). Really, though, I am finding that people respond relatively nicely to my attempts, and I am enjoying putting my history of bookishness to real live experimentation. Today I ate a Nutella et banane crépe in the artsy and quiant streets of Montmarte. The sun was shining and the parks glowing green and golden despite the late autumn brisk air, and people seemed happy and sociable as they chattered over lunch and wine in the cozy cafés.

Yesterday I spent several hours in Le Centre de George Pompidou in the Musée National de L'art Moderne, though I only made it to 1950. It was fascinating to think about how a piece of art, merely color and marks created by one person one time, such as one of Picasso's cubism studies, can refer to such a depth of history and thought. I like to get really close to the pieces and examine the chunks of paint, the evidence of the dryness of the paint brush, the texture of the canvas; somehow this makes the art feel more real and accessible. How did they do it? Was it all on purpose, or do the artists just let their perspective, from within a certain frame of personal and social history, play out? Artistic genius within modern art seems to lie in the questioning of artistic formalities and traditions of the past, coming up with nuanced formulations of seeing art. But what about art as commentary on the world, rather than commentary of and for itself?...

And here is evidence of the extreme differences between traveling in India, and traveling in Europe. India is heightened stimulation of the senses, of the sense of the human animal. It is the in-your-face color of aliveness that Paris lacks, but makes up for in the expression and teasing of the human intellect. Paris is: small talk over an espresso, political consciousness, architectural monuments of power, philosophy, the appreciation of antique glass perfume bottles, field trips for the school children to a museum of modern art, a place of layered world histories, fashion, self-conscious pride in language and culture. I am very content to be here in the midst of Frenchness.

Lumbini and Kimchee

A Prayer of the Radiant Heart, I think I'd call it, the evening prayers at the Korean Monastery in Lumbini, the place of the Buddha's birth. The Buddha statues smiled warmly, gentle light from lotus shaped lanterns glinting off their golden chins and round bellies. The monks chants, both male and female, drifted into rhythms of sound and voice. The feeling in the meditation hall expressed compassion, gentle attitude, and joy; the experience of Buddhism in practice conferred more teachings than written sutras. As I walked back to my room, I thought, 'Does the peace of my experiences balance out the chaos?'

On my return into India (on my way to Delhi for a flight to France), I decided to stay a night in Lumbini, in Nepal, before heading over the border. Buddhism was in the forefront of my mind throughout my days in Nepal, so it seems fitting that I am completing the circuit from Kushinagar (the place of the Buddha's cremation) through Nepal and then to Lumbini, where the Buddha was born. Death first, and then birth, because the cycle is not done and perhaps never will be.... It is difficult to imagine that the Buddha actually lived and breathed and taught here, here in the real and physical world. He must have been quite a fellow! His word has spread throughout the world.

I visited the temple which was created over the place of the Buddha's birth. The very spot is marked, a stone surrounded by plexiglass. The wall of brick next to the plexiglass case is marked with gold, red, and orange, where pilgrims have touched it with religious powders. It feels sacred in that very spot. Hundreds of prayer flags, strings and strings, hang between the large trees of the surrounding grounds. There are birds living inside the temple (which in itself is really not so impressive- more like an unfinished 1950s office building), with nests made of prayer flags.

There are many monasteries here, set among fields, bodies of water, and wooded enclaves. I didn't have a lot of time to explore, although I walked around enough to see the Chinese temple, and to view the mystical-looking smoke rising from the cattails (and why are they burning the cattails? I don't know). The Korean monastery where I am sleeping for the night is peaceful and clean. For a donation, a person gets a bed in a small dorm room (with bathroom attached), and three buffet-style meals. Candles, toothbrushes, bottled water, and such are set out for the taking with set donation prices. It is all run on trust and compassion. The food is delicious, consisting of fresh vegetables, rice, kimchee (even for breakfast!), yoghurt, bananas, and toasted rice. The monks make a yummy tea from a local root called cassia tora, which is available at all hours. Its taste is earthy and comforting.

Close to losing mind after waiting nine hours for my train in the dirty and very Indian border town of Gorakphur (after a four hour ride in a jeep packed with 10 people and 3 children), but memories of previous psychadelic experiences save me. I scare myself that I am dying of some disease and I will never get out of India... But, I make it overnight and into the next day, and find myself battling taxi drivers in Delhi again. I actually burst into tears and an Indian man took pity on me and found me a bicycle rickshaw for a decent price. I think he thought I was a little insane!

As we rolled along I brightened up, noticing that Delhi really isn't as bad as I had thought. Seeing the little stores and the Indians shopping and talking and living, I am again happy to be on an adventure. I shake my head in amazement that there is electricty at all on viewing the hundreds of exposed powerlines, grimy with blackness and tied together in a lumpy manner, as I ride gleefully through the old small windy streets of Delhi. After last minute shopping (I was too sick in Kathmandu to buy my loved ones beautiful things), and a nice meal at a Korean restaurant (Kimchee again!), I have four hours to sleep before heading to the airport. And then to France!!!

Kathmandu: Contemplation of Mortality Continues

"Why pin ourselves down on a paradisal ideal? It is only ourselves we torture... Love is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss."

- D.H. Lawrence, quoted in Ian Baker, The Heart of the World

I had my doubts about going to Kathmandu, since I was enjoying the nature and peace of Nepal, but how could I ould to Nepal and not see Kathmandu? Plus, I could buy all my gifts in Thamel, in its streets lined with stores, guesthouses, money changers, shops, and full of wares spilling out, people-crowded lanes, bicycle rickshaws, bright shawls, Thangka paintings, outdoorsy tourists, potholes, with signs and powerlines filling the sky. I prepard to shop the next day, first finding dinner.
Dinner, however, changed everything. I was violently sick all night (will I ever eat falafel and hummus again?), and so horrbily weak and nauseaus the next two days I though I was going to die. Luckily, I ran into Richard, the Tibetan language scholar at a cafe and had a nice conversation, and then later I ran into Katherine, of Tennessee, who was at Sadhana Yoga. We shared a hotel room and she brought me aspirin and crackers. Familiar and kind faces are a blessing when you are feeling ill in a foreign place! I was able to go out to dinner and eat a few veggie mumus (like potstickers), and meet a Texan who travels the world fighting child labor and child prostitution.

I got no shopping done, but I did at least see one of the main Buddhist stupas in Kathmandu (Bhodaneth), and witness hundreds of Tibetans and Tibetan Buddhist monks conduct circumambulations of the holy place. Incense and "Om Mani Padme Oms" filled the air. Around the temple are dozens of monasteries, and one of the biggest populations of Tibetans outside Tibet. I was fascinated by the Tibetans, their clothing, their strength, their art, their religion. My own mortality danced between my eyes and the world, and I grasped at Buddhist teachings for comfort. Reincarnation and eternal peace are very appealing when it comes to speaking with Death...

I returned to Sadhana-Yoga, to gather my things and have two nights of recovery. New people had come to visit, and I had an interesting, though not comforting, conversation about diseases you can get in third world countries and the number of tourist deaths in Nepal. It is so easy for us to travel the world and go into extreme conditions. So I made it through the crazy driving, the bus rides above cliffs, the possibility of terrorist attacks, extreme illness... but I had become very aware of the potential for situations to change from fun to scary, and of the common lack of responsibility and consciousness among many tourists.

I readied myself for the border crossing back to India, and looked forward to returning to a modern country.

Wooden comfort

"She knew how immortally beautiful they were, great pistils of rose-coloured, snow-fed fire in the blue twilight of the heaven." - D.H. Lawrence, Women in Love

On the way back to Pokhara, I hopped off the rafting van in a small town called Dumre, where I waited to catch a shared jeep to the even smaller town of Bandhipur, renowned for its traditional Newari wooden architecture. It turned out to be easy to locate the jeep, and as I watched as more and more people piled onto the benches, floor, front seats, and back of the jeep, I realized I was in for another adventure! Up, up, up we went (all twenty of us) back and forth around he zig zagging curves. The only person who spoke English was a drunk man squatting on the floor of the jeep: he would ask me "Where you from? USA!! USA!!" and then his head would loll and he would pass out again. The other people were understanding to me and we offered each other smiles. Eventually I ignored the drunk man and the ride was fun, if squished.

Bandhipur is one of the sweetest, most beautiful places I have ever been. One main street winds through homes and temples, the wooden balconies and decorative elements intricately carved. Other paths lead to more temples and a place where people come to ritually cleanse their feet and hands in the morning. Children in uniforms, some shy, some friendly, some curious, seemed always on their way to school. Sometimes they asked me, "Where are you going?" I headed up to a ridge for the sunset and found an ancient tree with a stone platform built around it, perfect for meditation. My mind and body felt so full with life, it bubbled up into a perpetual smile, glowing from within me. I kept thinking, "The mountains are where the clouds are supposed to be!"

I spent the night in the cutest hotel, which had been renovated to play up the original dark wooden balconies, framework, and doors. The dinner and breakfast were delicious, the Nepalese staff so sweet. I took in as much of Bandhipur as I could in one night, and dreamed of doing a long trek through small Nepalese villages in the future.

In the morning, I decided to skip the shared jeep and walk down the old trail to Dumre. Few people take the old road anymore, so I was mostly alone on the stone steps through orange fields and steep wooded hills. I sang mantras to Kali and Lakshmi and sometimes heard notes of a flute floating up from the valley below. It was a long trek down; I probably dropped 1500 feet in a few hours. It was a beautiful day, however, and I had fallen in love with Nepal.

Back in Dumre, I was ushered onto a local bus: four hours to Kathmandu!

Landscapes of Mind and Mountains

They say Nepal is the navel of the world. The Tibetans built temples on sites where the bodies of deities lie on the Earth, holding the deities down like the Lilliputians in Gulliver's Travels. The navel is a place of power, the Himalayas hold the bellybutton that receives spiritual life blood through the umbilical chord to Heaven.

"Leave the past behind; abandon all thoughts of the future, and let go of the present. You are ready to cross to the other shore."
- from the Dhammapada, quoted in Ian Baker, The Heart of the World.

On arrival in Pokhara, I exited the goat-infested bus, and headed straight to Sadhana-Yoga, a short taxi ride and then a walk up a stone road. I was so relieved to reach a peaceful destination! I dreamed the first night that the creators of Sadhana Yoga, Asanga and Durga had set up a protective barrier around the Centre. The next five days were days of nourishment, cleansing, and meditation. The Nepalese food was so so delicious and healthy, the lake and wooded hills beautiful (especially just as the sun rose), the Neti pot and Pranayama energizing, and the company pleasant.

As the days went on my thoughts turned away from petty worries about life and more towards thoughts on yoga, Buddhism, enlightenment, a spiritual reckoning of nature. I immersed myself in a book about trekking and about Tibetan Buddhist beliefs about sacred geography, and how the environment is both a physical and a spiritual landscape. Through yoga and meditation, I aimed to align myself with the natural environment, with the present moment... With each day I could feel myself healing....

Despite wanting to stay at the peaceful and nourishing Sadhana-Yoga forever, I decided I needed to get out and see more of Nepal in the short two weeks I had before flying to France. I made reservations for a two day rafting trip and left my heavy backpack in Pokhara, favoring a smaller bag for the adventures to come. In the morning I hopped aboard the rafting van, which was loaded with rafters, guides, supplies, and the deflated rafts. I got my first full view of the Himalayas as we drove on the bumpy road out of Pokhara: snowy shards of blue, vast and still, calm monsters of the sky.

After a short drive the guides pumped up the raft, we put on our uniforms of helmets and life vests and headed down the Seti River towards Chitwan National Park. My shipmates included three Hungarians, two Tazmanians, an American, and a British fellow. We soaked up the sun, cried out together in the shock of cold water as we barrelled through whitewater, and occasionally sang.

The landscape was gorgeous: the river is turquoise from glacier run-off and the jungled green hills rise steeply from the water. Occasionally there I saw mud and palm houses with terraced fields along the hillsides. It takes the villagers five hours walking to reach a road. Suspension bridges yawn the expanse of the river. Children watched us raft underneath and waved down. I closed my eyes as we floated and my mind floated too, with the orchestra of water sounds. I thought of how physical motion can help us link ourselves to the sacro-physical environment, the energies of a place.

Crossing Borders

Travel days are some of the most difficult: each step is into the unknown, clean, good food is can be hard to come by, and time and distance imprint themselves onto the mental and physical self. I was looking forward to Nepal, but as I prepared myself to start the journey, I had to convince away the anxieties playing out in my head. It won't be too bad, I thought. As soon as I get on that overnight train, I can rest (and I needed rest because I was newly feverish with a sore throat). I took a taxi to the train station, a few hours beore my midnight train.

I patiently waited, watching and writing. The train station was one of those sights in India that was just unbelievable. The parking lot, jammed full of autorickshaws was literally a field of white dust littered with piles of debris. Directly in front of the train station, men chanted and drummed by a temple there. Sleeping bodies, some resting on blankets or shawls, some directly on the filthy marble, covered the station floor. With the distortion over the loudspeaker announcing all the delays, the neon lights, and the echoes of a thousand voices, I wondered, how can these people sleep in this racket? I think to myself, am I so nuts to do this on my own? I am brave, but India is so different and foreign. Like the holiness of Varanasi: I see the temples and the rituals and I get the gist of Hinduism; but really, I can't know how the Hindus feel, or what the city signifies, it is just too far removed from my conception of the world...

The train was two hours late. In the meantime, I met two Australians who were also heading to Nepal. We agreed to meet in the morning at the destination station in Gorakhpur, to share a taxi. I was happy with this, and hopped onto the train. It's good I was so exhausted and passed directly out, because I had little time to think about the fact that it was the dirtiest train I have ever been on.

On arrival, I spotted Eugene and Richard. Richard is a 'non-conventional' Buddhist monk and Eugene is studying the Tibetan language so that he can study Buddhism in Tibetan (he likens this challenge to an Eskimo moving to France to study philosophy); they both live in Kathmandu. I decided to come along with them to Kushinigar, the site of the Buddha's cremation, before heqding to the border. It was really great to have insightful companions as we wandered around the ruins and then circled the golden reclining Buddha statue. Our taxi driver was a small weasley one-eyed man, who drove maniacally. I contemplated fleeting life as we careened back to Gorakhpur, glancing at the buildings along the road. It looked like it hqd been recently bombed- piles of rubble sat gathering dust, and the buildings were either being destroyed or built, I couldn't tell which.

Luckily we switched drivers for the three plus hour trip to the Nepali border. Richard made sure he drove slower, and the architectural wreckage soon gave way to farmlands and small villages. The road was even lined with trees. When we got a flat tire, I took it in stride. We stepped out of the vehicle qs the driver replaced the flat with a spare. The villagers started to gather round, staring with curiosity at the tall white foreigners. The 'Indian doctor' (more like medicine man) approached with a miling face. He pocketed the beedie I offered him. We smiled, the villagers smiled. I noticed the doctor was blind in one eye. A line from a Tom Waits song kept playing in my head: 'In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.' Eventually, we made it to the border, and right away, the Nepalese people were so much nicer and welcoming.

The border crossing was pretty easy. I trusted the men who seemed helpful a little too much however, when I payed overprice for a 'very good seat' on 'the last bus' to Pokhara. Not only was the bus ride three hours longer than anticipated (making it 12 hours), but it was full of forty goats; yes, forty goats! The whole baggage compartment was stuffed full, they were on top of the bus in a crate, and they were crammed together in the last three rows of seats. Apparently, a man runs goats from India to Pokhara often, selling each one for 4000 or 5000 Nepali rupees (20 or 30 dollars a piece). It was a nightmarish ride as the bus made its way in the cold blackness around the curvy cliff-edge roads, the fearful and squished goats bleating, smelling, and shitting two seats behind me for 12 hours, as I coughed and fevered. By the time I got off in Pokhara, I too smelled of goat, and the thought of goat cheese made me gag. I made it, though, and despite the hell of a journey, I was happy to have arrived in Nepal.

The Holy City of Varanasi

"Namaste, ji," I say as I put my hands together at my forehead. The saddhu (holy man) is dressed in clean orange scarves, a cloth wrapped around his waist, with his long dreadlocks wrapped around his head and a freshly painted bindi in the place of the third eye. We are walking in opposite direction along the ghats on the Mother Ganges. He asks me in very good English how I am doing, warmth gleaming from his eyes. He, too, wants my money. I am in a good mood, and this man is kind and friendly (and close to God, no?). I give him an orange (which seems fitting except the oranges here are green on the outside), and he gives me a blessing.

My time in Varanasi has been filled with interactions with people, whether it is men calling incessantly for me to come to their shop, or have a boat ride, or buy some hash (this is whispered in a rather creepy way, though I hear there is a legal government shop here), children wanting to practice their English (or to sell me flowers or chai), random Indians I ask questions, or visitors from around the world smoking rollies or drinking lassis in the courtyard of Ganpati Guesthouse. Of course, there has been plenty of alone time, too. It is when I am alone that I have the most magical experiences, like yesterday when I stumbled upon a Shiva and Kali Temple hidden in a quiet garden off one of the main roads. I sat drinking a chai and contemplating the architecture of the temple, the fierce powers of Kali, and the advice of Guruji Bablu, who had just read my palm. Varanasi is one of the holiest cities in India. The River Ganges runs beside the city, its banks lined with ghats (cement stairs accessing the water). The water, which is maybe the dirtiest water in the world (with bodies, chemicals, sewage, debris, factory waste), is also considered the purest water in the world in the spiritual sense. Even taking a bit of the Ganges and pouring into a body of water in another city makes that whole new water holy. Hindus come here on pilgrimmage, and also to die or to bring the bodies of their loved ones. At the burning ghat, families with a permit from the government bring their dead family member's body through the streets wrapped in cloth and flowers and place it on a pile of sandalwood (at least those whoare wealthy). The pile is lit with the fire of Shiva, which has been burning for 4000 years. Three hours of ritual and burning later, the soul of the person is said to have reached Nirvana. (I also witnessed a dead monkey wrapped in red cloth with incense burning nearby and rupees about his body. A holy man said they would float the monkey (Hanuman) into the river the next day.)

There are ancient architectural gems of temples, niches in the walls with deities, and small cement buildings housing deities and lingas dotting the labyrinth-like streets of the Old City. Incense is burned, candles on plates of flowers are offered to the Ganges as puja every night. From my room overlooking the river, I watched the little lights float downstream. Women purchase new saris and bangles here; the streets are full of sparkling and beautiful colors and patterns. With all the spiritual beauty, I can almost forget about all the money hungering and piles of garbage and shit. It was kinda cute when a mouse ran across my toes in the restaurant I was about to eat in... Varanasi is a special place, even to non-Hindu eyes.

Festival of Lights

The last few days, the Indians have been enjoying Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Diwali celebrates Lord Krishna's defeat of a big bad demon, and the return of safety and happiness. The most apparent festivities consist of firecrackers reverberating through the air, the many happy groups of Indian tourists on the beaches (I saw about fifteen young Indian men making human pyramids and cheering in glee as they plunged into the water), and the flower garlands and strings of lights decorating homes, businesses, trucks, and rickshaws. When I was driving in Karnataka , I laughed with the taxi driver in amazement as we saw a truck with so many strings of pink, white, and yellow flowers hanging over the windshield it was a wonder the driver could see at all! With questioning, I learned that families spend days preparing food and then feasting. They also clean house and give oil massages to the children (ritual cleansing is quite important in the Hindu religion). At darkness the electricity is turned off and lamps and candles lit in all the windows. I witnessed this at our guesthouse restaurant in Gokarna, where they also rang bells and offered everyone an Indian sweet (ladoo).

On arrival in Mumbai (Bombay), the late evening was aglow with cloth lanterns, bright streamers, fireworks, and strings of lights decorating apartment balconies. I had some trepidation in coming to Mumbai, after really not liking Delhi, but the lights and festive attitude felt welcoming and happy. The brightness and wildness of the diverse decorations seem to represent my impressions of Mumbai in a way. It is a very diverse city, and people seem to be happy to live there. It is clean and modern, with trees and potted plants, smartly dressed young Indians, and billboards with the latest Bollywood films and Indian fashions (Side note: many men here wear designer jeans, though they are not so fashionable otherwise- maybe because they are made in India?). I was impressed with some of the British period buildings, ornate and grand in the city landscape. In the morning I saw the esplanade with people exercising, praying, meditating, and relaxing in the sunshine along the water. A nice 12 hour experience of the city.

Gokarna

After five nights in Palolem Beach, I caught a local train south to Gokarna, in the state of Karnataka. It was a bit lonely to leave Nancy, so I was very happy to meet two new friends while waiting for the (late) train: Yael, Israeli, 2 months India, and Marcelle, German, 2 weeks India, 11 month journey.

The train tickets were general boarding, with no guarantee of a seat. When it arrived I had to push and pull my way aboard, ignoring the fact that my huge backpack was offsetting gravity and acting as a body guard against competing Indian bodies. I made it on with Yael and Marcelle, plopped my bag down, and stood in the aisle. As the Indian families and young men filling the benches looked me over, I too eyed them with curiosity. I noticed at the first few stops that when people got up to exit, others appeared to seamlessly take their places, as if it were all planned out ahead of time. Eventually I encouraged a little girl in a sequined pink princess dress to scoot over and I squeezed onto the bench. When she got off at the next stop, I found myself with butt room and a nice Mangalore family to speak to about their pilgrimmage to Goa. The scenery out the window was really beautiful (in between seemingly endless tunnels). The landscape is very lushess green from palm trees, rice paddies, and jungley plants and ochre from the earth of the paths and roads and the peoples' houses. Every now and then we crossed a broad river.

We stayed near the many-templed town of Gokarna at Om Beach, so named because its bays are shaped like the Om symbol. After one night in a Rs 100 woven palm frond shack with a communal bathroom, the sink of which consisted of a barrel of dirty water, we decided to share a nice bungalow with attached bath up above the beach. It was quiet and calm on the porch among the plams and banana trees, the waves rhythmic in the background.

One morning I hiked a trail overlooking the sea to the next beach over. I was greeted by butterflies as I entered thought the cow-proof gate and found a sweet little beach with a small settlement just on the other side of the trees from the beach. I met three lovely beings who were renting a little house from the local family (the grandmother, who brought us a pineapple, apparently has to chase the monkeys from the rice fields each morning). Sunil and Biju (of Kovalam, Kerala, India) and Christina (of Germany) invited me to join them for breakfast, and of course I accepted. They buy their food in town, knock coconuts from the trees with long sticks, sing songs, do yoga on the beach, and cook over a fire. Sunil had decorated the little house with flowers and leaves for Duwali (see next blog), and their shrine to Shiva and Bob Marley peeked out the door. I felt like a queen in this paradise as they fed me egg scramble with toast, black coffee, bananas, pineapple with chili powder, and fresh coconut milk. It was inspiring to speak with friendly folks living simply and happily.

Palolem

On arrival in Palolem Beach, we surveyed the possible places to stay and found ourselves in a beachfront room in the hotel La Allegro, one of the pnly permanent buildings on the beach (more on this below). It has an attached bathroom, purple walls, a pink mosquito net, and a porch for good settin.' The days at Palolem are drift by easily, and people tend to stay much longer than planned. Something in the air makes each cell of the body relax into sandy earth. The many open-air beach cafes serve delicious Indian fare, including local (and fresh) Goan fish dishes (I look forward to eating, even when I have just finished a meal!). Kingfisher beers, sunshine, the warm Arabian Sea, palm trees, fresh coconut and pineapple, non-Goan Indians selling (cheap and not so cheap) jewelry and clothing, local fisherman pulling in their nets, cows meandering the coastline, homeless dogs being terratorial, a hundred Israeli tourists and a hundred more from Europe; this is Palolem Beach in a nutshell.

Palolem is paradise in many ways, but it has been interesting to see how much it has grown over the past four years (when I was here before). I estimate there are four times as many coco huts (palm and bamboo bungalows), restaurants, and stores. The government has an interesting take on development, which local Goans seem to support: the hotels and restaurants on the beach have to be torn down and rebuilt every year. Furthermore, only a certain percentage of the land can have buildings on it, they must be 200 m. from the ocean, and only one story tall. The idea is that big ugly concrete buildings and permanent development will not ruin the beach. High season starts around Nov. 1, so the men and women are busy, busy, busy hauling sand in baskets on their heads, roping together the bamboo buildings, setting up the chairs in their restaurants, and tacking up blue tarpaulins. It is quite a scene... Many of the business owners and waiters are not from Goa, and the stores and independant sellers who come here just for the season often do not pay taxes. Being in Palolem makes me think a lot about how tourism adds to the commodification of a place...

There have been some particularly memorable moments here:

On one of the first days I walked to the end of the beach in the morning and met yoga teacher Raja. He encouraged me to walk to over the rocks and to go onto the small peninsula because I might see dolphins swimming in the sea. I walked up and perched myself overlooking the sea, and indeed I did see some dolphins jumping!

Because Nancy and I won't be together on my birthday, she decided we should celebrate early. She gave me a lovely scarf and a miniature wooden backgammon board, which I love. We then shared a piece of poundcake with walnuts and golden raisins and enjoyed some good ol' very sweet and milky Nescafe coffee. It was wonderful.

The first few days in Palolem were very humid and smoggy. One afternoon it started raining, and poured for the next hour. The rain was the soaking kind- big drops that fall heavy and close together, wetting you to the bone in a few minutes. It was such a relief from the heat and humidity. I thoroughly enjoyed walking in the sweet rain, recalling the freshness of moist Oregon... A few nights later, we again experienced the rain, but this time it was a grand storm, with sheet lightning every other moment, and strong gusts of wind. We holed up in our favorite restaurant, Fernando's, and watched as the electricity up and down the beach flickered on and off. The electricity seemed to be playfully responding to the flashes in the sky!

Train(s of) Thought(s)

On the 18th of (what month is it again? oh yeah) October, we finally left the smogs and bogs of New Delhi on a 40 hour train to Goa. While waiting for the train, I noticed a man pushing a wheeled cart with large ice squares dripping from under their canvas cover in the heat. It recalls for me America back in the day, when people stored their goods in ice boxes and depended on the ice delivery man to bring the frozen blocks with his horse and cart. India has this timeless quality to it. You can't tell if the buildings and sidewalks are 10 years old, or 150. In fact, besides the ever increasing population and cell phone use, it's hard to tell what year it is. Clothing and hair styles don't reveal specificities of time period either; there are no trends apparent to my eyes. Oxen and cows roam the streets; people carry heavy loads on their heads and backs. A very strange feeling- timelessness...

For the train ride, we chose the less expensive sleeper class, where there is no A/C, but you can have the windows open to see the scenery. Unfortunately, the open window also meant an infestation of little black bugs at twilight flying in the windows (to add to the cockroaches) and smells of the tracks. The train bathroom consists of a squat toilet with no flush and a tube that leads directly to the train tracks. Trash is thrown out of the windows by the passengers, and garbage from the snacks, food, and drink sold on the train is puched between the cars onto the trakcs by the train staff. This also must be the time for slash and burn, as there was smoke all among the fields the whole way south. Hence, the breezes wafting into the windows are usually not so pleasant. There were some fresh spots, however, and I enjoyed watching the fields of flowering grasses, corn, bananas, rice, and marigolds. I decided that if I lived in India, I would have a garden full of marigolds. I would make them into strands and lays for people to hang above their doors and drape on deities in the temples. The bright necklaces are holy, healthy, and happy blessings in all villages and cities in India.

For the first night, we were joined by an Indian family (Sonya and her husband Topan, her sister, her so very cute and sweet and talkative 5 month old baby daughter Angel, and Topan's parents) on their way south for a pilgrimmage. The five of them (and the baby) somehow managed to have purchased only four tickets, so when it came for sleeping, Topan slept on the floor between mine and Nancy's bed platforms. (This was quite normal; the floor of the train was full of folks). They were a happy and kind family, and fed us homemade chapati with Indian mango pickle. Between games of a three deck card game called Marriage, I spoke to Sonya about the henna designs she had on her hands. She told me she had them done to honor a recent day of fasting, wherein the wife fasts so that her husband has a long life. She said that she does it for him, and he does it for her. Religion here is complex, varied, and paradoxical; but it is also accepting, dynamic, and colorful.

{Sonya's fasting is the third example of fasting I have experienced so far on this trip. The first was the Muslims for Ramadan in Turkey, the second were two Israeli women (both named Rachel) fasting I think for Yom Kippur.}

We made it through the train ride, caught an hour bus, and found ourselves, relieved and happy to find ourselves at Palolem Beach, in souther Goa.

India All Over Again

Only now, this evening, am I in a state to fairly represent my first (again) impressions of India. I am refreshed tonight, after having a yummy noodle soup for lunch, a chai and a bidhi, and a much needed meditation in a Tibetan Buddhist temple (where my attention was held with the chanting, chiming, drumming, and cymbal whacking of four monks). And, we leave Delhi (finally) tomorrow afternoon.

I slept poorly last night, having a hard time dispelling a feeling of discomfort and dread and a voice that kept telling me I needed to escape the nightmare. Yesterday, Delhi was a very, very old woman with sagging skin and filthy torn rags, the remnants of a firey sari, hanging from her hundred long limbs. Her breath, hot and putrid, surrounds her with a grimy black smog. She begs as she squats in a dark puddle, bits of bright plastic rubbish floating near her black-mucked toenails. Her eyes are blank, empty, her voice so hoarse it is nonexistent. Her wretchedness is ignored and forgotten. Traffic in the darkness, rickshaw riding trying not to inhale fumes of exhaust and shit. It is hard to believe the traffic even moves, so many millions of motorcycles, rickshaws, buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles, cows, even elephants and camels. We spent an hour and a half getting home last night, usually a 20 minute ride, partly because our rickshaw dide in the middle of the street and we had to run back and forth crossing the traffic (I'm talking a two lane road with 10 lanes of traffic, but no lanes) until we found an empty rickshaw willing to give us a ride. It is almost funny, sometimes, the gasping-close calls and lurching and swerving and braking. But then when you see certain things, of which I can't write because it makes me cry, it can't be funny anymore. Poverty, death, illness, and decrepitness test my humanity, my sanity.

On a lighter note (sort of...): We are staying in a little area of town called Majnu ka Tilla, which is the Tibetan colony in Delhi. It is much calmer here, if still stinky and dog and fly-infested. The Tibetans stare less and seem far more easy-going than the Indians. It is less crowded and the wares sold remind a person of the Himalayas, of trekking, of Buddhism, of hot tea, of natural rocks and gems of the earth. Tibetan flags are strung across the tops of the multi-colored concrete buildings, and the sounds of Tibetan Buddhist monks recall the prayers from the camii minarets in Turkey. While feeling so distraught here, I thought about the Tibetans' displacement from home. They don't have the option of going home. They must make their home here. TVs around the neighborhoods show discussions witht he Dalai Lama and others about the plight of the Tibetan people.

There are spots of color amid the chaos and darkness: smiling children that like to say, "Hellooo, what is your name?," women with intricate freshly painted henna designs on their hands and wrists, walking the crowded streets with arms raised like masts over their yellow and pink sari sails to prevent smudging, interesting and exotic wares for sale, temple decorations in sparkling in nearby trees. I am optimistic again, but so glad to be heading to Goa, a calm breath for a bit...

Moments of awareness, alıveness. Controlled grapplıng along the rock face on the edge of the creek and then clımbıng lıke a mountaın goat up the sıde of the valley. Two of them watch me from across the valley, stıll lıke black rocks... Sound of the waves gentle and rhymthıc, the earth solıd, holdıng me from wıthın. The pebble art of thıs hıdden beach speaks all languages and none... The sea cool and refreshıng, lıquıd whıspers on the skın... The camp dog watches the sunset wıth a medıtatıve calm... Thıs place teaches me that love ıs sacred, that my mysterıes remaın secret, that love ıs an unspoken pact of freedom, peace, and magıc. Precıous creatures we are when we embrace truth together. Insıghts wıth acceptance of ınherent aloneness... A chance rıde ın the back of a jeep to Fethıye, watchıng the people and the houses and trees fade away as we speed along the road, the ıslands and the sea so far below the edge so near. Gleeful grın wıth the wınd dancıng my haır.

I had planned on goıng north to a town near the Black Sea called Safronbolu, known for ıts Ottoman wooden archıtecture. Instead, I was drawn to Kabak, back on the Medıterranean Coast, where Nancy remaıned.

I spent four nıghts ın Kabak Valley, a small valley wıth a beach and camps wıth bungalows and platforms overlookıng the beach wıth lots and lots of pıllows. To get there you have to take a mınıbus through a resort town (a Florıda nıghtmare: Chınese Indıan Pızza restaurants, pıles of neon floaters for sale, and haıry drunk Australıans), around a crazy curvy road, and then hıke down part of the Lycıan Way. It ıs stıll a relatıvely unknown spot, despıte ıts Lonely Planet status. The days and nıghts were peaceful, the valley exudıng a warm calm that urges a person, slowly, "Lıe down. Stay awhıle. Relax my darlıng. Don't worry about gettıng a job. Don't worry about beıng bored or lonely. It's not ımportant. No problem."

The valley dıdn't want to let me go I guess, because on the day we were supposed to hıke out I got very ıll, and we had to stay another nıght. It was a gruelıng tıme of breathıng through waves of nausea and tryıng not to thınk of home. The next day I lay on the beach, grateful to have regaıned some strength. Down the beach a blond famıly played ın the sun, lıttle naked creatures splashıng courageously ın the waves, a father's laughter. Boats perused the horızon and the bees contınued to buzz. And they probably stıll are, even as I sıt ın Istanbul, waıtıng to hop on a plane to Indıa. We really can't control fate, just as we can't control the roll of the dıce ın backgammon. Often, I can't even read what the dıce say.

Faıry Chımneys

(Thıs was 9 days ago now...)

I arrıved ın Göreme, Cappadocıa (Kapadokya) by overnıght bus just before sunrıse, at the tıme when the bırds are all chırpıng ın antıcıpatıon of the break of day. The folks at the guesthouse were stıll sleepıng, so I dropped my bag and went to wander about. The town ıtself ıs full of cave dwellıngs, carved out hundreds of years ago by ancıent Chrıstıans. Some are empty and dark, others are stıll used by the people of the town and for the numerous hotels and hostels. The locals call some of the rock formatıons Faıry Chımneys because they are tall skınny protrusıons, empty ınsıde but as ıf waıtıng for some magıcal occupants to come home. It was fascınatıng walkıng about the roads, but I then spotted a lıne of about eıght half flat raınbow hot aır balloons on the ground ın the dıstance.

"They must be about to take off for sunrıse!," I thought, and changed my course towards the valley, fındıng myself on a dırt path that wound out of town, past a cemetary, and up ınto the natural rock formatıons. I watched as one by one the hot aır balloons were fılled up and slowly raısed themselves off the ground, blasts of fıre sendıng them hıgher and hıgher. After watchıng for a lıttle whıle I went onto the top of one of the hılls of whıte rock to medıtate over the valley below. A few mınutes later I heard the blasts of a hot aır balloon and saw one approachıng! It got wıthın about 25 feet and I laughed and waved wıth the passengers as I heard one of them call out, "Where dıd she come from?" It was a magıcal mornıng.

The next day I rented a bıcycle and attempted to explore the Rose and Red Valleys, named for the color of the rock and sand along the spıky rock formatıons and clıff faces. I dıd end up explorıng, but I ended up gettıng quıte turned around and ın a very very long valley wıth a road that turned ınto a path that got skınnıer and skınnıer. At fırst I saw other tourısts, then local folks pıckıng the grapes from theır vıneyards, then I was alone wıth only the ghosts of the hundreds and hundreds of gapıng wındows and doors up ın the rocks. I had to carry the bıcycle over boulders and around trees and take ıt through tunnels. Eventually I had to turn around and retrace my steps, but gettıng lost was worth ıt. It was so peaceful and beautıful wıth the bırds and cottonwood trees and dreams of a forgotten people.

I dıdn't pay for a tour of the area, so I dıdn't learn much about the people who lıved there. They were Chrıstıans, and some of the rock caves are churches. You can stıll see the paınted ımages of saınts and geometrıcal desıgns, but they are badly graffıteed. There are underground cıtıes near Göreme, some up to eıght floors deep, where the people hıd themselves and theır anımals from ınvadıng Muslım armıes. Can you ımagıne lıvıng underground? I wander how these people lıved. What were theır magıcal belıefs? Dıd they use candles? Dıd they decorate theır caves wıth the textıles and rugs that thıs are ıs know for? Göreme was a stop for camel traıns, up untıl the 1950s. Was ıt always a tradıng center? Despıte the rampant tourısm, Cappodocıa ıs stıll fascınatıng and mysterıous.