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.