7.26.2004
TOUR DE LANCE
Well, we're STILL in Paris -- could have stayed 6 MORE days, it's such a beautiful city. The museums! The Seine!
We just came back from our perch above the Champs Elysees, watched Lance roll in to win his 6th Tour (after the parade of brands before-hand -- quite disturbing, how they try to disguise marketing as a cultural event). I love the feeling of pride and awe seeing atheletes compete at that level. I actually sang along (quietly) while they played our national anthem at the end.
Off to Chamonix, where we'll meet up with our friend Luke (from Antarctica) who runs a mountaineering hut in the Italian Alps with his wife Luci. We're really looking forward to visiting with them, and being high in the Alps.
+ + + + +
FROM A PLACARD @ THE PICASSO MUSEUM
"The mythic trilogy: bullfight, crucifixion, minotauromachy -- bears witness to the absolute commitment of an artist who lived his creation as a perpetual struggle against death."
- - - -
ALECHINSKY @ THE POMPIDOU (MODERN ART)
"In today's times, which zip by like electronic data, a painting is not just a silent image, but a still one, too, made by hand. Nature's hand, armed with a stick sporting hairs. You dip this brush in pigments mixed with binder and, hoping to put down maximum amounts of spontenaeity and thought, you apply it to the classic rectangle of canvas or paper. Also know as: the painting now in progress. ...a painting, in all its enigmatic materiality, vulnerability and poetry, might still encounter an eye existing 'in it's wild state'."
Well, we're STILL in Paris -- could have stayed 6 MORE days, it's such a beautiful city. The museums! The Seine!
We just came back from our perch above the Champs Elysees, watched Lance roll in to win his 6th Tour (after the parade of brands before-hand -- quite disturbing, how they try to disguise marketing as a cultural event). I love the feeling of pride and awe seeing atheletes compete at that level. I actually sang along (quietly) while they played our national anthem at the end.
Off to Chamonix, where we'll meet up with our friend Luke (from Antarctica) who runs a mountaineering hut in the Italian Alps with his wife Luci. We're really looking forward to visiting with them, and being high in the Alps.
+ + + + +
FROM A PLACARD @ THE PICASSO MUSEUM
"The mythic trilogy: bullfight, crucifixion, minotauromachy -- bears witness to the absolute commitment of an artist who lived his creation as a perpetual struggle against death."
- - - -
ALECHINSKY @ THE POMPIDOU (MODERN ART)
"In today's times, which zip by like electronic data, a painting is not just a silent image, but a still one, too, made by hand. Nature's hand, armed with a stick sporting hairs. You dip this brush in pigments mixed with binder and, hoping to put down maximum amounts of spontenaeity and thought, you apply it to the classic rectangle of canvas or paper. Also know as: the painting now in progress. ...a painting, in all its enigmatic materiality, vulnerability and poetry, might still encounter an eye existing 'in it's wild state'."
7.22.2004
BONJOUR!
Arrived in Paris two days ago, delivered at last from the third world into the long comfortable arms of conspicuous consumption. After landing at the Charles DuGalle airport, I relaxed into the vision of airport as shopping mall, knowing it meant public toilets with paper, tap water you can drink, and streets that are free of feces and urine. But it also means first-world prices, which has us a little nervous.
+ + + + +
Yesterday we climbed the famed Eiffel tower at sunset, which doesn't come until 10 pm here. Up close the metal hull seemed more industry than myth and romance. Below on the lawn spectators sat with wine as if it were the 4th of july -- the tower sparkling and twinkling to eclipse the starry sky.
+ + + + +
Breakfast: 1€60 - 2 croissants et 1 cafe
Lunch on the Seine: poppy baguette, cammembert cheese, red pepper, red wine, chocolate beignet
+ + + + +
Musee D'Orsay was a dream: (some of) the West's finest paintings curated in a superb manner, in an inspired piece of architecture. A refurbished old train station: giant center hall under arched roof with early 19th c. sculpture charging down where the trains once pulled into station. First floor: pre-impressionists (sculpture alongside paintings); Second floor: Art Nouveau (including furnishings); Third floor: Impressionists and post-impressionists. Seeing what came just before and just after the featured Impressionists gave the historical context necessary to bring appreciation of these truly amazing works to another level. The brushwork, texture, color, content, is so much freer, expressive, wild, alive, than of their predecessors. My favorites: Odilon Redon, Toulouse Lautrec, Henri Rousseau, and of course, VanGogh.
+ + + + +
Dream of surfing a tidal wave that turned to ice and was scraped away by Zambonis
° ° °
Dream of the mechanical camel safari ride that was too short and cost too much
° ° °
Dream of thousands of miniature ducklings (the size of baby chicklets) which I scooped up by the handful to save them being stepped on
Arrived in Paris two days ago, delivered at last from the third world into the long comfortable arms of conspicuous consumption. After landing at the Charles DuGalle airport, I relaxed into the vision of airport as shopping mall, knowing it meant public toilets with paper, tap water you can drink, and streets that are free of feces and urine. But it also means first-world prices, which has us a little nervous.
+ + + + +
Yesterday we climbed the famed Eiffel tower at sunset, which doesn't come until 10 pm here. Up close the metal hull seemed more industry than myth and romance. Below on the lawn spectators sat with wine as if it were the 4th of july -- the tower sparkling and twinkling to eclipse the starry sky.
+ + + + +
Breakfast: 1€60 - 2 croissants et 1 cafe
Lunch on the Seine: poppy baguette, cammembert cheese, red pepper, red wine, chocolate beignet
+ + + + +
Musee D'Orsay was a dream: (some of) the West's finest paintings curated in a superb manner, in an inspired piece of architecture. A refurbished old train station: giant center hall under arched roof with early 19th c. sculpture charging down where the trains once pulled into station. First floor: pre-impressionists (sculpture alongside paintings); Second floor: Art Nouveau (including furnishings); Third floor: Impressionists and post-impressionists. Seeing what came just before and just after the featured Impressionists gave the historical context necessary to bring appreciation of these truly amazing works to another level. The brushwork, texture, color, content, is so much freer, expressive, wild, alive, than of their predecessors. My favorites: Odilon Redon, Toulouse Lautrec, Henri Rousseau, and of course, VanGogh.
+ + + + +
Dream of surfing a tidal wave that turned to ice and was scraped away by Zambonis
° ° °
Dream of the mechanical camel safari ride that was too short and cost too much
° ° °
Dream of thousands of miniature ducklings (the size of baby chicklets) which I scooped up by the handful to save them being stepped on
7.17.2004
MIRACLE: GET THE KEY RING WITH YOUR LOVELY NAME ON A GRAIN OF RICE
(10 July 04)
As usual sitting writing in a cafe for breakfast -- our main vocation on these luxurious days with nothing to do. Manali was a pit, and the all-night bus ride there from Dharamsala was as miserable as I had expected. We stayed a few K away from Manali in a lovely little village called Vashist, perched up above the river with views of the forested Himalaya at the top of the valley. This quaint little place had two dark and elaborately carved heavy wooden temples, and our guest house was situated across from one. The other housed the public baths -- hot springs in deep concrete open air pools with high walls. (A cow just walked by as I type and Erik said, "I just never get over seeing the cows on the street. I love it!") It was interesting to watch the village women, squatting, washing themselves and their clothes at once. At the center of the temple grounds was an ancient looking Hanuman temple, and some Shiva-worshipping holy men lurking intensely in the shadows by a fire.
+ + + + +
TAGLANGLA PASS :: ALTITUDE 17,582 FEET
"You are passing through second highest pass of the world. Unbelievable is it not?"
(11 July 04)
485 kilometers from Manali to Leh > > > Roughly 24 hours of driving over two days >> up up up into the heart of the Himalaya "be gentle on my curves" the sign says > > > Sheer dropoffs rusting old painted bits of "goods carrier" truck below and myth-making cliffs above and glaciers further above and still thousands of feet of towering rocks above that. > > > Up up up above pine forests and rivers leaving toy road below up where rock becomes dust and there's nothing left but sky.
+ + + + +
WELCOME BHARATPUR :: HIMALAYAN DHABA & RESTAURANT :: ALTITUDE 15,000 FEET
(12 July 04)
We slept cozy with our travel companions in a round yellow circus tent ringed with raised futons and heavy blankets. A Ladakhi woman offered us milk tea and a simple meal of vegetable noodles and blankets for the encroaching high-altititude cold. Sleep came fitfully, excited, I woke up every hour just to make sure I was still breathing. 15,000 feet!
+ + + + +
LADAKH : THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN OF INDIA
(13 July 04)
The people of Ladakh remind me, in body and spirit, of they land they inhabit: a wide and open valley on a high plateau (11,000 feet) surrounded by the ancient mountains which gave birth to all of India's sacred myths. At the center of this austere desert valley is the Indus river, creating an oasis of green abundant fertility under bright sun and deep blue sky little puffy clouds. Hot days yield to windy afternoons and downright chilly evening -- foretelling of the bone-chilling Ladakhi winters.
Leh is the color of bones. Clay brick and straw buildings rise out of the dust and climb up the barren hillsides to meet a castle high on the ridge. Himalayan peaks ring around, enclosing the city in purple.
+ + + + +
THIKSEY GOMPA
(15 July 04)
Woke up (well-rested) at 5:30 and climbed the steps up to the hillside Buddhist monastery for morning puja (prayers). Two monks in red robes trumpeted across the valley from the rooftop, beginning the daily ritual. Early morning light streaked through cloudcover across the Himalaya. When the mountains had been sufficiently awakened, we wandered timidly into the prayer hall. Monks of all ages muttered sleepily along with disembodied chanting piped in from some secret sanctuary. Like a beatnik performance, voices came in and out, strong at times then fading out replaced by another inspiration, according to no prescribed rhythm. Some sat silently, swaying and others muttered privately. At intervals horns would blow, symbols would clang, and two elaborately painted drums beat in unison. Witnessing this I felt privvy to some world secret, that perhaps these early morning mutterings were solely responsible for waking up the earth each day.
After awhile, a few younger monks raced in to serve Tibetan hot butter tea followed by more young monks offering powdered porridge, spooned into the tea from large metal buckets. After a few rounds of this (chanting all the while) the monks seemed more lively -- especially the youngest ones who chanted the loudest in rote, playfully pushing and shoving then racing to be the next to serve tea.
(10 July 04)
As usual sitting writing in a cafe for breakfast -- our main vocation on these luxurious days with nothing to do. Manali was a pit, and the all-night bus ride there from Dharamsala was as miserable as I had expected. We stayed a few K away from Manali in a lovely little village called Vashist, perched up above the river with views of the forested Himalaya at the top of the valley. This quaint little place had two dark and elaborately carved heavy wooden temples, and our guest house was situated across from one. The other housed the public baths -- hot springs in deep concrete open air pools with high walls. (A cow just walked by as I type and Erik said, "I just never get over seeing the cows on the street. I love it!") It was interesting to watch the village women, squatting, washing themselves and their clothes at once. At the center of the temple grounds was an ancient looking Hanuman temple, and some Shiva-worshipping holy men lurking intensely in the shadows by a fire.
+ + + + +
TAGLANGLA PASS :: ALTITUDE 17,582 FEET
"You are passing through second highest pass of the world. Unbelievable is it not?"
(11 July 04)
485 kilometers from Manali to Leh > > > Roughly 24 hours of driving over two days >> up up up into the heart of the Himalaya "be gentle on my curves" the sign says > > > Sheer dropoffs rusting old painted bits of "goods carrier" truck below and myth-making cliffs above and glaciers further above and still thousands of feet of towering rocks above that. > > > Up up up above pine forests and rivers leaving toy road below up where rock becomes dust and there's nothing left but sky.
+ + + + +
WELCOME BHARATPUR :: HIMALAYAN DHABA & RESTAURANT :: ALTITUDE 15,000 FEET
(12 July 04)
We slept cozy with our travel companions in a round yellow circus tent ringed with raised futons and heavy blankets. A Ladakhi woman offered us milk tea and a simple meal of vegetable noodles and blankets for the encroaching high-altititude cold. Sleep came fitfully, excited, I woke up every hour just to make sure I was still breathing. 15,000 feet!
+ + + + +
LADAKH : THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN OF INDIA
(13 July 04)
The people of Ladakh remind me, in body and spirit, of they land they inhabit: a wide and open valley on a high plateau (11,000 feet) surrounded by the ancient mountains which gave birth to all of India's sacred myths. At the center of this austere desert valley is the Indus river, creating an oasis of green abundant fertility under bright sun and deep blue sky little puffy clouds. Hot days yield to windy afternoons and downright chilly evening -- foretelling of the bone-chilling Ladakhi winters.
Leh is the color of bones. Clay brick and straw buildings rise out of the dust and climb up the barren hillsides to meet a castle high on the ridge. Himalayan peaks ring around, enclosing the city in purple.
+ + + + +
THIKSEY GOMPA
(15 July 04)
Woke up (well-rested) at 5:30 and climbed the steps up to the hillside Buddhist monastery for morning puja (prayers). Two monks in red robes trumpeted across the valley from the rooftop, beginning the daily ritual. Early morning light streaked through cloudcover across the Himalaya. When the mountains had been sufficiently awakened, we wandered timidly into the prayer hall. Monks of all ages muttered sleepily along with disembodied chanting piped in from some secret sanctuary. Like a beatnik performance, voices came in and out, strong at times then fading out replaced by another inspiration, according to no prescribed rhythm. Some sat silently, swaying and others muttered privately. At intervals horns would blow, symbols would clang, and two elaborately painted drums beat in unison. Witnessing this I felt privvy to some world secret, that perhaps these early morning mutterings were solely responsible for waking up the earth each day.
After awhile, a few younger monks raced in to serve Tibetan hot butter tea followed by more young monks offering powdered porridge, spooned into the tea from large metal buckets. After a few rounds of this (chanting all the while) the monks seemed more lively -- especially the youngest ones who chanted the loudest in rote, playfully pushing and shoving then racing to be the next to serve tea.
A TRIP TO THE POST OFFICE
First you must visit a tailor, who wraps your parcel in newsprint, and then sews an ivory linen pouch to the exact size. He expertly whip-stitches the last edge shut, and then seals the seams with hot red wax. Arriving at the post office at last, the clerk informs you that parcels are only accepted between 10:00-1:00; come back tomorrow. The next morning, 11:00, stand in line and fill out form and pay then stand in another line for the receipt (which advises in small print that aum is the sound of the universe and wishes you peace) and hope that the bundle makes it home.
First you must visit a tailor, who wraps your parcel in newsprint, and then sews an ivory linen pouch to the exact size. He expertly whip-stitches the last edge shut, and then seals the seams with hot red wax. Arriving at the post office at last, the clerk informs you that parcels are only accepted between 10:00-1:00; come back tomorrow. The next morning, 11:00, stand in line and fill out form and pay then stand in another line for the receipt (which advises in small print that aum is the sound of the universe and wishes you peace) and hope that the bundle makes it home.
7.8.2004
HIMALAYAN QUEEN
(toy train from Shimla to Kalka)
We finally made it to the cool heights of the Himalaya -- what a relief. Currently we're in Dharamsala, for the Dalai Lama's birthday celebration. The handlebar-mustachioed machismo and dry desert heat of Rajastan, and the frenetic religious fervor of the Ganges has been replaced by the placid wide faces of beautiful Tibetan women in traditional dresses.
In delirium from our 20-odd hours of travel and sleeplessness, we ended up missing all but the last 5 minutes of the official celebration performances -- but not the air of the occasion (or the delicious food, like mutton momos (dumplings).
To backtrack -- from Rishikesh we traveled to Shimla, where we spent 2 days in the quintessential hill station, 6,000 feet in the Himalayan foothills. Cobblestone buildings lined steep narrow walkways with all manner of Indian sweet shops and bazaars. In the crisp air and pine trees atop misty mountaintops, we felt we'd time-traveled to some alternate Indian/Alp nation.
Shimla was "discovered" by the British in the early 1800's, and chosen as the government's summer refuge from the stifling heat of Delhi. From those heights, roughly 1/5 of the world's population was ruled.
Of course, the town had existed before the British arrived, but ironically as Shyamala, the abode of the dark Hindu goddess Kali. Little evidence of her remains in today's cheerfully tidy Aspen of the Himalaya.
The day of our toy train ride back to the lowlands, we woke up early to climb the steep hillside to the Jakhu temple -- a shrine to Hanuman, the monkey/man-hero of the Hindu religious epic, "The Ramayana". Appropriately, the trail and temple are home to a large community of rambunctious monkeys -- waiting to ambush temple visitors. Most carry sticks for protection. I narrowly avoided having a real monkey on my back.
After our delightful journey winding down the valley in the Himalayan Queen (and before the torturous all-night bus ride up to Dharamsala) we had an interesting layover in Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab.
The 50-year old city plan was designed by French architect Le Corbusier. Although mirroring the rational and modern arrangement of an ancient city in the same place, his gridlike and impersonal division into sectors and zones made the city feel like a military base cum strip-mall. I prefer the older cities of India, where streets spiral into black holes and cubby-hole temples.
In contrast, the Nek Chand rock garden (which we visited at sunset) was one of the most inspired places I've been to, in India or elsewhere. Acres of land were covered with rock alleys lined with beautiful and bizarre sculptures made of stone and recycled bits of metal and porcelain. Lined up, they looked like soldiers for the cause of the imagination. "Phase three" included a waterfall and tall concrete canyons leading to a giant hall of swings hanging in high archways. I met the artist -- a gifted spirit who has been working here since 1958.
Carl Lindquist aptly describes the garden: "Built of industrial waste and thrown-away items, it is perhaps the world's most poignant and salient statement of the possibility of finding beauty in the unexpected and accidental."
Check out the link at right if you'd like to read more about Nek Chand, or see photos of the garden.
(toy train from Shimla to Kalka)
We finally made it to the cool heights of the Himalaya -- what a relief. Currently we're in Dharamsala, for the Dalai Lama's birthday celebration. The handlebar-mustachioed machismo and dry desert heat of Rajastan, and the frenetic religious fervor of the Ganges has been replaced by the placid wide faces of beautiful Tibetan women in traditional dresses.
In delirium from our 20-odd hours of travel and sleeplessness, we ended up missing all but the last 5 minutes of the official celebration performances -- but not the air of the occasion (or the delicious food, like mutton momos (dumplings).
To backtrack -- from Rishikesh we traveled to Shimla, where we spent 2 days in the quintessential hill station, 6,000 feet in the Himalayan foothills. Cobblestone buildings lined steep narrow walkways with all manner of Indian sweet shops and bazaars. In the crisp air and pine trees atop misty mountaintops, we felt we'd time-traveled to some alternate Indian/Alp nation.
Shimla was "discovered" by the British in the early 1800's, and chosen as the government's summer refuge from the stifling heat of Delhi. From those heights, roughly 1/5 of the world's population was ruled.
Of course, the town had existed before the British arrived, but ironically as Shyamala, the abode of the dark Hindu goddess Kali. Little evidence of her remains in today's cheerfully tidy Aspen of the Himalaya.
The day of our toy train ride back to the lowlands, we woke up early to climb the steep hillside to the Jakhu temple -- a shrine to Hanuman, the monkey/man-hero of the Hindu religious epic, "The Ramayana". Appropriately, the trail and temple are home to a large community of rambunctious monkeys -- waiting to ambush temple visitors. Most carry sticks for protection. I narrowly avoided having a real monkey on my back.
After our delightful journey winding down the valley in the Himalayan Queen (and before the torturous all-night bus ride up to Dharamsala) we had an interesting layover in Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab.
The 50-year old city plan was designed by French architect Le Corbusier. Although mirroring the rational and modern arrangement of an ancient city in the same place, his gridlike and impersonal division into sectors and zones made the city feel like a military base cum strip-mall. I prefer the older cities of India, where streets spiral into black holes and cubby-hole temples.
In contrast, the Nek Chand rock garden (which we visited at sunset) was one of the most inspired places I've been to, in India or elsewhere. Acres of land were covered with rock alleys lined with beautiful and bizarre sculptures made of stone and recycled bits of metal and porcelain. Lined up, they looked like soldiers for the cause of the imagination. "Phase three" included a waterfall and tall concrete canyons leading to a giant hall of swings hanging in high archways. I met the artist -- a gifted spirit who has been working here since 1958.
Carl Lindquist aptly describes the garden: "Built of industrial waste and thrown-away items, it is perhaps the world's most poignant and salient statement of the possibility of finding beauty in the unexpected and accidental."
Check out the link at right if you'd like to read more about Nek Chand, or see photos of the garden.
7.1.2004
"YOU TWO ARE ONE MOON...
in my city for the first time" (from a poem by Yassin, our driver to the Kalumargh fort on the edge of the desert in Rajastan)
+ + + + +
29 June :: Haridwar :: Big Ben Restaurant :: Breakfast
It's nice to be sitting inside, the luxury of air conditioning and quiet. Muffled beeps come in softly, in contrast with the harshness of how everything(heat, noise, touts) comes at you on the street.
Bicycle rickshaws here. Interesting to catalog in passing each city's unique transport. It would make a good picture table book. How do these skinny men carry these loads? In this heat?
Thinking about Jodpur, fondly of Narayan Singh, and his hospitality and open heart and policy of treating his guests like family. Even fondly of his talking too much: monologues about friendship, "they must be welded. Do you know where that term comes from? Welded -- two things become one", about his career as an aeronautical engineer, his award for fastest long-haul flight from Jodpur to Madras. He showed us the photo of India's first Prime Minister, Neru, shaking his hand at the ceremony.
Narayan's genuine interest in us was in striking contrast to the treatment we receive in general here. Erik summed it up nicely by saying if we fell asleep on the street, we'd likely be eaten alive.
+ + + + +
Stepping into the Ganges with Erik felt important. We were surrounded by tens of thousands of Hindu pilgrims, there to wash away the equivalent of their sins. I felt dizzy getting in, and clear-minded and open-hearted. Afterwards we stood on the ghat (steps) to watch the priests perform the daily Ganga Aarti ritual at sunset. The fire ceremony was accompanied by chanting and leaf boats carrying flowers, candles, and incense as offerings to the river goddess. Against my will it felt like a magical place.
The spot is called HARI-KI-PAIRI, the footstep of God, where the god Vishnu left his footprint in stone. This is also a highly auspicious location because it is purportedly the precise spot where the Ganges leaves the mountains and enters the plains.
+ + + + +
The dream of being forsaken
The dream of diving (unharmed) with sharks
The dream of a dry pool full of kittens
The dream of cleaning shit
The dream of the painted letter to Debbie in Antarctica
(format stolen from Jonathan Safran Foer)
+ + + + +
30 June :: Rishikesh :: Coffee Shop overlooking the Ganges and the Laxman Jhula Footbridge
The two young Indian men sitting next to me at the coffee shop are twisting Rubix cubes. Brings us back to 1982. Yesterday Erik saw a sadhu (renunciate monk) with a miniature one tied to the top of his walking stick.
The sounds here are typical of India: Temple bells ringing, the drone of priests chanting, the constant loud beeping of traffic.
+ + + + +
India, more than any other country we've visited seems to have resisted becoming westernized through and through. It will be interesting to come back in 20 years to see how they've incorporated the technology of the West and if the culture inevitably invades as well.
+ + + + +
I should be flattered, but I find it annoying (I'm grateful I'm not famous) that people often stop me on the street wanting to take a photo of their family with a Western (white) person. And I find it even more annoying that even MORE people (dozens a day) stop me to shake my hand and ask me my name and where I'm from. They're probably just being welcoming (and aren't I a bitch), but my privacy and personal space feels invaded. Like when I was lying down on the train, and a girl entered my cabin and took my hand (then asked my name and started the typical script). I suppose a great deal of my aversion is that 3/4 of these well-wishers then ask for money or for you to eat at their restaurant or buy silk in THEIR emporium or give them chocolate or one school pen. I'm looking forward to Paris, where nobody knows your name.
in my city for the first time" (from a poem by Yassin, our driver to the Kalumargh fort on the edge of the desert in Rajastan)
+ + + + +
29 June :: Haridwar :: Big Ben Restaurant :: Breakfast
It's nice to be sitting inside, the luxury of air conditioning and quiet. Muffled beeps come in softly, in contrast with the harshness of how everything(heat, noise, touts) comes at you on the street.
Bicycle rickshaws here. Interesting to catalog in passing each city's unique transport. It would make a good picture table book. How do these skinny men carry these loads? In this heat?
Thinking about Jodpur, fondly of Narayan Singh, and his hospitality and open heart and policy of treating his guests like family. Even fondly of his talking too much: monologues about friendship, "they must be welded. Do you know where that term comes from? Welded -- two things become one", about his career as an aeronautical engineer, his award for fastest long-haul flight from Jodpur to Madras. He showed us the photo of India's first Prime Minister, Neru, shaking his hand at the ceremony.
Narayan's genuine interest in us was in striking contrast to the treatment we receive in general here. Erik summed it up nicely by saying if we fell asleep on the street, we'd likely be eaten alive.
+ + + + +
Stepping into the Ganges with Erik felt important. We were surrounded by tens of thousands of Hindu pilgrims, there to wash away the equivalent of their sins. I felt dizzy getting in, and clear-minded and open-hearted. Afterwards we stood on the ghat (steps) to watch the priests perform the daily Ganga Aarti ritual at sunset. The fire ceremony was accompanied by chanting and leaf boats carrying flowers, candles, and incense as offerings to the river goddess. Against my will it felt like a magical place.
The spot is called HARI-KI-PAIRI, the footstep of God, where the god Vishnu left his footprint in stone. This is also a highly auspicious location because it is purportedly the precise spot where the Ganges leaves the mountains and enters the plains.
+ + + + +
The dream of being forsaken
The dream of diving (unharmed) with sharks
The dream of a dry pool full of kittens
The dream of cleaning shit
The dream of the painted letter to Debbie in Antarctica
(format stolen from Jonathan Safran Foer)
+ + + + +
30 June :: Rishikesh :: Coffee Shop overlooking the Ganges and the Laxman Jhula Footbridge
The two young Indian men sitting next to me at the coffee shop are twisting Rubix cubes. Brings us back to 1982. Yesterday Erik saw a sadhu (renunciate monk) with a miniature one tied to the top of his walking stick.
The sounds here are typical of India: Temple bells ringing, the drone of priests chanting, the constant loud beeping of traffic.
+ + + + +
India, more than any other country we've visited seems to have resisted becoming westernized through and through. It will be interesting to come back in 20 years to see how they've incorporated the technology of the West and if the culture inevitably invades as well.
+ + + + +
I should be flattered, but I find it annoying (I'm grateful I'm not famous) that people often stop me on the street wanting to take a photo of their family with a Western (white) person. And I find it even more annoying that even MORE people (dozens a day) stop me to shake my hand and ask me my name and where I'm from. They're probably just being welcoming (and aren't I a bitch), but my privacy and personal space feels invaded. Like when I was lying down on the train, and a girl entered my cabin and took my hand (then asked my name and started the typical script). I suppose a great deal of my aversion is that 3/4 of these well-wishers then ask for money or for you to eat at their restaurant or buy silk in THEIR emporium or give them chocolate or one school pen. I'm looking forward to Paris, where nobody knows your name.
