Dog with Two Bones

Dog has this bone. It's the most important thing in the world to him; he carries it everywhere he goes. One day he goes down to the water and he sees another dog with a bone reflected in the surface. It's identical to him and his bone, and he wants that bone too. So he opens his mouth to grab it, and his bone falls into the water and disappears. It's gone. And he's left standing there, looking at himself, and he has nothing. Nothing at all.

But...

If the dog could learn, if the dog knew he could have only one bone, and he could do it all over again, which bone would he want?

Back to the Same Old

I brought a camera to capture the new Boston. Some things surely must've changed over the past year, right?

Wrong.

Stepping off Back Bay into the neighborhoods where I once lived and often shopped, I knew exactly where everything lay. It was, in fact, exactly as it'd always been. Only the window dressings changed, and there was a new Dunkin Donuts.

We roamed the streets I used to roam. We stopped at my favorite tea shop. We paused to admire the harbor and the crooked streets and the blooming cherry blossoms. Boston, as always.

I had craved Boston for many reasons: friends, family, familiarity, fun. It's safe and secure and I love it. I also have a thing about hairdressers, and in Boston, I found the first hairdresser I liked.

To me, going to the hairdresser is no different than going to the dentist. It's necessary, you feel better after the fact, but the whole process is painful and boring. Who wants to force awkward small talk with a stranger who's operating on you with due diligence?

Christine, however, was different. She was fun and talented; I not only liked what she did to my hair, I liked hanging out with her. I waited far too long to get my hair cut or colored just so I could do so with her.

And this was the first change I encountered in Boston: Christine quit.

But the hair was in desperate need of attention, so I found someone else to take up the charge. Within hours, my tangled mass of long multi-colored curls was transformed into a short crop of straight brown silk. Change #2.

I emerged needing something really familiar: My old haunt. My old lounge. My favorite bar.

I walked in and the owner dropped his jaw and opened his arms. He held me close, brought my favorite wine, and sat me down to hear stories and share his own. I smiled. This, my friends, is home. This is being welcomed back to the familiar. This is fun.

And thus a seven hour spree began, surrounded by friends and family. Some things really never change.

In Defense of Scars

An entire industry emerged to research, develop, manufacture, produce and brand cosmetic products that reduce the visual appearance of scars. Why, I ask, would anyone want to do such a thing?

I've long loved the adages "Chics dig scars" and "Scars build character." For me, scars tell stories. Every time I run my finger over the strange marks on my skin, I lose myself in the memory of how it first appeared. Good, bad, funny, whatever--each of these "imperfections" emerged as I adventured and misadventured my way to where I am now. When I look at them, I am immediately brought to the moment: to the feel of the air on my skin, the smells that surrounded me at the time, the voices and conversations and sounds that followed each incident.

Some are old but precious, like the chicken pox scar on my nose (age four), the welt on my leg from surgery (age 10), the curved reminder of ankle reparation (age 16), the scratch on my forearm from a particularly hilarious game of beer pong (age 18), and the tiny dash from the first time Tequila and I swam together (age 20). These are the ones that refuse to leave, and I welcome their lingering presence.

The newer ones worry me. I watch them anxiously as their pink or white stories fade more and more into the golden olive of their surrounding skin. India is captured in these marks--my foot holds the story of running a motorcycle into a wall, my shin tells the tale of fall off the back of a scooter. There's also the drawn out line across my arm from some strange Indian rash, and a tiny dot on my palm from an over anxious Jack Bauer. Each brings me back to the heavy Indian heat or cool grit-stained breeze, to the smell of the forest or the village waste, to the anxious laughter of whomever was with me.

It makes me sad as I explore my appendages and realize Paris left no physical mark on me. My adventure there is over--for now--and what do I have to show for it?

And that's a wrap!

Some times it's just easy.

I put as much of my life as possible in four bags without them being obnoxiously overweight. I mailed a package that cost more than its contents, but there was no line and the people at the post office were unusually friendly. I had breakfast with a  dear friend who then helped me set up Tequila's cage. 

The real question was how to get these two large bags, giant bag and excited dog to the airport. I had dreamed up this complicated plan of getting a taxi for the stuff and taking that to the airport, while either my friend or I takes the RER with Tequila and we rendezvous somewhere within the monstrous maze of Charles de Gaulle-Roissy. Then my friend said, "Why don't you just take everything in the cab?"

"Well," I responded, thinking of drunken adventures with Tequila in Boston, "no cab will take a dog."

"Catherine, it's Paris."

So I pulled out my laptop, searched "dog" "taxi" "paris" and discovered Dog Taxi in Paris. Suddenly everything from pooch to carry ons were loaded into a van and we were off to the airport.

At CDG, there was a cart mysteriously waiting by the parking spot the taxi took. The driver, with whom I bonded over our brief journey, loaded cage and luggage onto the cart. With Tequila by my side, I marched into the airport.

The woman at check-in proclaimed herself the dog expert, having checked-in two smaller pups earlier. We chatted about her life, my adventures, our respective trips to Mauritius and elsewhere. Within minutes we were BFFs. When my bags proved to be overweight, she ignored the extra kilos. When she looked at the weights and fares for dogs, she frowned and pretended Tequila too was a small dog. "It will only take 45 minutes to put the dog on the plane, so come back at 12:15. Otherwise, you two are free to walk around!"

And thus we did. I met Tequila's co-passanger, a boxer whose owner is an interior designer splitting his time between Boston and Paris. I had a delicious lunch with a man who was wearing a Red Sox baseball cap.

"It is baseball season," I thought with a smile. I could almost smell the peanuts and beer of Fenway; I could see the perfectly tamed florescent green grass contrasting the neatly trimmed mud red diamond within. I imagined running my fingers over the baseball's stitches. "How are the boys doing?" 

When it was time to board the ship, I dropped Tequila off as arranged and found my window seat. I didn't have to worry whether Tequila made it or not; her barks echoed through the near empty aisles. (Ok, so there were several minutes of tension as I wondered if she'd cry for six straight hours, but the good girl that she is settled quietly quickly.) I befriended the cute attendant with glowing blue eyes, sprawled out across three seats, and watched Paris disappear beneath me. 

Next?

Last but not least, arrival proved surprisingly easy as well. Tequila started barking as we were landing, so I knew she survived the trip in fine form. The bags came quickly. The customs agents didn't bother me because I had an obnoxiously loud animal in a cage with me. And upon exiting, I discovered my family waiting with Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and reservations for the better burger joint in America. 

Welcome back.

On to the next challenge...

I remember, vaguely, when I found Paris difficult. Those were the days where I wrote about the absurdities of my life, when each day was an exciting challenge to overcome. But those days don't exist anymore.

Yes, sometimes the French can be impossible... like last night, when the first cab driver refused to take me and we fought in heated French about why I wouldn't be his fare. Yes, sometimes the city deals debilitating surprises... like when I walked into the metro and discovered it'd been closed without warning. Yes, the language barrier still exists... like when I asked questions at a local restaurant and the server laughed at me. And yes, things still are inefficient and/or unreliable... like the failing internet, self-credit-eating phones, and ridiculous banking rules.

But it's easy now. I already encountered the deepest challenges and found somewhat appropriate solutions; the struggles I have yet to discover or am in the process of dealing with suddenly don't seem so intimidating. I know which metro lines lead where and what streets I need to walk anywhere. I'm so confident, in fact, I gave my map away. I even give tours and make damn good recommendations for visitors. Somehow, on some level, I've adjusted... which means it's time to go.

"So you're leaving?" asked a friend when I told her of my epiphany. "But you LOVED Paris!"

"I still do," and it's true. Sometimes I walk these streets and am awed by the age, architecture, magic, je ne sais quoi of this city. "I just have nothing left to do here."

In the fall I had school, a good job, attentive family, good friends, and the ongoing project of learning Paris. The school turned out to be a poor fit, so I quit. I'd been with the company for four years, so it was time to move on. My family realized I had adjusted and no longer needed their pampering, so they returned to their busy lives. My friends will be scattered all around the world by August. And I read enough books and lost myself enough times to learn the city sufficiently.

Plus, after India, living in Europe is full of luxury... and expenses.

So, my friends and family, I'm returning to Boston--for a brief time--before moving on. See you April 22.

A Time for Haircuts

People say dogs look like their owners. Walking the très chic streets of Paris, I see what they mean.

The old lady and her tiny scotty have matching matted gray hair. The blond and her tiny chihuahua are both always perfectly presented and adorned in pink jacket and collar. The man with the german shepherd is dark, mysterious, dressed to be tough, presented as hard. In this city you can learn a lot about a person by the beast by their side.

I laughed at the chubby boy walking an overweight bull terrier that was so silly he couldn't intimidate anyone. The boy too pretended to be tough, but you could tell he was one of the truly sensitive ones. Amidst my giggles, I realized something shocking.

Here I was with my dog. She's beautiful in a graceful way and she radiates happiness. But she's also remarkably clumsy, friendly with absolutely anyone in order to get what she wants (usually love or food), and embarrassingly lazy. At the moment her beautiful hair is also unkempt and filthy, and she's way too fat for her own good.

I looked at my reflection in the store window. I hadn't showered and was wearing the only clean clothes left in my apartment. One hand held a Quick! hamburger and the other ran through my once beautiful curls, which at the moment are part golden, part brown, and haven't been cut in ages.

"Shit, Tequila Rose. We both need a bath and haircut."

Walking through Spring in Paris

Sometimes you just have to follow your feet.

Today was that kind of day for me. Sure, there's a lot of computer work that needs doing. Yes, I have to clean my apartment. Ok, I should probably unpack that last suitcase... But it was 21 degrees, and even the dog wanted to do something fun.

By 9:30 a new mission for the day had emerged: Spend all of it outside.

Tequila and I started by looking for the vineyard on Montmartre. (Why is this thing always so tough to find?!) The artists in the market seemed pleased to see me again; it's been a long time. (Ok, they're pleased to see anyone interested in their work.) But the streets of the 18th are just too familiar for me, so Tequila and I ventured to uncharted territory.

I have no sense of direction. I had no map. We just walked. And walked. And walked. We weaved our way along the Seine, visited the few dog-friendly gardens in the area, and marched on.

But our feet grew weary. "Time for lunch," I announced, and realized I had left the house with nothing. No book, no notebook, no nothing. Just a wallet and some doggie-doo bags. What's a girl to do? Can't lunch without entertainment.

"As soon as we find a notebook, Tequila, we'll rest." Who knew it'd be so hard to find? We started searching by Pont Neuf along the Seine, found ourselves on St. Germaine, and still... no (affordable) librarie in sight. By the time we reached the Eiffel Tower, I was even dragging my feet.

I decided a coke would be fine and marched into a tabac, just like all the other tabacs on all the other streets all over Paris. It was worth asking, "Do you have a little notebook?"

"Un bloc?" the lady behind the counter asked while fingering old receipts.

"Um, yes? Maybe?"

Like a magic elf she disappeared behind the counter, crouching low as if she was descending a secret set of stairs to her hidden room of special treats. Flustered, she returned with a simple notebook in hand. I sighed bittersweet. Yes, it's there, but once again better vocabulary would have made my life easier.

There were extra pens on the country. For 3€ I was on my way.

Grabbed a sandwich on the go, let the dog off the leash, curled up in the grass.

Now here I am: Watching Parisians march along in their day, capturing my wild mind on tabac-purchased papers. This, to me, is spring in Paris. Green grass, good food, and a bloc de notes.

back to the night life

It was just going to be one glass of wine.

(Ok, that's not true. Amongst fun friends there really is no such thing as one glass of cheap rosé.)

It was just going to be one bottle. But one bottle became two... and then one more... and then a fourth. Soon we were having dinner that was far too nice for our current state and wine chic enough to match the meal (if not us) with American businessmen we teased incessantly about the crisis like the little jerks we can be. What?

It quickly became obvious to me that it was time to go home. We all amicably parted ways and I turned to walking the cobblestone streets of the City of Lights. I love walking Paris. It's so small, so safe, so easy. So easy, in fact, that I knew exactly where to go after being gone for so long. So safe I didn't hesitate to walk it alone. So small I ran into Americans who also studies in France who I befriended in India.

"What are you doing here?!" they demanded.

Lacking an answer, I responded with a question: "Where are you going?"

"A party. Want to come?"

"Why not?"

Thus I returned to the life of the young and reckless à Paris.

I just don't remember the next day hurting quite this much... Advil, anyone?

Recurring Dream

This is how it feels like I live my life.

And this feeling manifests itself in my dreams, day and night, and I finally just have to write it down.


I'm standing on the roof of a skyscraper. The building is irrelevant; the city below is nondescript. I'm staring across the flat ground to the edge. And I smile. Here comes the best part.

With all my might, I run and run and run across the roof and with impressive grace spring from the edge with a perfectly placed foot, launching myself proudly into the air above the noise some deathly distance below. I glide.

I hang high in the air for what some seems like an extraordinary length of time before gravity kicks in. I fold my body into a beautiful swan dive and begin the decent. I know what's coming.

As I fall, I grow wings.

With these wings I fly back to the roof, but the ascent is exhausting. I'm left huddled, overwhelmed, broken, curled up by the roof's edge. But I stand, recover, wait. I get bored, antsy. Then I smile.

It's time to run again.

Where am I right now? Maybe on the long, hard return to the rooftop. Or maybe I'm still waiting for my wings. Either way, I know the best part--the run, the jump--will come again...

Vet à Paris

Years ago, I sat in the vet's office with jaw dropped and glazed eyes. She spoke such rapid, provencal French I could not follow. "I just want to take my dog home," I kept thinking. Visit after visit, I cringed as my money fell from my wallet to her pocket, and Tequila acquired passport and paperwork and further instructions.

I can't say the vet in the south of France was the best experience of my life with Tequila. Naturally, I was therefore hesitant to visit the vet in Paris.

I knew that even though my French is better than it was four years ago, an English-speaking vet would make the whole flying-a-dog thing much easier. So I consulted the online forum that frequently saves my life and learned that it is illegal to publish which vets are English speaking in France. Because the French hate making my life easy.

Alas, I wondered the streets of Paris looking for a vet close to my house and found two or three within a reasonable distance. On the morning walk yesterday, I decided to just do it. I hadn't showered, I was still wearing a pajama shirt, and Tequila is in desperate need of a bath herself. But we needed to see the doctor if we were going to get her home.

I marched in expecting an appointment weeks away. "How about tomorrow?" the receptionist asked in French. "Mais bien sur!"

"Vous êtes américaine?" she asked when I told her I needed the paperwork for her to travel to Boston. I told her yes, and she said en français, "You will be happy. The vet tomorrow is anglophone."

Lucky guess.

"She's such a happy dog," the vet kept saying as he gave her shots and drew up her paperwork. I looked at my pup with glowing eyes. Someone in India called me "gypsy lady" from time to time and it made me smile; I liked that I identity. Tequila had been drawn into it too. In our years together, she had never spent more than 9 months in the same location.

I asked the vet what he thought of this. "Look at her," he replied. "She's a really happy dog. I think whatever you're doing, you're doing it right. She seems to like the bohemian life too."

I smiled at Tequila Rose. "Ok, Babe," I asked. It was only fair she gets to participate too. "Where we going next?"

Ah, if only she could speak.

M's Consultations

I am a happy person. I'm proud of my spirit. But somehow I didn't feel much like me. So I confided in the wisest breed of friends* I know: Indians.

Me: Somehow I was just better, happier, fuller a couple weeks ago...
Me: I think I just miss it, you know?
Him: and now you feel...???
          sad.
          cold.
          lost.
Me: yes, yes, yes!
Him: can't connect with people out there...
          like everyone is shallow...
Me: Right!
          Wait, you've heard it all before a million times, huh?
Him: yup
Me: and it's just "adjustment"
Him: yup
Me: and I can survive it
Him: you will survive fine...

I smiled. Obviously he was right, but I needed a little more guidance... a direction stronger than words. Time to consult the other Mouny.

Spring is beautiful in Paris, and the cemeteries are always particularly calming. I boarded the metro and found myself in front of my great grandmother's tomb. Time to sit. Time to write. Time to think.

"Mouny, what would a strong woman like you do?"

If only they Skyped in Heaven.

* are they friends if you've known them less than four months? or are they friends after they stay in your life four months more?

Lunch on the water, Reality at school

I have always said I need water. Something about it soothes, comforts, heals.

And I've long wondered what magic homeopathic powders they mix with the Pour Tous cookies.

So, combine a houseboat in Paris with Aurovilian hospitality, and naturally all of my burdens faded.

I had lunch with one of those incredible and natural healers. Without knowing it, she revitalizes the life and love within. When she knows it, you enjoy the perks of massage or watsu.

She too left the magic of Tamil Nadu for Paris within the past week. She too has the gold of Indian sun still lingering in her skin and in her curls. She too is suffering and cherishing the same transitional emotions. But she's doing it better.

Maybe it's her line of work, her greater years of experience, or the houseboat instead of my messy apartment. Doesn't matter. She shared her magic with me and by the end of the afternoon, it was time to face the music and dance. I was off to AUP.

What an adventure. I'm glad I quit. It's nice to know my official marks, it was funny to see familiar faces, it was comforting to receive advice from old mentors.

Slowly, surely, it's feeling like Paris again.

Foreign Home

It's funny how foreign home can look after you've been away.

I first noticed it when returning to the house in Mendon in which I lived for six years before spending some six months in the south of France. Entering the colonial, I was startled by the different colored curtains, the rearranged furniture, the missing rugs that changed the look of the whole place. Even the silverware and family dog looked strange, smaller.

Returning to Paris after losing myself in India has had the same effect. The furniture in my precious apartment has moved. The dog looks bigger (and she is actually a lot fatter). I'm discovering stories I'd left unfinished because, after all, it was only going to be a short trip.

I didn't know when I left that the neighbors glasses and rugs sprawled across the floor would collect dust and hair and be utterly useless. Before I knew four weeks would become four months, I left chips and other perishables in my cabinets to go to waste. I forgot while baking in the Tamil sun that a blue sock was trapped in the last load of whites I washed and the pastel-colored remnants were never folded or put away.

Standing in my kitchen felt like standing in a foreign land.

I craved something familiar. Before India, I spent several evenings a week dining and exploring Paris with a good friend, and it was time to see him. But I was in for a surprise.

I arrived at his house and searched awkwardly for words. It dawned on my how much had changed since my departure. 

Nothing in his place was different but me.

Skoll World Forum :)

I'll admit I was nervous. I was entering an intimate gathering of some of the most amazing people in the world after four months of living lazily in India.

I was afraid I had forgotten how to be professional and charming. Turns out I only forgot how to wear high heels.

This is amazing. Here I am surrounded by people who are changing the world with innovative, on-the-ground projects. They do anything and everything, and they do it with passion. The opening ceremonies were filled with well-written and moving speeches, and the dinners are buzzing with awe-inspiring conversations.

Plus, the dining halls make you feel like you're in Harry Potter.

But the funnest part, of course, is when the ties come undone and everyone gathers for too many cocktails. There's nothing like rubbing shoulders with buzzed influencers in a prison-turned-five star-hotel.

Too tired to write more... but more will come.

Welcome to England

TJ’s home is a timeless, nationless place, like airports and hotel lobbies. The halls are windowless and lined with florescent lights that never shut off, so when walking them, you never know what time it is or whether it’s day or night. This is the life of med-students and hospital workers.

I’m proud that I slept till 5:38am, the latest since my return from India. Of course, I had only two mornings in Paris—each welcoming days that were both too short and too long. On day three, I’m trying to analyze what I’m feeling.

And I have no idea. I’m preparing for the most incredible conference of my life—three days at the Skoll World Forum with social entrepreneurs who are solving the world’s toughest problems in the most innovative ways. I’ve wanted to be one of the lucky 600 guests for years… and finally, it’s here. But all I can think about is India.

Obviously, in the heart of gray European metropolises, I miss the colors and warmth, the green and the Life. I miss the people, because that’s what really makes a place. I miss the constant buzz of everyone always doing things or at least analyzing how the building of a better community is progressing. I miss the philosophies: the attitudes on money, work, life, cité, etc. I miss the pace—nothing is more sure than tea time. I miss eating with my hands and waking up to chipmunks and wet willies. And above all I miss the energy; the world seems so charged in India and so drained everywhere else. There, you can just Be. Here, you must prove everything.

Plus, I'm back to wearing boots and high heels that give me blisters... so I also miss life in barefoot.

Then I think about what I have to show for 14 weeks in India. I quit my job and my school. I stopped talking to people who had long fueled me. I lost track of the latest news on social entrepreneurship, and I’m poorly prepared to meet the most amazing social entrepreneurs in the world. (At least India gave me inexpensive business cards!) I returned with more scars than I can count, a rash, an illness, and no health insurance. I’m jet lagged and weak in timeless, nationless, place.

At least I’m amongst doctors.

But don’t worry folks: I have a plan hatching. Always, always a Dream… or two. :)


To Oxford we go!

all i can say...

...is i can't believe i'm leaving.

Neem Bath

I have a rash. It sucks.

I also have no natural talent for learning other languages. Which also sucks.

Today I spent mostly on the land, working on my projects and helping the forest when I could. I itched at every step, and every scratch brought my spirits a little lower.

I tried to distract myself by curling up in the hammock or on the ledge to read. But the itch took over. It creeped into my brain and I could think of nothing else, do nothing else. Scratch… scratch… scratch…

I tried taking a ride on the scooter, but the effect was the same. Each straightaway that granted me the ability to drive one-handed meant I could sooth the incessant nag of my skin.

It was no use. I needed to be on the land, working, itching. It’s what the Day demanded from me.


Meanwhile, Vasantha—the amma who cooks and cleans at Lumière—was cheerfully trying to engage me in conversation. I wanted to ask about her children, her life, her world… but my “Learn Tamil in 30 Days!” book has proved less effective than I had hoped. She seemed so warm and engaging and all I could do was laugh.


Then she grabbed my arm firmly in her chubby fingers and twisted it around. She scrunched her dark face, bit her full lips, and stared with hard eyes. She had spotted The Rash.

I demonstrated itchyness with my pale hands and formed a pout that Eloise would’ve been proud of. Her hard analysis melted to ideas.

While hollering the harsh language of Tamil, she suddenly scurried around the kitchen and soon outside, where she proceeded to rip branch after branch from the Neem tree. She used her hands to explain what she was doing, but I’ve always sucked at charades.

And then the pot of boiled Neem leaves and who-knows-what-else and it was time for me to have a bath.

She walked me into the bathroom. I stood awkwardly beside the steaming bucket, clinging to my fuzzy blue towel and bar of Western soap. She stood fully clothed in the doorway and demonstrated in animated gestures how to take a Neem bath. And without another word, she disappeared.

So I bathed. And it felt damn good.

Emerging from the open shower into the forest, I caught her smiling face waiting for me, tea in hand. I smiled. I smelled like Green but would taste of chai, and finally—FINALLY!—I didn’t itch.


This, my friends, is life in the forest. And all I can do is laugh… because—itch or no itch—it’s fun. :)

The Vet Visit

The dog would surely die. Just like all the others did.

The land is littered with coconut tree headstones celebrating canine lives cut too short. Sarasa is the first puppy of the current steward, and by his fourth month, his fate read like the Magic 8 Ball: “Outlook not so good.”

It started with a twitch in his hips, like he’d hurt his hind legs. But weakness gave way to waste, and the vet cursed him with a death sentence: Canine Distemper. “He’s due for more shots in three weeks,” the vet said through grim lips, “but he won’t make it, I don’t think.”

But Lumiere is full of love and life, and Sarasa refused to give up hope. Canine Distemper enters the bloodstream and leaves puppies vulnerable to bacterial infections, which typically leads to death. The pup can’t fight the virus; once contracted, it lingers. But it doesn’t have to be fatal... It just usually is.

From the brink of death—armed with warm blankets, careful diet, antibiotic injections, tele healing, and lots of attention—Sarasa fought his way back to life.

Three weeks later the call came. The vet returned to the land, and as he pulled down the sandy path, he lost his breath. “It can’t be...” he whispered. “This can’t be the same dog!” Running to greet him was the puppy that would certainly die. But the puppy was far from dead—he oozed energy, nipped at the vet’s ankles, showed off his latest trick: Sit. “It’s a miracle!” the vet shouted. “A gift from the gods!” And his Tamil-speaking assistant touched his lips and thanked higher powers for saving a life.

I was touched by their surprised joy.

It’s been many days since the vet’s visit and the dog’s second batch of vaccines. He is still week, but he dog refuses to die. There will be no Sarasa coconut tree for a long time.

A Special Place for Puja

Some places really are special.

They are the places that touch the heart and rejuvenate the soul. They tend to be surrounded by nature and offer extraordinary views (which are ideally absorbed from a hammock). They are blessed with some thing live, some presence. I felt it in Camarat, in the middle of the woods on top of a mountain overlooking the Med. And I recognize it here.

Something magical lingers at La Forêt de Lumière. The mornings are drenched with dew and bird calls. Sunset shares its colors and coolness with thirsty green plants and trees. Every day new flowers wake up to the world, new leaves emerge to brave the cows and the heat. And we, helpless humans, idle in awe as nature sets to work.

Engulfed in the hammock on the second floor balcony, I watch the sun burn its decline to set behind an endless horizon of trees. The breeze carries smells of vegetation, and I imagine the taste of the ripening fruits and vegetables incubating in the small garden. I smile at the warm colors and natural feel of the buildings, each emanating life. The lady cleans the kitchen. The old man retreats to his house. The tenant writes philosophy in a thatch hut of leaves and brick. And the steward surveys his work, faithful dog by his side.

This is life in the forest. Fridays are particularly magical, as the fading afternoon demands a puja—a small ceremony to the gods. A poet would describe it better than I ever could; or, perhaps, a Hindu. Regardless, I silently soaked in the blessings as workers and boss, guests and residents adorned small statues with flowers and powder and words of love. Armed with twisting spirals of incense smoke, they thanked higher beings for the forest, for their loved ones, for life. What a beautiful ceremony to witness:

I <3 Adventure

Golden sun baked golden skin. Sand clung to our arms and legs. We sat in silence, watching salt-tipped waves collapse on the shoreline. It was the lingering moments of a quiet afternoon for me; it was the dwindling moments of a vacation for him.

“Have you ever walked to Pondi?”

“Walked?” I scoffed. “It’s too far.”

“8km.”

Oh. “That is walkable.”

“I wonder how long it would take.”

I looked at him with mischief in my eyes. “Want to find out?”

He smiled.

And thus Raphael and I started our journey from Auroville’s Quiet beach. We carried our flip-flops over the sand, dodging bits of trash and torn plastic. It smelled of sea, of salt, of dead fish. We spoke of Auroville and the ashram and philosophy. We wondered about youth and age and business and life. We passed a half hour wading in the water.

Over the first dune we discovered a cement fisherman’s village just feet from the bay. In the tumultuous shallows I saw something I’d never seen before: Indian women swimming in saris, next to brothers or boyfriends or friends. They invited us to come play.

I wobbled my head and smiled, but didn’t go.

Over the next dune we realized the walk along the beach would be difficult, so we cut towards the highway, cutting through a larger village. There was a kolam on the sidewalk Raphael loved, and he insisted on stopping to take a picture—with the woman’s permission, of course. The women of the house gathered to watch him and his camera, and with no shared language, I spoke with them as best as I could. Before long we are all laughing hysterically, each woman for a different reason. Perfect. Then they invited us in for tea.

I wobbled my head and smiled, but we moved on.

The cement streets of the village faded to dirt until we were wading through brush paths lined by collapsing shanties. Around one, miraculously, there were men gathered for tea.

“You want a chai?” Raphael asked.

“Of course!”

We took tea while the children gathered around to practice English. “Hi!” “How are you!” “What’s your name!” Words they shout but don’t understand. After we finished our tiny cups, an old man invited us in Tamil to sit with him.

I wobbled my head and smiled, but we had a party to get to.

The dirt path transformed again to cement, and we found ourselves in the houses behind the highway. On one of the back doorsteps sat four women sewing flowers, and I paused to admire their work. I smelled the strings of tiny buds and smiled, and we spoke without sharing a single common word. As I turned to leave, one hollered and quickly laced a string through my tangled knot of golden curls.

I wobbled my head and smiled, and we continued on our way.

On the highway there was a rickshaw waiting. But Raphael and I looked at each other and smiled. We were at the bus stand. For 3 rupees, we took an overcrowded and stomach-turning trip to the heart of Pondi, where we dismounted to walk through the stifling market to the quiet apartment of Guy and Françoise.

It was their last night and Guy’s birthday, and guests were arriving in 10 minutes. Champagne and cake awaited. Then with fancy clothes and flowers in my hair, I found myself wobbling my head and smiling with French diplomats and ashram teachers.

This time I didn’t walk away.

The perfect passage of lingering, dwindling moments.

Gingee

There is so much I still haven’t seen. Françoise, despite being restricted to her wheelchair, has seen it all and continues to. Today I joined her, Raphael, and six of their friends from Pondi for a trip to Gingee Fort.

This looks like India. There are vast temples covered in intricate carvings. There are mosques with sharp arcs and memories of Islamic invaders. There are crumbling walls lining rolling hills. And, of course, there are monkeys.




Camped out on a quiet patch of soft grass, we watched them pick flowers from the perfectly trimmed gardens and dance among the crooked branches of old trees. Just when we thought they were cute and gentle, they attacked.



The picnic was perfect—delicious food and great conversation. I suppose the monkeys were jealous. With one sudden cry, they ripped plates from our hands and dashed for the food. More cried from the branches above—and soon we were showered. By monkey shit.

A giant terd splattered in the middle of my plate. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore.

We decided to see the elephant bath and use the toilets. But the elephant bath was so old and dirty it smelled terrible, and the bathrooms were locked. We found bushes instead… and guess who picked a thorn bush?

Things weren’t going quite as well as I’d hoped, but spirits were still high. I sat with an Indian woman who runs miles every day, an Indian man who bikes five hours regularly, and a Frenchman who makes a point to lift weights each morning. They smiled brightly at me and made a proposal: “Catherine, you want to climb?”

I looked at the mountain. A snake of tiny steps cut its way through the forest, and people—like ants—disappeared into tiny specks as they ascended the peak. This would be a hike.



In 35 minutes, in the pique of afternoon heat, we climbed a freaking mountain. I thought I was going to die.

But the views were worth the run:

ask me in two years

We were sitting in the dark, on dried wood and broken fences and loose bricks. The Love Circus roared on around us. (Yes, Auroville hosted a fair that was literally called the Love Circus/Cirque d’Amour; and yes, I really attended.)

I was telling her my Plan. As if I had one.

“So, after the conference at Oxford, I’ll return to Paris for the summer and do all those things.”

“And then?” she asked eagerly. “What will you do after the summer?”

I tried for a moment to picture me somewhere doing something and realized it was—as it had been on every previous attempt—completely useless. I could be anywhere: building online communities in D.C. or web gadgets in Honolulu; traveling the seven seas on a luxury yacht; waiting tables in some European café; building microfinance institutions in Africa; exploring great mysteries in Asia. I'm no longer worried. Something will happen and it will all click into place. I am on my path, I just don’t know exactly which way it curves next.

So I answered in the only honest way I knew: “Ask me in October.”

“She does that a lot,” he interrupted. “Ask me in two weeks, ask me in As months, as me in two years. Never quite the answer.”

“Au contraire,” I said with a laugh, because I knew they were teasing me. But I still had reason to object. “Ask me in two weeks or two months or two years and I will live the answer.”


I hate predictions. I hate telling people what or where I’ll be. I hate plans because they never actually happen as you envision them. So why bother? New discoveries and environments will transform my situation, needs, desires and options, and what may have once seemed like the most obvious decision will seem ridiculous when it comes time to act. When I reach the crossroads I’ll let you know if I go right or left, but I won’t know which way until I see the signs.

And, in the same vein, I realize other people are just as turbulent as me. Life is fickle. What you offer me now—job, room, etc—may not be available as time too changes your situation, needs, desires and options. Just as I can’t commit to something too far or too vague, I refuse to count on your epheral offerings—tempting as they may be.

I learned a long time ago that things change. Dramatically. Quickly.

For example: Two months ago I didn’t want to be in India and dreamed only of Paris. Today I’m thrilled to be living in Auroville and dread leaving. Two months ago I lingered in bars and cafés for too many hours. Today I attend ridiculous events with absurd names like “Love Circus.” And I enjoy it.

Finger Food Beyond Civilization

I was about to go to bed, but I figured that while still *jazzed* from a fun evening, I would at least update my Twitter status. But with what? People on Twitter want to know what life is like in India... not what my life is like. So I searched the moments du soir for the most perfectly ordinary image of the night. I thought about the people, the place, the good times, the conversations, the warm fuzziness, everything... and I kept going back to the picture of us five adults and two kids sitting on the floor eating with our fingers. This, to me, is India.

Thus I wrote: "slightly afraid I will never want to eat with silverware again"

After all, I am liking my life a lot these days.

Within seconds--literally before I had the chance to close my browser--I received an IM from a friend:

Friend (11:41pm) : why wouldn't you want to eat with silverware again

Me (11:41pm) : cuz in India you only eat with fingers
(11:41pm) : :)
(11:42pm) : It tastes better that way

(11: 44pm) : hello?

Friend (11:45pm) : please come back to civilization.

Love it.

Pink Panties vs. Chauvinistic Perceptions

On January 24, a conservative political party in India (Sri Rama Sene) attacked women in a Mangalore pub... for being in the pub. In the party's view, women are not meant to socialize and certainly not meant to be anywhere near a bar. Two of the women assaulted were hospitalized, and the attackers received little—if any—punishment.

But young men and women around India—and the world!—are fighting back. The video of the attacks is one of the most watched clips on YouTube and bloggers across the country are speaking out. I'm most impressed by the Facebook group and e-campaign, "A Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women." Within a week, this grassroots coalition recruited over 18,000 people to participate in their advocacy work.

They are mailing pink panties to the leader of the party, organizing pub crawls around the world, and generally speaking up for women's rights.

They will deliver the underwear on Valentine's Day. The party, meanwhile, is planning another attack for Valentine's Day. And women (and men) around the world have the opportunity to show their support through online networks and beyond.

Yes, I prepared some pink panties for sending. Yes, I will toast suppressed women worldwide on Valentine’s Day. And yes, I think you should also do something about it.

Start by checking out the following links for more info:

• http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/7880377.stm?lss 
  
• http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Mumbai/Gifts_for_Muthalik_Condoms_chaddis/articleshow/4108756.cms
  
• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2009_Mangalore_Pub_Attack#cite_note-thaiindian-3
  
• http://www.thaindian.com/newsportal/uncategorized/young-india-vents-anger-over-mangalore-incident-on-internet_100147756.html
  
• http://thepinkchaddicampaign.blogspot.com/
  
• http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=49641698651
  

10 Proofs of Adjustment

I like that when I walk into the café, the waiter immediately gets my order before I have a chance to ask for it.

I like that when people recognize me, they don’t just smile and wave and walk away—they sit and talk. For hours.

I like that when I deviate from my routine people notice and wonder why.

I like that I have so much to do I’ve started using a calendar again.

I like that I’ve become addicted to tea.

I like that there’s food in my (relatively clean) fridge.

I like that I fill hours with books and blanks pages.

I like that I laugh so much but my opinion is valued.

I like that it only takes a conversation with Mamma, a good meal and a little acknowledgement to pick me up.

I like life. A lot.

Dinner at The Dolphin

I’ve come a long way. At first, dinner with O and S seemed intimidating. The “New Age” stuff scared me. Weeks later, dinner with them is rejuvenating. Comforting.

We decided tonight to try something new. Friends of a friend were raving about this new place—The Dolphin—on Sunday, so as we passed by it on the bike, I passed along their reviews. “Excellent fish.” “Fun.” “New.”

The “new” might be the most alluring descriptive; I imagine things change very slowly here.

So we decided to try The Dolphin.

We found a table in the corner and sat, eager for delicious fish and lots of fun. Quite some time later, a young local appeared with a menu. He hardly spoke any English, but he eagerly talked about the fish. (Or tried to.) We ordered then and there a green tea—with jaguary or honey but NOT sugar—and a banana lassi.

Quite some time later, he returned to take our food order… with no tea, no lassi. We tried to order one or two things, ask some questions about two or three other items, and each time he said, “No, sorry. Not have. Next week.”

Finally, O asked, “So, what do you have?”

“Fish.”

Thank God it’s supposed to be good. “How do you prepare the fish?”

He did not understand the question, and it took a good 10 minutes to communicate what we were trying to understand. “Ah, grilled.”

“Only grilled?”

“Fried. Grilled.”

“Fried or grilled?”

“Yes. Fried. Grilled.”

“So we don’t need the menu, huh?”

“Fish. Fried. Grilled.”

Alas, we ordered grilled fish. And re-ordered the tea, and the lassi.

Some 45 minutes and several inquiries later, the waiter appeared with a beautiful English-styled teacup and pot in his hands. He proudly laid the porcelain cup in front of S… and walked away with the pot still in hand.

“Wait!” we shouted eagerly. “The tea?”

“Yes, yes. Coming.” And he proceeded to talk away.

We figured the tea was actually waiting in the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned with the teapot, this time clearly full, and placed it beside S’s empty cup.

She graciously thanked him, and he beamed with joy.

It was black tea. With sugar.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, the lassi arrived.

Thirty minutes later, the food arrived. Sans silverware. On bread plates.

We started with our fingers. (No biggie, it’s India, right?) But something about the salad and the smallest portion of French fries I’ve ever seen just felt funny. And the fish was terrible.

Hours after arrival, we finished our meal. At least the hours were filled with exciting conversation and dreams. And as we were wrapping up a bizarre evening, something caught my eye.

It was huge. Black. Quick.

It was only in my peripheral vision, so I proceeded as if it didn’t exist. I might be going crazy, after all, and didn’t want to make a fuss. Plus, I figured it was a gecko or lizard or something.

The sight interrupted my sentence for only a moment—but S caught onto that moment and interrupted me as I continued.

“Yea, I saw that too.”

“What was it?”

I described what I thought I saw, and she described what she thought she saw.

“Ah,” O said casually. “It was a rat.” Scuttering behind us. Inches from our food.

Lovely.


I can’t say the dinner was a disappointment. But it sure as hell was surreal.

A thought on Auroville

I drink the Kool-Aid way too easily.

I say I won’t. I say I’m immune to the alluring side of controversial communities, but each time I’m engrossed in one, I fall victim and become a passionate advocate. In the most depressing months of my last job, I was its biggest cheerleader. In some of the toughest days at school, I saw what the program could and should be. And even when this place kills me, I realize it’s magical.

Auroville is an interesting place. Complex. Confusing. The people here are quite the same. They are hard and simple at the same time. They are friendly and closed. Both people and place embody spirituality and goodness but thrive on capitalism and deceit. But I’ve become a fan. I’ve fallen victim to its charm.

Both here an in the other somewhat off-putting communities for which I rallied, I recognize the potential. I see what it could be instead of what it is right now. There is so much energy and possibility and hope and good people that Auroville really will become the City the Earth Needs when the young leaders cut the shit and do something. Until they do, this place risks becoming just like any other small community thriving off of the businesses and products they sell, even if those businesses and products are “holistic” or “alternative.”

This is why its fun to be a part of something small but growing: You get to partake in its construction. You get to play the part of idealist or optimist and work towards a dream that may never happen. But you know it could happen, and that’s why you continue to fight. 

This is a city of warriors, and that’s why I love it. It’s a breeding ground for social entrepreneurs, and they are my passion. It’s also a Petri dish for testing ideas that could affect the rest of the world, and that’s why you should care. And it’s going to be something incredible, and that’s why the next generation of Auroville is so important.

In these types of places, every day is an adventure. And who doesn't love that?

Whispers of the Past

It was exactly how these evenings should be.

A trash-filled street. A dingy, narrow staircase. An open door. An Old Man and The Future, eager to hear the past.

We entered the apartment and settled into a couch along the back wall. My eyes slowly scanned the room, soaking in each decoration praising an Indian god. They were beautiful, mysterious. The books were all in pursuit of Sri Aurobindo. I wondered what lay inside.

He had official business to discuss with his grandson, but tonight was not the night. The question emerged: “How did you leave Pakistan?”

The old man smiled and sighed. He was survivor. He had stories to tell. The two of us clung to the edge of the couch for the next two hours witnessing an incredible adventure unfold.

If only it were my story to tell! Here was a man at 15 who boldly took a train to watch India gain its independence. While on the train shit hit the fan, and he found his life in danger; wild, hate-filled Muslim mobs stormed the cars in pursuit of Hindus, ready to kill and ravage.

Imagine: a boy standing in the train car amongst strangers. Blood-thirsty civilians rip people from the train and murder them before an audience of men, women and children. Blood is everywhere. Injured bodies cling to the bunks. The murderers come for him and his friend, and they hide behind the one Muslim prayer and scattered words they know. Having come from the North, their dress helps their guise.

The murderers look them up and down, unsure of where to place the maybe-Hindu boys. “We’ll come back for them!” shouts one, and they rush to satisfy their lust for blood in the next cart. The boys hide amongst the dead and the bloody.

But the murderers have not forgotten them. Some time later—minutes, hours… does it matter? It must have felt like long, painful days for the youth—they returned, guns in hand, ready to kill. “Where are they?!”

After a brief search, one of the mob put a hand on the leader’s shoulder and sighed: “Maybe we’ve had enough for one day.”

The boys were spared.

Until they neared Delhi, and the Hindu mobs emerged to kill all the Muslims. The same scene of scattered blood, guts, betrayal and rage beyond control. Imagine the fear in the youth; having just passed as Muslims, could they now prove they were in fact Hindu?

Thankfully circumcision says it all.

So the boys made it to Delhi. They had no way to talk to their families, no way to tell them they were ok. They watched India gain independence amongst a fiery backdrop, red with blood. They survived.

His reunification with his family was an equally exciting story. He breezed over the life in Bombay during which he supported everyone with odd jobs and adventure. He told us how opportunity appeared on the doorstep while he was sawing a piece of iron and whisked him away to England, where he received training and met his wife.

Then back to India. He talked about discovering the Ashram in Pondicherry and falling so in love with Auroville he wanted to help build it. He became an ambassador of sorts and spoke of his political pursuits around spiritual India. He talked about incredibly moving meetings with the mother. His words were captivating, and we sat on the couch engrossed as if watching an adventure film.

At one point, as he recounted his last request to the Mother to join Auroville, his frail body moved to the bookcase and stiffly crouched to reach a worn text in the back corner of the bottom shelf. “This is what she gave me,” he said, unfolding the pages to show us a faded flower pressed within. “I didn’t understand.”

“What is it?”

“Acceptance.”

And here he is.

I’m not doing his words justice. I can’t this late at night, filled with this excitement and energy. But it makes me realize how amazing that generation was, and how spoiled we are. At 15 I wasn’t facing scenes of mass murder and upheaval; I was flirting with boys and figuring out how to entertain myself in the safest hometown imaginable. I was sheltered and protected. He was surviving. Thriving. Building.

And they all were. I think of my ancestors in France and their stories of WWII. Face-to-face with death, they were clever enough to survive and save. After the war, they were builders.

This old man looked at his grandson and saw a builder. “Our time is over,” he said of his generation. “It’s up to you guys to keep the dream of Auroville happening.”

They will. The Past is filled with amazing adventure stories of survival; the Future will be filled with equally amazing people overcoming different kinds of obstacles. I have no doubt.

They promised to talk business next time.

Next time.

Another opportunity for an old man to spend cherished time with a grandson. I thought of Anthony Ferris in Broken Wings, when he writes of how eager the young man was to hear the old man stories… not for the stories, but for the old man.

“An old man likes to return in memory to the days of his youth like a stranger who longs to go back to his own country. He delights to tell stories of the past like a poet who takes pleasure in reciting his best poem. He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems to him an approach to the oblivion of the grave.”

Lesson/Theme du Jour

I've noticed that in India, everything happens in themes. Seemingly unconnected people from various places all say the same thing. It's like the world is shouting a lesson for you to learn.

For example, a few days ago the theme was unavoidably "synchronosity": everyone was talking about it everyone. Today's lesson was that nobody else matters.

It sounds harsher than it is... But I had three entirely separate conversations about living happily alone. Live like you want. The rest can either enjoy the ride or f--- off. They don't matter, if you can be happy alone with yourself.


Will try to report daily lessons more often...

In Search of Beach

Family is my foundation. My rock. Wherever I am I crave the community of blood and/or marriage that accepts and enables me. I like safety and support. (Who doesn’t?)

So it was with great pleasure that I saw French family the day after their arrival in Pondi. We laughed about the absurdity of meeting here; we recounted the past two months in Paris and Auroville. (For the third time someone told me I looked Kashmiri…) They invited me to Monday lunch at their friends’ hotel outside town, and I gleefully accepted.

Monday morning arrived full of angst and I knew I needed to drive. I didn’t know quite how far the Kalaish Beach Resort was.

I buzzed down the ECR and immediately felt better. I weaved my way through Pondi and saw neighborhoods I’d never seen before. I continued along the general directions I was given, and I left Pondi behind.

I kept driving. And driving. And driving.

It seemed like I’d been in the sun forever, and the lunch hour was quickly approaching. Where was this damn hotel? I saw a beautiful church and a large school, and finally—FINALLY—I caved to ask for directions.

I first approached a colorfully dressed woman standing idly on the corner.

“Vanakam.”

But she just stared at me.

“Um, Kaliash Hotel?”

And she continued to stare.

“Is this Pondicherry?”

She didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t even acknowledge my words.

I tried several different pronunciations of the hotel and the city, but nothing moved her. So I moved on.

An old man and young woman sat outside of a shop, so I asked them. Neither spoke English, and the name of the hotel didn’t seem to resonate.

I finally asked two boys walking a cycle along the sidewalk. They too offered no enlightenment.

I was running out of options. Time to make my life line call.

But he wasn’t helpful either. Instead, as I explained my location, he said: “That’s a bit far to go by moped, Catherine.”

It was a tone I’d never heard before. It was my name, which I also rarely hear. And suddenly I felt like a child being scolded for doing something stupid. I looked around at the dirty, crowded, poverty-filled streets and noticed I was the only Westerner, I was alone on my bike with purse and laptop, and I was—in fact—being stupid.

I’ve long said the line between bravery and stupidity is fine. I hover over it all the time.

I was forced to back track but refused to give up. Look how far I’d come! Fine, no one will help me. Fine, no one supports me. Fine, I’ll do it myself. I’ll find family, and I’ll have a damn good time with them.

And then I saw the men in business suits. “Kaliash Hotel?”

They drew me a map, even though they didn’t speak English.

With that map, I found an oasis some 8km away. With that map, I found family.

A Night of Fashion &... Fun?

All I wanted was a night out. A night full of people and friends and laughter and drunken embraces. But this is Auroville, India, meaning: there aren’t many people, “friends” already built their cliques and aren’t too receptive to outsiders, and alcohol is hard to come by. I’d settle for an evening laughing, though. Even with dry strangers who didn’t really know or care aboue me.

So I was thrilled to receive an invitation to a fashion show by one of the chicest, funnest designers in town, followed by a booze-filled dance fest in Pondi. Alas, the social scene I’ve been craving! I strapped on my fancy high heels and carefully dressed in a beautiful, brand-new white shirt. I even put on make up. (Oh my!)

Of course, as with everything else, these adventures always turn out differently than anticipated… especially if you don’t know where you’re going.

It was the hour of the day when driving the scooter means you are sure to eat at least six bugs, and twice as many will find their way into your eyeballs. It’s the time when evening begins to settle over Auroville, sucking away the day’s heat and replacing it with a moist cold that chills the skin and startles the lungs. And I forgot to bring something warm.

I was clearly distracted as I scooted around the outskirts of the City the Earth Needs. After a half hour, I realized I could no longer blame it on bugs or cold—I was lost.

I thought long and hard about the poor directions I received earlier; I envisioned the map on the back of my eyelids. No use. So I drove up and down the main drag of Edayanchavadi until I found someone who spoke enough English to guide me.

He was a young man eager to please. Within three minutes he’d given me five different routes. All I have to say is this: A “water tank” here is not what you think it is. It’s a reservoir.

The “road” to the venue turned out to be a painfully familiar dirt path I’d traveled once before—the path that ruined my favorite pair of linen pants. Dodging the bumps and slamming on the brakes to avoid livestock, I shuddered at what this was going to look like when darkness took over. “Thankfully it’s not as wet as it was the last time,” I thought, recalling the red mud that took over after the rains. There were puddles everywhere, including one so large we had to dismount and walk the bike through it. I shuddered at the thought.

Then, last night, I approached the same puddle.

I stopped the bike and hung over the handlebars defeated. There it was. In front of me. A nemesis. A giant, red, muddy, wet mess I had to pass if I ever wanted to have fun again. (Or so it felt.)

The car behind me beeped. The locals from the other side passed through with ease. I crinkled my toes in my heels and patted the wrinkles from my white shirt. “Why,” dare I ask, “is everything so hard these days?”

Alas, I’m a warrior. I drove to Pondi, I can drive everywhere. I’ve already fallen into mud puddles, and I laughed about it. “JUST DO IT.”

So I did. Slowly, carefully. One beautifully heeled foot sunken into mud. A couple spatters of water on the freshly cleaned pants. But I crossed—mostly clean.

And then a cow ran into me.

I didn’t fall, but I didn’t make it to the venue feeling quite as pretty as I did when I left. Looking around the chaotic parking lot, I also noticed they were all locals. And there were more horses than clothes.

I wandered the compound for an hour. It was a horse show. The strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Young women on giant, emaciated white beasts moving around while crackled music blared through broken speakers. Where was my fashion show?!

A new light invited me to the back corner of the compound, where a hundred empty plastic chairs faced a low stage. I took my seat and lost myself in my notebook for a few minutes. By the time I looked up I realized I’d arrived just in time; suddenly all the chairs were full and I was completely surrounded. By drunk Tamil men.

Thus began the show. A remarkably attractive Australian(?) emcee. A surprisingly impressive mime. A sexy-as-hell salsa performance. And a theatrics of modeling that can only be described as fun.

Never before have I see such a thing. But it was fun, and I laughed the whole time. I laughed, surrounded by people I didn’t know, on the periphery of a desirable social clique, with the sweet smell of alcohol in my nostrils.

As anticipated, right?

Further Proof of (Non-)Adjustment

I have been cleaning the shit out of this place. (It doesn’t stop the ants.) I’ve swept, I’ve mopped, I’ve replaced soaps and sponges and rags, and I’ve cleaned every dish in the house.

I spent an hour tackling the refrigerator. Still not as clean as my fridge in Paris, and nothing remotely close to something my mother would use, but it’s mold- and dead-ant free. And that’s a start.

By the way, I keep all my food products in the fridge…including my cornflakes, which I’ve thus far avoided eating for fear of soymilk. But it’s the only milk available in Aurvoille.

And I almost cried because this morning’s shower was so cold. (Although it finally works!)

And I haven’t worn jeans or heels in almost two months and it’s starting to wreak havoc on my mental state.


Ok, ok, I’m still an American Francophile at heart.

My Daily Battles

Apparently the woman who envisioned this community proclaimed that all inhabitants must be warriors. She was on to something.


Life is almost perfect at the farm. Almost.

Each morning greets me with sunlight and bird song. The bed is large, soft, comfortable. The bathroom is clean. Mine. I even have a fridge and modest kitchen, and I have a desk at which I work. The Tamil neighbors and workers are friendly even if we can’t communicate; the Aurovilan leaders are attentive and charming and try to meet my many needs. Life is good.

But not perfect. There are five main battles I wage every day, and I spend long hours in the afternoon devising new strategies to win the wars.

These are my enemies:

• 1) The smell of cheese. An obvious foe: I do live above a cheese factory. Still, the pungent scent of warm dairy and the occasional whiffs of the workers’ B.O. fill my apartment and settle into my senses. I fear it will seep into my sheets, my clothes, my hair. My current weapon of choice: incense. Current scent: Mattipal, a gift given weeks ago and finally put to use. Progress: As long as I’m here to burn the precious sticks, I’m winning. But the number of precious sticks is quickly diminishing…


• The onslaught of ants, 2)large and 3)small. Upon arrival I noticed a very sweet heart near my bed in white powder, which I assumed was a misplaced kolam or other well-meaning decoration. “No, no,” the cheese man said as he settled me in. “It’s poison. For the ants.” Boric acid, to be exact. He told me to sweep it up, which I promised to do.
  
  Until I saw the ants.
  
  For those of you who’ve seen Indiana Jones IV, consider the scene where the man is eaten by giant ants. That scene slipped into my dreams the first several nights.
  
  I’ve bought more acid and am filling whatever holes I can find and drawing lines with it wherever I see appropriate. But the weapon is weak; they burst through my barriers with relative ease. The most I can do is delay their arrival every night.
  
  Luckily they keep to themselves, marching in one solid train from window up wall across ceiling to a safe warm place where they will build a new nest. As long as they stay out of my bed, I’m learning to live with them. And as long as their stinky eggs take longer than six weeks to hatch, I don’t care.
  
  The little guys, on the other hand, are getting to me. Small, red, and quick, they pile up on my computer and chew away at my pillow. I unmake my bed every morning so I have clean sheets to sleep on at night.
  
  These guys, apparently, are after food. Yesterday I made the mistake of leaving my cookies (tightly bagged!) on the counter. After a few hours I noticed an increase in ants around the desk area and quickly threw the cookies into the fridge. Last night when I arrived home at 2 a.m. and wanted a snack, I immediately thought of the baked goods.
  
  Pulling one out, I noticed a few ants fell from it. I examined the disk carefully. It looked fine. I bit in slowly and chewed. Inside I identified dates and nuts, but no ants. So I ate with relatively little hesitation.
  
  But then I reached into the bag for cookie #2. The plastic was lined with frozen, dead ants.
  
  Now I keep everything in my fridge.
  
  And I’m seeking some magic chalk, which apparently keeps all bugs at bay.
  
  At least I have a plan.


• The non-functioning shower. The bathroom is beautiful. (Pics available on Facebook, ladies and gents.) In the corner stands a large shower with a shiny metal head, begging to be used and lingered in. It even has two knobs, one of which boasts a red sticker… a promise of hot water, perhaps? The trouble is, I can’t tell. I turn the knobs, I twist the head, and nothing emerges but a pitiful dribble. I have a shower I can’t use. And it’s torture.
  
  I have been nagging the head cheese maker since arrival. First it was because the tank wasn’t full. A worker filled it. Then it was the connection. Someone resecured it. Today it’s blocked, and a man will come to fix it later. This is a battle of persistence, a battle from which I will eventually emerge victorious.


• The lack of a western toilet. Again, the bathroom is beautiful. But my toilet is a hole in the ground.
  
  Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s culture. Maybe it’s both. But every time I have to pee, I look long and hard at the hole in the corner and wonder if I can hold it until I make it to Le Morgan, the French café with fancy toilets and toilet paper.
  
  A spider lives in the hole, and sometimes it jumps around the pee area.
  
  But really, what can a girl do but learn to squat?


• The have-it-but-don’t internet. The other thing about La Ferme is it’s far from everything, including internet connections. The torturous part is not the distance, however, but the fact that every time I open my computer my airport bar eagerly alerts me to five full bars of high-speed wifi perfect for uploading pictures and chatting and blogging and facebooking and having fun—if only I can enter the correct password. And, of course, no one here knows the password. And no one knows how to shut the protection off.
  
  It will come. Once again, it’s a matter of persistence. And I will triumph.

These battles exclude the ongoing war with transportation (I’m now on my seventh bike, and I still require rescuing almost every other day.) and communication (The cell phone has a mind of its own, and it’s a lot sneakier than me.).

I’ve long been a fighter, but Auroville is making me a warrior. Just like "The Mother" hoped.

A Day with the Witch Doctor

The doctor’s office lies beyond a battered blue gate, beneath a battered blue porch, behind a beautiful garden.

Inside giant, torn pleather chairs wait to engulf and cradle you while you wait. A fan whirs overhead. Beneath the swinging half doors you watch patients’ feet twitch beside His.

This is what purgatory feels like.

“Come, come,” he calls.

You enter.

I entered.

“First time?” he asks.

I nodded, and it began.

I was immediately impressed by the correct spelling of my name. When I told him my age, he was shocked—physically gasping as he jotted the modest number down. “Old soul, ancient being” he concluded with a wink.

I like it when safe men wink at me.

“Yes,” I teased, “I’m remarkably mature for my age.” We laughed.

Thus the fun began. For being a “witch doctor,” Dr. Raichura is remarkably qualified. When I told him I was from Boston (but quickly explained I lived in Paris, which drew questions about how I actually lived in India, which I insisted I don’t), he told me he spent six years there studying. “And teaching,” he said, “at BU.”

I smiled. “That’s where I went to school.”

“I taught,” he clarified. “Medical campus. Different.”

It was still of comfort.

He’s a playful man and I enjoyed our jokes. He has the same wise laugh as the Dalai Lama. But beneath the silly façade he had a mission.

“You’ve had great traumas. Two. Now you are stuck,” he explained. Traumas at 7 and 20, he guessed.

He guessed right.

The story went on… but it sounded strikingly familiar to the stories I’d heard of those who’d seen him long ago. He game me little direction, and my heart began to sink. “You are very spiritual. Very special. Use this gift well.” He’s not the first to say so. We spoke of family, and his readings were remarkably accurate but not enlightening. We spoke of love and he told me nothing I didn’t already know. We spoke of the future and he spun broad stories impossible not to come true.

His only advice was to stay away from the burden of others’ expectations and to nurture my spiritual self.


I left impressed by his intuition but disappointed. I learned nothing new.

“But what did you expect?” Thomas asked as we left.

“Answers.” Obviously.

I was hoping I had found an easy way out…a loophole like so many I’ve leveraged in the past.