INDIA ARRIVE!

As, of course, we all knew it would.

I take back all my moaning. With the help of three charming Indian men, I’ve received the education I longed for. (Notice how everything happens in threes?)

Two young men from Mumbai extracted me from my pensive thoughts on the beach this afternoon and politely requested my company. I explained I was busy writing.

“Ok, well when you are finished.”

We had a brief conversation and I found myself beaming for the first time in days. They were so nice. It was so nice to talk to people. Maybe India is nice.

They found a quiet bit of sand far enough away that I didn’t feel suffocated, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. When I ran out of words, I stood to leave. They continued talking and watching the water. “It’d be rude to just walk away,” I thought. So I approached prepared to simply say goodbye and thanks for being the first Indians to engage me.

“You’re leaving?” They looked crushed.

“Yes, I have to get to the airport.” My colleagues arrive! “But I have to pick my bags up first at the hotel.”

“Ah, well, we go to Egmore. Where’s your hotel?”

I had no idea. I thumbed through the pages of my book and produced the business card I planned to hand to a rickshaw driver. It said Egmore, and I told them so.

“We go together!”

I found myself grateful for the company.

They were perfect. We walked along the beach and spoke of travel. We crossed the four-line highway (And I use “lane” loosely; there are marks on the ground, but there are no rules of the road in India.) and they placed themselves one man on either side to protect me from traffic. We approached the train and they asked if I’d be ok. “Of course!” It was the kind of experience I’d been craving all week. We sat on the platform and they explained the public transportation system to me. We smushed on, and they explained the train-traveling culture. We got off, and they explained how to get a fair price on a rickshaw ride. “Hide behind us.”

They hailed one in the middle of the busy street, stopping traffic and drawing elongated horns from scooters who weaved their way around. “You wait on the sidewalk; we talk.” They formed a shield to block me from the driver’s view to ensure the good price. 40 rupees. It was the cheapest ride I’d had yet.

The boys took the rickshaw with me all the way to the hotel, shouting directions in Hindi and cracking jokes in English. My heart nearly exploded with gratitude. I will have to write them.

Arriving at the hotel I noticed that the staff finally started looking at me. They spoke with me and joked with me and helped me. Finally they acknowledged—even welcomed—my presence. They quickly put me into a car bound for the airport.

The car deposited me at the arrivals gate perfectly in time. From the corner of my eye I watched a cute Indian man walk by and smiled, realizing it was one of the first locals I found even remotely attractive. I smiled at my new world view then lost myself in the pages of Shantaram and the recently formed memories from my new friends. I had barely read two sentences when said Indian man approached me.

“You are looking for a ride?”

“Yes.” But not from you.

“You are waiting for someone?”

“Yes.” But it’s all pre-arranged.

“You are going to Auroville?”

“Yes.” But how did you know?

“You’re from AUP?”

“Yes?” This is getting creepy.

“You’re name is Catherine?”

“Yes?!” And you are???

But I smiled and quickly trusted my life to my newfound guide, who over the next three hours would teach me all the things I had wanted a guide to teach me—how to eat the local cuisine, why the tea is so much better, etc etc. And I found myself relaxing, smiling, playing, because I knew now someone else was partially responsible for me—even if only a little. Someone else cared. The responsibility of my welfare no longer lay solely with me.

And Lord knows I need all the help I can get.

But before my tour guide’s education in India, I found myself overwhelmed with joy at seeing familiar faces from Paris. I was so excited that I nearly skipped to the van where my peers were piling their luggage into the truck and folding themselves into the worn seats inside…and proceeded to fall asleep. Every. Single. One.

So here I am instead, writing and dreaming and laughing at the afternoon’s twists of fate. When we made a pit stop for tea on the three-hour bus ride from Chennai, I was leaning against a post and staring off into the darkness. The guide brought me back with, “You know Catherine, you look like you’ve been here for ages.” I smiled. I adapted. Finally.

And thinking of the stories from my Mumbai friends and the company of our new Aurovillian guide, I smiled wider. This is how travel is supposed to feel. This is how I know good people exist. This is how I imagined India. This is how it is.

Chennai/Madras—Day 3

I’m beginning to think Chennai is only beautiful in the late morning. In the earliest hours of the day, the air is confused by the impact of a ferocious sun after hours of cool darkness. By early afternoon the sweet smell of refuge and grime—what Shantaram called “The worst good smell in the world”—is so overpowering strangers (like me) feel suffocated. Close to dusk, the pollution of the city hangs so low and thickly that the sun no longer bothers trying to burn through it.

It was in this gray smog laced with India’s smell that I discovered the beach. The people are cold; staring but never speaking. Old men walk past me—or stop—to ogle, and they don’t shy away when I meet their stare. They fly kites—kids and young lovers. They stand and talk at the shore.

It seems to me the ocean is even angry, with the mightiest waves I’ve ever seen pounding against the sand. Lights from oil tankers and barges loom in the distance; they’re not so far but impossible to distinguish through this thick air.

I can’t imagine that this is the India that captures your soul. I’m sure it’s the people that make this country amazing; I can see their love and charm in the head waggles and laughter they share with each other. (The head waggle is uniquely India. Described in Shantaram, I couldn’t picture the gesture until I saw it with my own eyes. It’s remarkably sweet and endearing; I will master it before my departure!)

It’s a bit unnerving, honestly, to be so completely out of my element. I can’t remember ever being in a place so foreign to me. I don’t understand the language, the culture, the people. I drive through the streets in a rigged rickshaw and recognize nothing. On the streets and in the stores I’ve noticed there’s no one else like me. There weren’t any Westerners at my hotel either, and everyone was shocked to know I was alone. Sitting on the beach now I know that if given a map I would not be able to point out where I was. Or where I the hotel was, for that matter.

I don’t like it. And I now realize what’s bothered me so much about the week: I heard “no” an awful lot. “No, you want to take a car instead of a rickshaw.” “No, you can’t go there because you’re a woman.” “No, you can’t walk there alone.” I don’t like being told I can’t do things. I don’t like not doing things. I like walking alone and traveling like the locals. I like being respected. I’m sick of being constantly on guard as people try to swindle more money from me.

Maybe that’s why I’m so alone: I’m too cold for these people. How can I engage them, solicit their warmth and friendship, be adopted by them, if my defense is always so high?

This has already proved a humbling experience.

The GREs in India were humbling as well. And foreign. The concierge insisted I take a cab instead of a rickshaw, which means I pay the hotel four times as much money as I’d give a rickshaw driver. The driver didn’t know the address of the testing center, and when he finally found it, I can’t explain how terrible—how shameful—it felt to emerge from a beautiful white vintage vehicle in the heart of a poor neighborhood. My head hurt from isolation; my body ached from poor sleep; my heartbeat quickened from immersion in the unknown. And that’s how I took the test. We lost power twice throughout the process.

Leaving the center I enjoyed my first act of kindness. I told the proctor that I wanted to see something and suggested the beach. He told me the name of one nearby and offered to help get a rickshaw. “Fifty rupees,” he said, “and not a penny more.”

He scowered the street with me at his heel. He stopped three of the shabby yellow vehicles. Not one would take me for that price. Why should they? My skin’s the wrong shade. My hair may smell like the local coconut oil, but it’s the wrong color(s). I may wear a kameez, say “hi” in Tamil (or is it Hindi?), I may be able to stomach the local cuisine, but I’m still a Westerner. Why should I pay a fair price?

Ah, it is what it is, I suppose. But where is the India that captures peoples’ hearts?

Chennai/Madras—Day 2

I dismayed that my writings thus far express apprehension and frustration. Because that’s not really how I’m feeling.

Look, it’s India. There are going to be bugs in the hotel room. The sheets are going to be stained. There will be someone else’s hair lingering in the shower. It is what it is.

Boys will be boys whether they’re Romanian, Indian, French or American.

I will be swindled and cheated and will spend more money than necessary because I am wealthy in comparison to the families who live and die in the slums lining the river outside my hotel room.

And as long as I continue to sample something from every single bowl in the buffet, I will be surprised by the spiciness of the food.


The truth is, I’m learning a lot about India on my own, as I so love to do. I’m even doing something that I’ve been dying to do for ages: nothing. Aside from my brief ventures into the city, between the pages of Shantaram and the GRE Study Test, I’ve fallen victim to frequent naps. And it feels so lovely.


Sure, I’m eager to discover the magic of India of which everyone speaks. It just can’t be found within the four walls of the Comfort Inn, or the instructions of WikiTravel, or the voices of locals who don’t really want to help. But I’m confident I will fall under its spell within the next 48 hours. Just wait & see.


p.s. Studying for the GREs has made me realize what a ridiculous tool they are and how absurd it is that we test people like monkeys on these so-called “skills.” My practice scores are impressive—especially considering how much I have(n’t) studied—but I take each one with sarcasm and occasional fits of laughter. Please. I can promise these questions don’t even come close to measuring the true capacity of anyone’s brain… or spirit.

Another fun quote:

This one from the GRE Prep:

If an answer contains words like “always” or “never,” be very suspicious of it. There are few “no exceptions” absolutes in this world. Mary may love George with all her heart; they may have been married for 50 love-filled years. But surely there have been at least a few moments when she was ready to kick him in the shins.

Chennai/Madras—Day 1

I woke up feeling moderately alive. I pulled out my GRE study guide and swore I’d open it for the first time this morning, and I’d spend the whole day practicing its tedious questions. But a girl’s gotta eat.

So I tried breakfast. I brought the GRE book, just in case. However, the TV—with its oddly familiar “WAR ON TERROR” headlines—stole my attention. And the food—shit, the food demanded full focus. How—in the name of God—do people eat such spicy pastes so early in the morning?! So the book sat, closed, beside my mysterious plate of food.

I returned to the room, book in arm. But the newspaper had arrived, and I have an obsession: When I travel, I NEED to know the local politics. I flipped through The Hindu’s many sections and settled for a deep read of the Opinion pages. Fascinating stuff. The GRE book, begging to be opened, seemed far less interesting.

I finally turned to it, and noticed the sun peaking through the thick shades. Hmmm… Maybe I’ll just wander for a while in the hotel, and take a quick peak out the windows before settling down to study. And so I saw India for the first time.


I pealed myself away from the hotel’s hallways and thick windows, and forced myself to sit in front of the book. But my fingers refused to open it.

No one comes to India to study for the GREs. They come to shop.

So shopping I went.

That was an adventure. I checked with the front desk for tips, and through their thick Indian accents, I picked up a few good points. Shop at the big clothing market, follow it by a trip to a few temples, and swing by one of the local museums. Then I’d sit down and study. Honest.

I wandered out the sliding front doors and the bellman called me an auto-rickshaw—a strange, three-wheeled, shockingly open yellow scooter-like thing. I crawled into the backseat for a death-defying ride.


It was almost as I imagined it. I gripped the bar tightly to ensure I didn’t fall out. I held my breath as my driver tried to kill us in traffic congestion. I breathed in the sickly sweet smell of India; I absorbed the images of crumbled buildings and barefoot people. But it didn’t shock me as I thought it would.

At the market, the driver took me to a shop, where I was ushered in, shown a million dresses and shirts and pants and shawls, and hollered at and touched and bombarded by smells and sights. I couldn’t take it anymore. “These! These are fine!” I grabbed four outfits.

I just didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to look like a stupid westerner in a gray Gap tee and linen pants. I wanted to wear what was right. These weren’t exactly what I had wanted, and he had to sew the sleeves on, but they’d do. And everyone says how cheap clothes are in India.

“That’ll be 90€.”

Ok. Not so cheap.

I lowered him to 55. It was still more money than they were worth and more money than I wanted to spend, but I felt suddenly trapped. The driver was knocking on the glass window. There were two other men still trying to sell me more things. There were people touching me, and shouting, and my head hurt from travel, and my lungs hurt from new air, and my stomach hurt from hunger, and I panicked. I paid the man his money and ran away. I left with clothes I didn’t want and probably wouldn’t fit, and that awful feeling of spending way too much money because you didn’t know any better.

“Ok, more shopping, no problem,” my driver said.

“No.” I already felt like a fool. “Back to the hotel.”

I crawled into the back of his auto-rickshaw and suddenly refused to admit defeat. “You know what, how about that museum you pointed out on the way here? Let’s go there.” I’m not ending my first adventure on a low note.

Then he asked me for 5€ for parking. I read that these drivers “are notorious for overcharging, rigged meters, and general harassment of foreign passengers.” Fines and gas were tricks I had been warned about. So I declined.

A woman from the street grabbed my arm and begged for money. She had an almost naked little girl in her arms, but she wore a beautiful light blue sari. I shook my head. I wasn’t sure if I even had enough rupees for the ride. More people gathered on the other side of the open cart. This wasn’t exactly how I thought my day would unfold.

Then I discovered the museum closed at 4, and I was already too late. To the hotel I went.

As predicted, the auto-rickshaw driver overcharged me. I opened my mouth to argue, but he started screaming—and I figured it wasn’t worth the 3€ he demanded.

I entered the lobby dirty, sweaty, and emanating defeat. The doorman smiled but quietly avoided my invitation to converse. The receptionist giggled but wouldn’t engage. So I made my way to my room, where my GRE book was waiting.

Eh. At least I have math problems to keep me company.

Just cuz I like it:

From Shantaram p. 352:

Do you want to know why? Of course I wanted to know. I was a writer. I wanted to know everything.

(I’m clearly spending a lot of time with the GRE book…)

If only I were a dude.

I expected the weight of eyes. Everyone says the Indians love to stare, and they’re right. But the Indians aren’t the only ones, and I’m starting to get sick of wishing I was a man.

One of the best things about being a man—and no one in their right mind can deny this—is the ability to travel more freely anywhere. Men get away with so much more shit than women; they can do so much more with fewer worries that I will ever be able to manage. I hear it in my friends’ stories of solo bus trips through exciting places like Mexico and the Balkans, and I read it in the books about men showing up and building a life by immediately connecting and trusting the local men. As a woman, you learn to never trust men. Especially while traveling.

Take for example what was probably a perfectly innocent situation. The first flight touched down in Doha, the passengers were shuffled from bus to terminal to bus, and many of us who left Roissy in the morning now found ourselves waiting to leave Doha at night. I was trying to indiscreetly survey my fellow voyagers to India; maybe there was a group I could find, some friends to keep me entertained for the week. There was a charming older couple, but they were French and I was too tired to try. There was a young, uber-hip white guy, but I simply didn’t have the patience. And as I casually turned to continue my hunt, I realized I had suddenly become the prey.

A tall, nerdy Westerner approached from behind the crowd and began speaking with me. One of the most important lessons I learned over the past three months is you never know the interesting perspectives people can share, even if they don’t seem like someone from which you can learn. So I smiled and engaged in his conversation.

“You came from Paris, right?” he asked.

I couldn’t recognize his accent, so I kept it simple: “Yep.”

“Yea, I thought so. I remember seeing you at the airport.”

Creepy.

We made small talk. He was a Romanian. And unnerving. It became clear quickly that he was not going to be my new friend. Plus his breath smelled really badly, and I was really tired. So when he asked me to join him in the back of the plane, I politely declined in favor of my window seat closer to the front.

But after disembarking, I suddenly felt a soft touch on my elbow and turned to see his face. I’m a friendly and physical person for sure, but I don’t like it when strange men touch me, even in the most innocent of gestures. His fingertips dispersed an anger in my skin that shot through my veins to the muscles in my jaw. I tightened my smile, causally pulled away, and tried my best to politely blow him off. Eventually he asked if there was someone waiting for me.

“No.”

“Well,” he smiled, “I have a taxi coming, and we can ask—”

I’m sure he was just trying to be polite, but I clearly wasn’t going to crawl into a cab with him. “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Someone from the hotel is supposed to come get me, and if not, I have their number.” Then while he struggled through security, I went to buy (Zelda-style) Rupees.

I was about to clear the final passport check when once again someone grabbed my elbow. This time it was far less gentle and I was forced to spin around and face him, inhaling the stinkiness of his breath and bearing the brunt of his barracuda eyes. His voice squeaked through his accent: “Look, I don’t think a pretty lady like yourself should be alone in India at 4:00am.”

“Sure. But I’m not sure I’d be better off in the hands of a Romanian stranger.” He may have had a point, but I had one too. He stopped, and I pivoted to walk away.

As if on queue, a man holding a “COMFORT INN: CATHERINE MICHEL” sign appeared to block our path. “Ah, that’s me. Enjoy your stay in Chennai,” I said to him.

“Yea!” he replied a little too eagerly. “Maybe we can hang out tomorrow?”

I froze. My teeth clenched as I looked him over with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. He didn’t have to walk across the crowded parking lot conscious of a thousand eyes weighing down on him. He didn’t have to question my intentions if I accepted his offer, because even if they were impure, his interests would still be served. He didn’t have to wonder if every nice act was laced with hidden expectations. And in moments the cab driver would reveal all the fun and real things to do in this city, where I will constantly fight for such guarded information.

“Well,” I swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You saw the sign. You know where I’m at.”

And I turned to brave the parking lot of men.

Notes from the Sky

Good travelers are defined by their actions and attitudes when shit hits the fan. When bags are lost or flights missed, people either 1) panic, 2) deal with it, or 3) make the best of it and seize emerging opportunities. I am of the third party. So when delays in Paris meant I’d surely miss my connection in Doha, I spent the whole flight wondering what adventures I could find in this unexpected destination.

The excitement grew as we approached for landing. From my perch amongst the starts, Doha looked like an incredible city, a sparkling diamond in a sea of darkness. What treasures would it hold for me?

Unfortunately none. When I discovered they held the flight for us, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed—as if going according to plan meant I lost something. Which is always the case in life, I suppose.

But the magic of travel whisked me back to wonderland. I honestly LOVE to travel—not only for the places (Although they’ve been pretty interesting as of late.) but for the act of traveling itself. Airports are labyrinths where adventures lurk around every corner. (It was my first time at Roissy Terminal 1—and what a maze it is!) Planes are charged with poetry. (How could you not be inspired to write, with mountains poking through the solid blanket of clouds, like grey rocks in a snowy country field… with the powerful colors of an in-air sunset… with the sparkles of cities connected by rope-lights in a nighttime descent! No wonder St. Ex weaved such beautiful prose.)

Even while taxiing down the runway I was filled with awe. Never have I seen a moon so red or so big as the moon over Doha this night. Like a big, fat cherry, it hung from the stars. It looked like a stop sign. A giant stop sign screaming from the sky.

I refused to let that bother me.

I may believe in signs, but--as a proud member of Travel Group #3--I also believe in appreciating the good things.

And since I left Paris, despite being more anxious about this trip than any previous one, I’ve frequently succumbed to random fits of excited laughter. Stepping off the plane into the warm Qatar air, it was flat out hysteria. I felt amused eyes upon me, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t want to. I’m just so far from home. And it’s fun.

Shantaram & Other Signs

I knew I’d love it after reading Page 1, which spoke mostly of “freedom”—the kind of personal freedom I’m obsessed with—and concluded: “So it begins, this story, like everything else—with a woman, and a city, and a little bit of luck.”

Gregory David Roberts’s descriptions of India began to rekindle my excitement.

But then, somewhere towards the end of the first chapter, I wondered if this was the right story for me to read before traveling. As always, I bought several books to introduce me to the culture and wonders of the place I was going. The God of Small Things was marvelous. Eat Pray Love is packed safely in my suitcase. Roberts’s Shantaram tells the story of the tarnished hero I can’t help but love.

However, in between his adventures and descriptions, Shantaram talks about how traveling alone in India is a dangerous thing, and how the Wise and Experienced suggest that visitors spend as little time in the city as possible.

I, of course, am leaving today to travel to India where I will spend the first week alone in the fourth largest city in the country.

Figures. One more thing to weigh an already heavy heart.

But the wanderlust of which I so often speak still stirs in my veins. It wasn’t the weather; a thick gray blanket hangs over the city, hugging the ground and threatening travel. Feeling its mist on my face this morning, I swore if my flight was delayed I wouldn’t go. Arriving at Gare du Nord I learned, with much chagrin, that SNCF was on strike again and would add an additional hour to my trip to the airport. I swore if I missed my plane I wouldn’t rebook. I am a lover of The Alchemist after all, and a believer of signs.

Yet when I finally found myself in front of check in, armed with passport and boarding pass, I couldn’t help but smile. The people of Qatar Airways are so… Eastern. They will take me to a new place, a new world. They will take me to Chennai.

So, like Shantaram, this story also begins with a woman, a city, and a bit of luck. And suddenly I’m excited.

A modest return, & an ambivalent departure

I have too many stories to tell and not enough time. Time, my friends, is the greatest luxury--like sugar in WWII Europe. Or good coffee. There's just never enough.

A lot has happened since October.

I should write about the magical places that captured my imagination but then became commonplace; about the extraordinary men who captured my heart but remained elusive; about the unbelievable adventures that briefly hijacked my life but abandoned it for normality.

But I won't write about any of these things. Not yet, at least.

The past is powerful but the present is now. Tomorrow I will board a plane to India, where stories of new things will dominate these pages. When I return to Paris we can look to the past. But only then.

Now, a different kind of magic awaits.

The only relevant news from the past surrounds the planning--or lack thereof--of this adventure. The trip was supposed to happen differently. It was supposed to start in Delhi, feature the Taj Mahal in Agras and the tombs outside of Hinderabad, and include a sidekick (or maybe I was the sidekick in her story). It was supposed to be highly organized and supported from the School. It was supposed to be perfect.

But I hate “supposed to’ves,” because nothing ever happens like its supposed to.

Attacks made travel unsafe. Illness stole my sidekick/hero. The School failed to work out important details and decided I should bear the burden of its insufficiencies. I'll spare you the details; suffice to say, I’m the lone protagonist, and I spent the last two weeks trying to figure out if this story would unfold at all. In the midst of the craziness, a pit appeared in my stomach that sucked my excitement away.

But I still believe in magic. And, as I recently read in a charming novel, "Only those who believe in magic will ever have a chance to experience it."

Let the experience begin...