Cafe Coffee Day

This is Café Coffee Day.

I have no idea how a joint like this got into Rishikesh, but it’s far too sleek and clean for India.  They play terrible pop music.  There’s even a flat screen on the wall where you can watch the incredibly choreographed dancing of the music video.  They’re constantly mopping here.  And pushing in chairs.  As you can see, the dude behind the counter has on a uniform.  They have a cash register and they’re selling coffee makers.  It’s a little too much like Starbucks and the spotless glass front door is really kind of freaking me out.  The whole place makes me uncomfortable.  Unfortunately it’s the only place in town with heat and a decent cup of coffee.  It’s so strange to sit in this glass bubble of Westernism and look out into Rishikesh.  Outside people pass by.  The normal Rishikesh street scene.  I can see into the little shop across the street selling shawls and little trinket-y things.

This is India.  The juxtaposition of old and new.  Spiritual and modern.  Bollywood and bathing in the Ganges.

Home Sweet Home

Although it quite cold in Rishikesh currently and I would like to constantly complain about that fact, it’s also become my home.  I’ve hung a calendar on my wall.  Radha and Krishna.  I bought little moon Christmas ornaments in Rajasthan.  They’re hand painted with lovely gold swirls and flowers.  I put the ornaments in my window.   I light candles each night (this helps with the cold).  It’s kind of inviting in here…  I walk down the road, I’m getting to know the shop keepers.  I especially like the guy that says, “Everything is possible!!  Fantastico!” when I walk past his shop.  I have a routine here.  I know the regulars who hang out at the Pyramid café and the Devraj Coffee House.   There’s the beggar woman with the flaming red hair who no matter how many times I give her my change is shouting at me, “Excuse me.  Madam.  Madam!!”  It’s such a small place, it would be hard to not get to know these faces.  I watch the Westerners come and go.  I get to know them, they stay a couple days and then they move on.  It’s strange to think of myself as the weird Westerner hanging around Rishikesh for too long.  The first time I came here I met an American guy who had been living in Rishikesh for the past 20 years.  He had this far away, glazed over look in his eyes.  He spoke about his guru.  Am I that to the other Westerners that come here??  They ask me how long I’ve been here, “Whoa!  Two weeks.”  Ha, it makes me laugh.
What is it to know a place?  What is it to call a place home?

Jingle Jangle the soft feet of the Rajasthani women

The women in Rajasthan are absolutely beautiful.  They wear elaborate saris with sequins and inlayed mirrors.  They walk past you they reflect the sun and sparkle.  It’s like flying through a constellation of stars.  They’re covered in jewels.  Anklets that jingle.  Bangles over their thin wrists up to their forearms.  Nose rings, earrings, necklaces.   They have big, light colored eyes.  They are romantic, mysterious women.  Bewitching.  They walk past you and cover their beautiful face with their shawl.  You catch a glimpse of a coy smirk just before it disappears.  A knowing smile.  What is their private World!?  Their internal Universe.  They walk softly.  Glance quickly.  They are draped in deeply pigmented color.  Deep purple with gold, orange and yellow.  Oh what it must be to be adorned in such color each day!  To walk with music under your feet.

The Lonesome Traveler

Rishikesh has a more somber melancholic tone to it.  I don’t know if it’s me or the weather.
The wind rips through in the morning rattling my screen door.  I’ve taken to listening to Miles Davis and Billie Holiday.  I’m nostalgic about the United States.  Not for a current picture of the States.  I’m longing for a Beat Poet, Andy Warhol, Charlie Parker kind of America.  One that has raw creative power and howl’s at the moon.  Did I mention that I’m reading Jack Kerouac?  Yeah.  Yeah, you thought so.
The men here stand around small fires they’ve built in the streets.  I’ll close my eyes and pretend I’m in Soho…  the Lower East Side…

When I get out of my head.  When I leisurely walk across the bridge over the Ganges just about sunset time, that’s when you can really take it in.  There’s barely any tourists here.  I can actually walk across the bridge.  I look out to the setting sun and see the Ganges sparkle.  Along the river people are doing their evening prayers and offerings.  You can hear a chorus of ringing of bells.  I can hear them louder this time.  More amplified.  It’s like people have to shout over the cold.
This time I feel the Ganges.  Her power.

She’s the one that glitters with light and makes the wind cry in the morning.

Sputnik Sweetheart

I’ve been reading a lot of Haruki Murakami recently.  There are certain authors that always seem to be available in the bookshops here.  Murakami, Coelho, Hesse…  Good.  A few of my favorites.  They all capture that certain spirit of travel.  They all employ magic.  Murakami in particular balances this line of reality and dreams.  By the end the dream/parallel universe is so muddled with reality your not sure which is which.  For all that I didn’t understand, I think I fully understand.  Being inexplicable pulled to people.  Guided.  Trusting a plan.  I’ve been feeling that way about my own life recently.
Maybe that’s all this life really is, just memories and dreams.

Here’s a bit of Murakami for you:

“…Like you’re on a train traveling across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in the window of a farmhouse.  In an instant it’s sucked into the darkness behind and vanishes.  But if you close your eyes that point of light stays with you, just barely, for a few moments.”
~Sputnik Sweetheart

A little Mataji wisdom

I'm trying to keep these things in mind.
From Mataji's mouth to your ears...


“Open your inner eye.  There is peace and liberation.”

“When you feel frustration, loneliness, doubt, fear, anger; just om.  It purifies.”

“Make yourself a big light.  Bring happiness wherever you go.”

“Enjoy the World, but don’t become attached to it.”

“Knowledge is more important than practice.  We must know what we are practicing.”

Ode to the Traveler

To my wanderers; travelers of the depths.
To those who are not content to sit still.
Those who feel the stirring of the wind; a change in direction.
The ones who follow the sky.  Led by and internal compass, an astral North Star.
I have found you in the subcontinent of the soul.  Beyond the honey colored sand.  Beneath the starlit pines.
You are the explorers of the edge.  The seekers of within.
You know that your home is your heart.
To the journeyers that dare to look inside.
This is to you.  This is to you.

Sandcastle City

Way out West in the Thar Desert near the Pakistani border lies Jaisalmer.
All of the buildings in Jaisalmer are built from sandstone.  The town blends in with the surrounding desert and everything has a golden glow.  Above the town lies the original fort where 3,000 people still live.
I feel that I’ve been shrunken down to doll size and I’m living in a sandcastle world.  The fort in the distance literally looks like a kid took buckets and built it, really!
The man who runs the guesthouse I’m staying in, The Peacock Hotel, calls me the Desert Princess.   I’d like to think Sandcastle Princess.
Dusk falls on the Sandcastle City.  Motorbikes and scooters honk below.  Children are playing in the street.  I sit on my sandcastle balcony.  I hear from across the street and little voice saying, “Hello!  Hello!”.  Out from a tiny window peeks a little boy!  I have neighbors!  His mom pokes her head out the window and smiles.  I wave.  Charming.

Camel Safari

After a little coaxing, I’ve decided to do a camel safari.  We’re picked up by a young guy on his motorbike.  We ride “India style” (three people on the back of the motorbike) to what looks like some sort of fairgrounds where our camels are waiting.  There are two young boys there to help us on to our camels.  My camel’s name is Ganesh and he recently won the camel race in the Pushkar camel fair.  I’m not bragging or anything, but that’s quite impressive.  Oliver’s camel is Jimmy.  Again, I’m not bragging, but I got the better camel of the two.  Ha!

We walk along a little bit and I’m completely astonished when the youngest of the boys climbs up and gets on the camel I’m riding!
He is Vikram.  He ten years old and he is my camel guide.  Vikram is my man.
He chats along to his brother in Hindi and it sounds like he’s making up elaborate stories.   He busts up in giggles and I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but it’s funny.

We walk through the Pushkar countryside out of the city and the noise.  We walk past farms and homes.  Families and children.  There’s a field of marigolds.  Little puffballs of orange.

During quiet moments on the camel Vikram asks me, “Good camel?”
“Yes.  Good camel.”
“You good?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
He says to me, “Me good”.

We arrive at the boys family home just around dusk.  We’re greeted by the entire family and they could not be more hospitable.  We sit and have some chai while the mother makes us dinner.  She brings out far too much food.  Vikram has been making my camel trot all afternoon and my stomach isn’t quite ready for dinner.  The meal is amazing, of course.  Chapati made from the wheat in their field.  Vegetables from their garden.  Oliver says this is the best chapati he’s had… and believe me, we’ve had a lot.
After dinner we’re shown to where we’ll be sleeping~ up on the roof of the family’s home!  They set up a bed for us and Vikram and his little brother entertain us by jumping and playing on the bed and dancing.

We sleep under the desert stars, wake early in the morning, have an amazing breakfast, and the camels return us to Pushkar.

Pushkarrrr!

Coming to Pushkar it either feels that I’m now truly in India or that I’ve come home.  It looks like I’m in the middle of Nevada.  Rather than cheesy casinos there are beautiful whitewashed plaster buildings.  The streets are very narrow here.  More like alleys.  As I walk through the narrow whitewashed passageways it feels like I’ve gone back a hundred years.  Every doorway is a glimpse into someone’s world.  I look into a doorway of a small shop and see three men rapidly sewing away on their sewing machines.  Another doorway leads to someone’s home.  There’s a cow in the front courtyard!  Women are preparing dinner.  There’s a man lounging in a lounge chair.  There’s amazing color beyond these doorways.  Purple, turquoise, lime green!

Aarti and Puja

We wake up around 4:30 am to meet at a small fire pit where we chant and have a fire ceremony.  There’s a small square fire pit with a few logs in it.  The fire is small.  The flame is just there.  I slip off my shoes and enter.  Mataji sits at the head of the fire.  She has her eyes closed.  She actually appears to be nodding off every couple of minutes, but as she is not ever startled awake, I believe she’s just in a deep meditation.  Ha!  We sit in silence for a long time.  I’d like to sit and meditate with the others, but it is just dawn and the light and the energy of our tiny fire are too amazing for me to ignore.  It’s misty outside and the gardens look enchanted.  I’m in an area in Haridwar where there are many ashrams. Off in the distance you can hear a woman chanting.  It sounds like she’s chanting over a loud speaker.   Somewhere else there is drumming; I can faintly hear it.

The sounds and the light remind me of Burning Man, just as it breaks dawn.  Suddenly the magic of the night is over and the world is beginning to come alive.  As you get on your bike and peddle home the last remnants of music can be heard on the horizon.  I’ve always loved this time of day.  The sliver of blue sky in the distance.  The birth of sun.

Mataji opens her eyes and we begin to sing and chant in Sanskrit.  All the other’s know the words, but for new comers, like me; I’ve been given a book with the mantras.  We sing mantras to Krishna and Shiva, the Guru, and Ganesha.  It’s a choppy little rhythm, sometimes more like yelling than singing.  Suddenly someone starts to ring bells in time with our chanting.  There’s clapping.  Mataji begins to make a colored paste from a brightly colored powder.  Yesterday it was yellow and today it is red.  One by one each of us comes to Mataji and kneels down beside her.  We touch her bare feet and bow our heads.  I look up at her and she gives me a smile.  She dips one finger in the paste and puts her finger directly to my third eye.  With a quick and simple gesture she smears the paste from my third eye up my forehead forming line.  The fire is dying.  The morning has come.   I quietly slip my flip flops back on.

Santosh Puri Ashram

After a bumpy chaotic rickshaw ride to Haridwar, my friend Ira and I arrive at the Santosh Puri Ashram.  Our rickshaw heads down a small alley where there are many ashrams behind big gates.  We stop at a gate that has been speckled with colored paint and out from behind it appears a tiny man.  He’s barefoot with a long white beard and balding white hair.  His third eye is accentuated by colored mud.  We’re taken inside the gates where there is a small courtyard surrounded by orange and yellow plaster buildings.  We are given some chai as we wait to do check-in procedures.  At last we are approached by a woman.  She speaks softly and her English is a little hard to understand.  She is the old German woman who runs the ashram.   Mataji.  Her name means mother in Hindi.  She is wearing all orange and barefoot.  Long grey dreadlocks run down her back to her waist.  She has very light blue eyes.  We are shown around and shown to our room.  It’s beautiful here.  There are full lush gardens with marigolds, hibiscus, and hydrangeas.  There is a large tree with huge fruit growing on it.  Fruit the size of melons!  I keep asking everyone what kind of fruit it is, but no one seems to know.  The stairwell up to our room glows with color.  The steps alternate orange and yellow.  Our room is small but it the nicest room I’ve had in India.  Ira and I are so excited about what the next days will bring.  We begin immediately to unpack and make this beautiful ashram our new home.

Palmistry

Walking around Rishikesh, you get the idea that everyone has some sort of psychic power.  Palm readers, astrology, aura cleansing.  It’s a bit like Boulder really!  I’ve decided that I want to see a palm reader.  I want an old Indian man to share his wisdom with me, tell me something profound that I will always remember.  There is a man that has a small space in a temple that does astrological and palm readings.  I pop my head in his shop and ask him how much for a reading.  “150 rupees.  I will tell you about past life, present life and future life.”  Alright!  Three readings in one!  Such a deal!  “Alright my friend!  I’d like my palm read.”  I say.  “Yes please Madam come, come!  Sit!  Sit here!”  I have my friend Aitor with me.  The little Indian man has me put my name and country in a book he has there, somehow Aitor gets wrangled into the whole thing and puts his name and country in the book too.  I sit facing the palm reader and put my hands in his.  He studies both my left and right hand for some time.  Examining every little crease and crevice.  He gets out a pencil.  He’s following lines on my hand and counting the tiny creases on the outside of my palm.  Finally he looks up at me.  “Oh yes, good life.  Very good life”.
“Past life good.  Little problem.  Present life good.  Better.  Future life, very good.”
“Health.  Health very good.  Small problems, but no oppression or accidents.”
“This line is for the mind.  See?  Here.  Past life, too much thinking.  Present life, better.  Up and down.  Future life good.”
He continues on giving me little bits of information.  Yoga and meditation is very good for me, he says and I’m getting better at it.  This is true.  He said nothing profound, he really gave me no new information.  But when he looks at me sweetly in my eyes and tells me with his toothless smile that I have a good life, I believe him.

Himalayan Dust

There is a fine green dust here.  Everywhere.  It’s a very fine pollen that blows from the pine trees.  You can see it blow through the air like green mist.  It covers everything.  The already green plants have an eerie green glow to them.  Spiderwebs are illuminated by this green dust and look like they’ve been crafted with green web.  When the monkeys jump from tree to tree there is a cloud of this green dust that rises from the tree.  My book is covered in green.  As are my feet, which make little green dust footprints.

Monkey Pool

There are many monkeys in the forest in which Tushita resides.  They are brownish-red with medium long hair.  They have little brown faces and little red butts.  As you can imagine they are adorable.  Adorable yet a complete nuisance.  They steal your food and may steal your underwear just to parade around in it.  The nun here at Tushita constantly reminds us that we must close all windows and doors.  There are large packs of them and they often linger when we’re outside eating lunch.  There is a sweet dog here that often runs off the monkeys when they get too close.  When it’s between you and a monkey for your lunch; monkey wins.  One of the founding Lama’s here had a special wading pool built just for the monkeys.  It’s about 5ft long and 2ft wide it’s maybe a foot deep.  The large males usually come by and wash their face.  The babies have much more curiosity over the pool.  They lie at the edge of the pool, reach their little hand down and test the water.  Then they’ll jump in.  yes, jump!  And splash.  It’s sounds like they’re swimming laps.  There is probably nothing more entertaining than watching monkeys swim in a pool.  It’s warm in the sun here, but we’re at 7,000ft so once you’re in the shade it’s cold.  The little monkeys come out of the pool sopping wet and cling to the hot cement.  I can remember doing that as a kid.  When you’re cold and wet after being in the pool there’s nothing better  than laying on the hot sidewalk baking in the sun.  The monkey’s chill for a bit soaking up the sun and then they’re off, as quick as they came, back into the woods. 

Light Offering

Our Introduction to Buddhism class is held in the gompa at Tushita.  This is basically a place to meditate.  It’s a large room with high ceilings.  There is a large Buddha at the back of the room.  From the walls hang Tibetan paintings.  Some of different Buddhas (our teacher, Jimmy, keeps pointing to the Buddha of Compassion to show us this thousand armed Buddha), some of the wheel of life (with demons and Hell realms… yikes), White Tara.  They’re beautiful and extremely detailed.   In front of the large Buddha in the back of the room there are light offerings.  I’ve just arrived in the gompa after dinner and I’m the only one in here.  It’s evening and the only lights in the gompa are the light offerings.  They remind me of Christmas lights on a Christmas tree.  The light offerings are different colored lotus flowers with lights in them.  There are larger candelabra types that sit in front of the Buddha and in the display case of Tara there’s just a row of these lotus flower lights at the bottom.  They have the calmness and serenity that a Christmas tree has at night.  The peace.  I have been up a many of times after everyone has gone to bed, admiring the Christmas tree.   I love to observe the lights and how they glint against the Christmas ornaments.  At these moments looking at the tree it’s really felt like Christmas.   This beautiful sparkling tree, there’s something really sacred about it.  Maybe I’m just a Pagan who only wants to worship the tree, but there is something about the light.  The gentle glow.  The luminosity.  I can see why there are light offerings.   I’d like to think that our Christmas lights are light offerings to the trees.

Tushita

I’m getting ready to head up to a week long meditation retreat.  Tushita, the meditation center is just above town in the pine forest.  It’s is beautiful and absolutely serene up there.  I took a short course last week up there.  The course was on Emotional Balance.  A spit fiery American woman taught it.  I’m not sure where exactly she lives, but half of her time is spent in Asia.  She made reference to Boulder a couple times and it sounds like she possibly did some undergraduate work at Naropa.

I don’t know why when I enrolled in the course at a meditation center,  I didn’t think I’d actually be meditating.  I imagined learning about “Emotional Balance” and getting new skills on affectively dealing with disappointment, sadness, anger…. You know, that kind of stuff.  Well, apparently the way to affectively deal with those emotions is through awareness which is gained through meditation.  Go figure.

I surprised myself and actually took to meditation quite well.  At first it seems absolutely impossible to not fidget and scratch your nose.  Lee, the spit fire American, tells us that being fidgety  is another form of anger.  What!  Are you kidding me!?  I’m failing already.

I begin to settle and accept that I will be sitting for some time.  The fidgetiness goes away.  I no longer need to scratch my nose.  I am pretty relaxed, I’m actually comfortable (for the moment) and my mind is being flooded.  Flooded with thought, with memories, “what are we going to have for lunch”, “I hope I’m doing this right”, “mmm, this is starting to hurt my shoulders”.  Which is perfectly natural and ok but I am learning the point of meditation is to quiet all this chatter.   Which is hard.  Really hard.  Now I’m just trying to tell myself to stop thinking.  Oddly enough sitting and focusing on your breath, looking for those moments in between thoughts is something you can get used to.  Time slips by and when the sounding bell rings and gently awakens you to your surroundings again, the calmness, the stillness is magnificent.

We break for lunch.  We’re told to hold our silence and not talk to each other during lunch.  We’re instructed to take notice of our food.  Noticing the smell, the texture, taste.   We are being taught to be aware.  At lunch everyone has a soft gaze and we all decide to watch the forest (since we can’t talk to each other).

During this course I was given instruction on how to affectively deal with our emotions in the moment while they’re happening.  I’ve also been introduced to meditation and I love the practice of it.  At times it really sucks, really sucks.  Overall, the benefit far outweighs my discomfort.  Even though it sucks, I’m ready to dive into it again!

So, in just a few hours here, I’m headed up to Tushita again.  This time for 8 days and being silent the entire time.  No internet, no music, no idle chit chatter about the weather.  Can’t wait!

I digress

The prevalence of bad American pop in India is astounding.  There was a nice rooftop restaurant in Leh that me and my traveling companions liked to go to.  Wonderland Café.  We’ll be sitting around enjoying our tea when all of a sudden… wait, what’s that I hear?  Why, yes, that is the Backstreet Boys singing a song that was popular in 1999.  I hated it then and I’m certainly not a fan now.  It got me and the Swiss French, the Japanese and the Israeli guy all in a conversation about American music.  Before I knew it I was explaining the difference between West Coast and East Coast hip hop.  Ha!  Like I’m some sort of expert.
…”Well you know, West Coast is all about your ride and the ladies and East Coast is more raw.  There’s more of this street survival to it”  My companions eagerly agreed.  Thinking about it now, this may have been true in the early nineties; but I think it’s all about women and money now.

I was in a coffee shop in the Tibetan neighborhood in Delhi.  Very nice place, nice service… but wait!  Is that the Black Eyed Peas!?  Oh yeah.   It’s oddly hard to try to enjoy your book and coffee while the guy at the espresso bar is singing along with the Black Eyed Peas.  They had their own play list going.  Suddenly it went more mellow and Tracey Chapman came on.  The barista crooned along to this one as well.  I thought it was rather sweet that he new the lyrics to “Fast Car“.  Then Bonnie Raitt came on.  Oh!  One of my favorites!  “I Can’t Make You Love Me”.  This one gets me every time!  It made me think about the time my mom and I saw Bonnie Raitt at Red Rocks.  She sang this song back to back with another slow sad one… "Angel From Montgomery".  She got teared up herself.

I think it’s wonderful that music has the ability to be accessible to all.  I’d rather hear great American music if I have to hear American music over here, but I’m completely shocked as to how much American music I hear.  Just yesterday I walked past a man who was washing his car and out of the stereo system was The Dire Straights "Romeo an Juliet".  Another great one.  I am currently reading Herman Hesse’s, The Glass Bead Game.  In the novel the glass bead game is a game that is played using every area of human knowledge.  The players of the game are masters in Mathematics, Astronomy, Philosophy, you name it.  But the highest of the knowledge one can have is the knowledge of Music.  Writing this blog now and thinking about how music can translate to all cultures and to all people, I feel Hesse may be right that music is the noblest of all the human knowledge (although, I may put the highest rank on human creativity).  Wow, thanks for letting my digress on that one!

The next day at the Dalai Lama teachings I had much more success.  I decided to sit down in the courtyard below the balcony I was on the day before.  It is still within the temple, but far less crowded.  Here I could sit out amongst the trees and watch the adorable little kids run around.  In India there are many things lying around that seem often dangerous and out of place.  Buildings often times appear to me to midway through construction and look as if they’ve been that way for a very long time. Anyway, an example of this is that in the courtyard at the Dalai Lama temple there’s this large pile of really long rebar on the ground.  I believe, quite possibly, that if any other place in world were having a public event let alone the Dalai Lama teaching; they would remove this rebar.  But, we are in India and you see this kind of stuff all the time!  The children discover the pile of rebar and of course immediately begin to jump and play on it.  I watched many near misses.  We had one little girl down for the count at one period (startled but okay), overall the kids came out unscathed.   I unfortunately was incredibly distracted watching (and cringing) as these little ones jumped and played on rebar.  I caught most, but not all of what the Dalai Lama said.

My other success was that I found the English translation on the radio (you thought I learned how to speak Tibetan)!  The topic of the Dalai Lama’s teaching was Emptiness, which to be honest with you, I’m not sure I fully grasped this concept and I certainly will be unable to explain it to you.  All in all, it’s lovely to watch the Dalai Lama speak.  It’s lovely to see how he interacts with the people and the monks.  He seems to be a man with a great sense of humor.  He laughs a lot and quite often gets the audience into a pretty good belly laugh  as well.  Every time the Dalai Lama is done with his teaching for the day he departs down one particular set of stairs.  One afternoon I raced to the stairs to maybe get a chance to shake his hand.  No such luck on the handshake, but I was standing about three feet away from him.
What a presence.  

The Journey has begun!

It’s already been two weeks since I’ve begun my India travels.  It gone by alarmingly fast and at the same time at a snails pace.  Looking back, I can’t believe I’ve been traveling already for two weeks.  The days go by slow here and I’ve found plenty of time to sit in cafes and read.

My first taste of India was Delhi.  I was picked up from the airport by a small man who seemed friendly enough.  We hopped in his tiny car and headed out into the Delhi traffic.  In India there seems to be no traffic laws besides announcing your presence in a rather aggressive and obnoxious way by laying on your horn.  Turn signals are not used and I believe the lanes are merely suggestions.  There’s a number of roundabouts where bikes, rickshaws, cars, and pedestrians all converge.  I’m watching scooters go by that have a man driving, a child on the seat in front of him, a woman behind sitting side saddle while holding a toddler in her lap.  I’m watching astonished as my cab driver is making small talk with me and I cannot understand a word he says.  I am unable to understand most of what he says, although he makes it very clear that I need to give him a generous tip and his job is very stressful.  Huh.  Funny that I’ve just gone to the ATM to get rupees and I only have large bills…   Needless to say the cab driver got a very generous tip and my course of learning how to handle India has begun.

I stayed very briefly in Delhi.  I arranged a ride the following morning back to the airport as I was flying to Leh very early.  My flight took off at 5:45am and the man at the front desk told me I was going to have to leave for the airport at 2:30am.  Embarking back out on the Delhi streets, it was much more quiet and serene.  More than I imagined it would be.  The streets were empty of cars.  There were people sleeping on the streets, but overall there was a very quiet nature to the night.

The flight to Leh was absolutely beautiful.  The Himalayas are as striking as you would imagine them to be.  Leh is situated about 12,000 feet up and has the nickname of “moonland” or “moonscape” something of that sort.  The Himalayas here are barren.  It’s a semi arid climate and the mountains are sheer rock.  Leh is like a little oasis.   There’s trees that look like aspens, though have very different leaves.  Apples grow here and it’s the land of apricots.  I’ve had amazing apricot jam and apricot juice.  Hay is being harvested, there’s a feeling of fall in the air.

I’ve managed to find an amazing guesthouse that is run by a Mongolian family.  The Zeepata guesthouse, in case any of you are ever in the area.  The couple who runs the guesthouse has an eight-year-old daughter and then there’s the Great Aunt who is absolutely adorable.  She has the sweetest round face, braids that run down her back to her waist, and she wears her traditional Ledakhi dress everyday.   She reads prayers during the day in the families living room while counting her prayer beads.  At night she likes to watch Hindi soap operas, as does the eight-year-old.  Each night all the guests in the guesthouse eat dinner together in the families living room.  We get in animated conversation about where we’re from, travel,  the economy, government… conspiracy theories, you name it.  Sometimes I look up and the Great Aunt is watching us with a half curious half repelled expression on her face (she speaks no English).  She’s somewhat grumpy and when people show up to the guesthouse looking for rooms she gives them an exasperated “no!” with a dismissive wave of her hand.  We guests here at the Zeepata love her!  We laugh because she is so adorable and enduring.

I’ve met so many people from around the world in this guesthouse.  Thibault, the French Swiss upstairs, hosts us each night on his balcony for some beers and his opinion on many things such as how to travel in India (this is his fifth time here), how to get a job in Geneva, and why Israeli girls are the best.  Thibault has adventure stories from all over the world.  My favorite of his stories is when he was in Nepal and the people who ran the guesthouse he stayed in were completely convinced he was Captain Jack from Pirates of the Caribbean.  Haha!  Makes me laugh out loud writing it right now!  He insisted that he was not Johnny Depp, showing them his passport which they dismissed as his fake passport he used so he wouldn’t attract too much attention.

There were amazing people  continuously coming and going from the guesthouse.  Eran from Israel, Louisa from Newcastle, Yu from Japan who I particularly enjoyed spending time with.  I have felt so privileged to spend time with these folks.  Everyone is down-to-earth and intelligent.  I’ve had amazing conversations with these guys in an amazingly beautiful place.  I hope to run into any of them again, though I’m sure the extent of my time with my friends here is but a few evenings.

Leh is gorgeous, but besides the few Buddhist monasteries there are to visit there is not much to do.  I can really only go to the same coffee shop so many times and eat dinner at the guesthouse for so long before it’s time to move on.

I flew back to Delhi and hopped a bus to Dharamsala.  My bus to Dharamsala is one of these “tourist” buses.  It’s not a government run bus so it is supposed to be plush and comfortable and luxurious.  I feel this bus is none of those things.  I have a comfortable seat, don’t get me wrong, but it’s definitely not comfortable to sleep in overnight.  We take off and the screen at the front of the bus is showing a Bollywood movie.  At about 10 pm, after getting through horrendous Delhi traffic (they hand out barf bags.  Joy!), our bus stops for dinner.  We’re at the Indian equivalent to a truck stop.  There are tables outside under blaringly bright street lights.  The food is greasy, I get one look at this place, and I know I’m not eating here.  I’m standing around, trying to look casual while waiting for our bus to take off again, when I’m approached by a young guy who says, “sweet bag.”  He’s American and I’m sure just out of college.  He confirms, yes, just out of college and traveling India on a scholarship.  He’s just gotten his degree in Psychology and is studying how Indian’s society/culture treats people with mental illness.

I end up sharing a cab with our young college grad after our bus drops us off in Dharamsala.  Everyone stays in the town above Dharamsala, Mcleod Ganj.  Because we’re both American and share some common interests, I now have an instant buddy and traveling companion.  And I am grateful.  Colin and I have a rather large age difference to contend with, but we both somehow make it work.  We basically meet early each morning to grab breakfast and head down to the Dalai Lama temple to go the Dalai Lama’s public teachings.

The night before the first day of the teachings Colin and I buy cushions to reserve us some seats.  People have been going to the temple and laying down cushions and blankets with their names on them in hopes that they get that seat for the teachings.  We try to find the best place that isn’t already covered by other’s cushions.  We find a spot that if we crane our necks just so, we might be able to see the Dalai Lama.

The next morning when we arrive at the temple and it is packed.  Everyone is already in their seat and the Dalai Lama is already speaking!  We climb our way over many people to our seats that have now been reduced to a space that is about two square feet (for the two of us).  We narrowly sit in our spots and try to get comfortable.  But!  We can see the Dalai Lama!

As the morning goes on I am attempting to not knee the man in front of me.  The little Taiwanese woman who sits behind me has her little foot tucked under my leg (too bad it doesn‘t smell so good!).  I have an elderly monk to my left.  He has about 3 brown teeth but he gives me huge smiles none the less.  He’s concerned about me having enough space and starts to push people aside a bit.  I am also struggling to find the English translation on my radio.  He attempts to help me find the right station, puts on my headphones, listens a bit and hands my radio back to me with a huge smile.  I put my headphones on.  Uh!  Still no luck.  I spend the first day of the teachings simply taking in the surroundings and the people.  It’s ok that I don’t know what the Dalai Lama is talking about, I have the monk next to me giving me knowing looks and I can just people watch.