Pondicherry

My friend asked me if India is like I thought it was and the answer is NO but Pondicherry was.  Pondicherry is a little formerly French town (I think I have a thing for French colonies).   It has nice-ish roads with names like Rue de Bussy/something in Tamil (I figured out that's what they speak here) that lead directly to the beach.  The beach is distinctly Indian--you can't swim, and there's about ten feet of sand--and there is a really nice little French cafe called Le Cafe right on it.  I had a chocolate croissant (and died from happiness).

"Pondy" is also home to a gigantic ashram and community called Auroville which is, from what I can tell, seriously weird.  Pictures of "the Mother" creep you out at every corner.  She looks like a harmless, hungry old lady.  (All these great figures in India, they're all hungry.  That's all I think about when I look at them.)  The Mother had a vision of people living in harmony and that's what they do in Auroville.  They also make some fine handicrafts and I bought out the store.  My photos, if the box makes it home, are going to have to work hard to look as nice as the album I bought to put them in.

Some doofuses (cough cough my sister cough) think that Pondicherry is really Puducherry.  Technically, that is correct, but nobody here calls it that.  Pondy is much cuter than Pudy would be, anyway.

And to wrap up, let me talk about the white people I saw in Pondy.  We got three varieties.  

1--Old(er) women.  Ladies in my life, if you'd like to have a mid- to late-life crisis, go to Pondicherry and rent a motorcycle.  You'll fit right in.  

2--Father-son pairs (also seen in other parts of India) from Australia or New Zealand.  It must be a coming of age thing for cool people.  

3.  Nomadic youths of America and Europe who wear culottes and tank tops, spend time in Coffee.Com, and look really, truly, disgustingly hip.  

I have neither culottes nor a New Zealand father, so I guess my closest companions were the enlightened elderly.  But they mostly walk around in white clothing, so I stuck to the coffee shop and hoped some of the hip would rub off on me.  And in case you are wondering just how far I am willing to travel for a coffee shop, let me tell you--7 hours, and I don't regret one sweaty minute of it.

Ta ta for now!

dirt

I was wondering what I should write to explain how traveling here really is, because I feel like all the travel blogs I've read have not prepared me for my trip.  They're all about the high points.  The low points are hilarious.  But let me give it to you straight about one thing--buses in India are nasty.

This is not a "travel is no bed of roses" kind of thing.  I half knew that when I signed up, and it's one of the reasons I decided to go to India, anyway.  It's more like "some aspects of travel are boring, far beyond unpleasant, and hinder the good parts of travel, and there's no getting around them."  That's how night buses are.  They are dirty, filthy, even, unkempt to the point of having bedbugs in the seats and body odor in the fabric.  They are filled with lecherous men.  I haven't slept at the proper time on one yet, making me not only the only white girl, but also the only awake person (which I guess is kind of a treasure, because no one will can stare at me if they're asleep).  It's lonely even with a friend.  I hate my three experiences enough to never want to take one again, but sad to say--it's the only option!

I've learned some things from my terrible journeys--for instance, nothing compares to the relief of stepping OFF the bus.  Soap, water, and a nap are pretty much always the solution.  And I don't like buses.  That's pretty much it.

breakfast

It's ten to 12 here in Thanjavur, so it must be almost 1:30 am at home (why we are 10 1/2 hours ahead I have no idea.  What was wrong with plain old 10?).  I just ate breakfast-unemployment certainly has its charms!--and now's a good a time as any to expound upon a meal, because that one was delicious.

I ate at the restaurant about ten feet away from my friend's house, and she's been there so much they know she likes coconut chutney.  I've been there a few times and I am the color of coconut, so they say "hi" and wave when I come and don't try to talk to me too much. They're very nice, and for some reason they don't accept tips.  I give them about 800 points for that, because the food is really good.

When you go to a restaurant, they bring you a section of palm or banana leaf that's about the size and shape of a placemat.  You use a little water to rinse it off and shake the water right onto the table.  Then you ask the cook what's in.  I've tried to order puri, some thin fried brown bread, at two wrong meals so far.  It's only for breakfast, I found out, and I got there too late today.  But no matter--I ordered a dosa, the other thing I know how to say, instead.  

Once you order, they bring you out little metal cups of chutney, which you pour onto your leaf.  The chutney is waterier than you'd think for being called "chutney."  It's the main ingredient--mint or coconut or tomato or chili--ground up super fine and mixed with spices, especially some very flavorful tiny black dots, mustard seed.  It's all very spicy.  So far the mint is my favorite but you have to eat certain things with certain chutneys, and mint doesn't go with much.  Today came with coconut and tomato, and something called sambar that if I had thought ahead, I would have refused, because it's the only thing I don't like so far--oily, pungent tomato sauce that tastes like fennel or something else really fierce and odd at breakfast.  I mean, it's all odd at breakfast, but this stuff is the consistency of snot.  

Very quickly, they bring you out your bread of choice.  Dosas are gigantic circles, probably 1 1/2 feet across, and have to be folded up in quarters so that they fit on your plate.  They're paper thin and mine arrived hot and crunchy at the edges--the Indian equivalent of a fresh Krispy Kreme.  You tear off small pieces with your right hand and use them to scoop up the chutney.

When you're done, they'll bring you coffee, though I've always asked for mine with my food.  I haven't figured out why the coffee or tea is served after, though I'm sure it's for good reason, because all of the food seems to be served and eaten with purpose (for example--there's this thing called rice curd that is rice ground up in curds and it actually cools you down, so everyone eats it all summer).  The coffee comes in a little tin cup that stands in a shallow, flat-bottomed bowl.  You pour the coffee back and forth between the bowl and the cup to cool it and mix it.  And then you reach nirvana as you sip it, because the coffee here is hands down, no question, sorry to say, exactly two billion times better than the sweetest, most cream-filled coffee I ever got at Dunkin Donuts.  And I am devoted.

They only give you half a cup, but it's enough.  When you're done, you fold your leaf in half towards you to cover up the mess, rinse your hands off at the sink, and tell the man at the cash register what you ordered.  He prints a reciept with a miniscule amount of money on it (today's dosa cost 26 rupees, which is about sixty cents).  It says "Thank you GOD BLESS YOU" across the bottom.  Of course you leave smiling and stuffed.

Thanjavur

I'm in a pretty little town (of 215,000) with a huge temple in Tamil Nadu, now, after an epic bus ride.  Truly, I could write an epic about that bus ride--a baby peed on me an hour into it!  First I was shocked, then uncomfortable, then laughing to myself, because COME ON, that really happened?  That's too travel-story hilarious to be true!  Then I was just uncomfortable again.  But I made it!

I met a nice Australian guy at my first hostel, a haven-like YWCA in Chennai.  When I told him it was my first time in India he said, "Oh, then everything's new!"  Yes, sir.  Everything is completely new.  

Let's start with the head bobbing.  South Indians (at least) don't nod or shake their heads.  They tick-tock them.  Take your head and tilt it to the right, then the left, or start with the left, it doesn't really matter.  Do that again and again and you have the gesture for something.  It might be yes, it might be maybe, sometimes it's definitely been no.  When I really don't want another bite to eat I put my hands up and tick-tock my face and that seems to get across "no mas, por favor."  When I do the same thing with no hands up, they heap it on.

Another novelty has been the auto-rickshaw ride.  This three-wheeled beast has taken me to hell and back, nearly hit many a bus, pulled into three lanes of traffic going the WRONG WAY, and made me realize that you don't have to go to Disneyworld to get a pretty decent roller coaster ride.  You can just go to India.

Finally--for now, because yes, EVERYTHING is new--the food is totally worth writing home about.  I love me some Indian food, and it tastes even better at a buck a plate!  I haven't yet gotten used to eating sour and spicy things for breakfast yet.  I must admit, I crave the Pop-tarts.  But whatcha gonna do?

In response to my fave raving Scot, I'm staying with a buddy from school who's finishing up a year here.  I am eternally grateful to have a friend who knows this place.  We're doing some traveling together before she heads home.  Then I'm on a train to somewhere!

hi

from Chennai. This place is overwhelming. I've been alternating long pauses in my nice room with excursions--to buy clothes, to get money out, to come use the computer. Next on the list is dinner. Veg or non-veg, so funny!

I knew this would happen--I have no idea what to tell you guys. I can make my train ride to town sound like an adventure but that would be weird. There was a blind man singing on it and a kid selling Lifesavers who sounded like an auctioneer and we went past a complete mile of shanty-town. I don't really want to rehash my shopping experience because it was mostly pleasant but everything feels like a trial where I just get seriously embarrassed--I get benevolent smiles from women and demands or requests for money from men. It'd be redundant to say I'm overwhelmed. But let me tell you, NOBODY was lying about the chai! Or the cows by the side of the road!

They should have told me about the stray DOGS!

nueva jersey

I'm going to pretend my nomadism has already begun and I'm just a visitor here in my hometown. It's almost true. Ok, so pretend I'm an ugly American*:

My, the grass is really GREEN here. Like unnaturally so. How pleasant it is that people stand around outside and talk to each other. If I were a local, I might know who that really skinny man is who's walking up and down the street [I do: he's the really skinny man who walks up and down the street]. Ah, he's stopped the postman! What a nice town. That pizza place looks authentic [bet it's more authentic than you've ever had, kids!]. The video store looks weird. I bet the lady who works there is the town crank [she is]. Where do people go to hang out around here? My God, there are so many children! There's not even enough room on that playground for them! They're spilling over into the street! Holy mackerel! How did they fit so many kids in this town?! It's only what, a mile wide? [1 by 1.5, approx.] All those under-twelve's, and what's a girl got to do to get some ice cream around here? Drive?! Jeez-a-lou [local slang]. This town could use a big ol' ice cream store. Or maybe some people between the ages of 18 and 25.


*About the term "ugly American"--according to a vocal few, The Ugly American is actually about an unattractive American who went around doing nice things. So all you all have been misled.

overload

Items of note:

4/30: Roomie extraordinaire and I pack up the remains of our stuff while landlord less-than-extraordinaire REMOVES CARPET.

4/30: Consume more food than God at Underbones, the fantastically bright and well-painted barbecue place in Davis.

5/1: Fax my last fax!

5/2: Me and Li'l Skipper become one after 8 hours sharing airspace with everything I own.

5/3: Me and BC kick #$% in the Broad Street Run--10 miles of Philadelphia experience!

5/3: Eat more food than anyone thought was humanly possible at a nameless (well, I just forget the name) Brazilian bbq place in Sketchville, Phila. Good thing there's no barbecue in southeast Asia.

5/4: Make my grand re-debut to the Jersey shore.

5/5: Wish I was Mexican.

Oh, and begin the official countdown. Do you believe this?? 8 days!