Vive le France!

It seemed like one minute I was traversing the fun obstacle course of potholes and seemingly undulating pavements in Bangkok, to standing awe-stricken in the enchanting streets of Paris the very next minute.

It could've be called a typically cloudy day for most Parisians, however, for this little Australian Woman Abroad there was absolutely nothing normal about this day. There was the smell of butter churning in the winds, fois gras (duck fat) glistening in the leafy trees and perfect architectural symmetry at every corner - even the dogs seem to emulate that perfect alignment and grace that only comes with an urban planner like Haussmann.

So why did she go there? You may wonder. And why the hell didn't she put me in her suitcase?

Well, this ten day break into pure indulgence and hedonism, of which most days were spent pool-side in Lubéron, South of France, was for a fortieth birth-week. Yes, that's right - birth-week. This is a term coined for people who celebrate their birthday over a period of several days after refusing to accept the one pitiful day given.

Now although I hadn't known the person whose birthday it was or the other eighteen people who had all known each other for ten to twenty-five years, that wasn't a problem at all. Not when my friend, Red Wine has anything to do with it. By the end, I felt like I'd known them for many years too. And an added bonus to my good friend's advice is that I even began to believe that my french was good at one point... that was until I sobered up quickly and noticed that it just wasn't.

Those luscious days of eating feasts fit for a king were among the most relaxing and the most delicious especially when you have the hands of DJ Cook and his trusty side kick working piles of fresh pasta. I mustn't forget their assistance of many helpful french hands and many taste testers, of which my tongue was in line with. And if the kitchen got too hot, a dip in the pool was the welcome relief or if the day was beckoning for a little kip, then there were sun-decks and sofa's to help spur on the night.

Yes, France certainly has many treasures to offer and many wonderful people to meet, so back in Bangkok I am endeavoring not to torture myself over the absence of the mouth-watering dried sausage or the baguettes of which I had taken numerous photos of. Well... I can only try.


Speak to you from the hills of Luang Prabang sooner than later....

Till then. Keep it real.

Curry time.

Having only arrived in India a little over a week ago it feels like I've been here for three months already. And I know now why. Time is measured by smell. Every ten seconds or so there's a new nose curling or chest expanding, though often mind boggling smell that transports you straight to the source and sometimes to your darkest imagination.

Currently based (or should I say hiding) in the Dayananda Ashram located on the banks of the Ganges, Rishikesh, I have been doing quite the opposite to what many travelers do... that is travelling.
One can always learn a lot about travelling by oneself and for me, in this God praising, germ infesting, tooth grinning place, I realize that I am really quite pathetic. I cringe at the thought of going for my daily walk into the action. There is too much for my brain to process. I am overwhelmed by the amount of bodies filling every tiny space imaginable, the poverty spilling forth from every cracked, poo-laced footpath, the barrage of exhaust fumes and dust that coat you're skin in a matter of three seconds, the stares (from men) that laser the first layer of your epidermis off, constant horns honking (which beats China hands down) from the hundreds of cars, rickshaws, buses and trucks, smeared cow patties that pattern the streets, and the heat which tries to sap every molecule of water from your body.

Am I suffering from culture shock.... yes. I think so.

So instead, I am using my time wisely: sitting still, writing and engaging in sporadic, unsuspecting  conversations about spirituality and belief. Although on observation, these conversations seem to be leaning more to one side, and for once it's not me. Take George for an example.
George is an Indian from Chennai, about sixty years young, with spectacles that magnify his eyes five times larger than his own. After sitting himself down next to me, he proceeded to talk for two hours about the nature of truth, the concept of being and becoming, consciousness and thought... to name just a few light subjects. Only he didn't stop talking for the whole time. Even when he asked me a question, he would fill the empty space of my thinking with his answer. Naturally after a while, I stopped listening because my attention started to waver; all that existed for those last sixty minutes was his unflinching eye. I say eye because the sun was reflecting off a white wall which in turn reflected in his right spectacle, blocking it completely from sight, leaving me to fixate only on his giant left eye. With every slight pause in his sentence I thought hypnotically, "yes.... maybe you're right giant eye," until I snapped out of it and thought, "and then maybe you're just not."

Now with seven days left, before I fly back to Bangkok I'm sure there'll be a few more adventures which can only happen when you're jumping off the cliff into the great Unknown. In saying that, don't expect a blog about anything amazing any time soon 'cause this little monkey ain't jumping. :)

Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti. And all that jazz.