First, let me take care of some housekeeping. My fellow adventurer
A.-R. wants you to know that is IN NO WAY middle-aged. I did try to tell
her that the image of a group of sassy ladies of that certain age from
the Montreal burbs (and three very patient gentlemen) cavorting
throughout India would be more fun than describing the adventures of one
twenty-something, one thirty-something (A.-R.), and then miscellaneous
forty and fifty year olds, but she’d have none of it. So, there you have
it. I may be mature, but she is young and fresh, m’kay?
Come to think of it, I am not middle-aged either I hope. I’m totally planning on living way older than 80, and now I know the way. Swami Yoganan, a springy 103 year old, gave us his secret: yoga in the morning, no sugar, no tea, no coffee, lots of sex (he did father 10 kids… he showed us their pictures and I dare say most of them don’t really look like him?), oh, and NO FOOD, only fruit and vegetable juice. Sounds great, right? No, not really. I might just trade off a few years for a mojito and a Pirate cookie here and there. Just sayin’.
Today was no Eat Pray Love day, more like Worry, Curse and Wonder WTF I’m doing here. The day started well enough, with a train ride in the Indian countryside (first class, with lots of food and happy little children), all the way to Haridwar, where we were picked up by two minibuses and their drivers with very limited English. I won’t go into details, but for the first time it hit me that we were in a third world country where we knew no one and didn’t speak the language. All of a sudden, my adventure of a lifetime was transformed into a bottomless pit of despair, where the combination of wicked pms and cold ashram chickpea curry eaten in complete silence made me fantasize about the remaining 19 days of my trip spent in luxury at the New Delhi Hilton. After all, I’d still be in India, and I could do yoga anytime I want in their “very state-of-the-art” fitness centre, with bacon and goat cheeseburgers in each hand if I chose. That, I concluded, would be friggin’ sweet.
But then, A.-R. and Hélène dragged me to yoga class and I came home to myself. The ripped wallpaper in my room, the Alcatraz-style design of our building and the sinister hook in my bathroom didn’t matter anymore. I was here to do yoga, and I did just that, and it felt right. This trip might find me again at some point crying in foetal position over something silly like grotty bath towels or a gigantic dried blood stain in the middle of a busy train station, but as long as I can set my mat on the ground and twist and bend, I’ll be fine. I think.
Three things I’m grateful for today:
1- Rishikesh is breathtakingly beautiful, and fun to walk around, and cheap. It’s going to be good to be here for a week.
2- Free wifi in the hall of my building
3- Al the cool travel gear my boys gave me from X-Mas which has been very useful so far: apparently linens don't include bed sheets...
Come to think of it, I am not middle-aged either I hope. I’m totally planning on living way older than 80, and now I know the way. Swami Yoganan, a springy 103 year old, gave us his secret: yoga in the morning, no sugar, no tea, no coffee, lots of sex (he did father 10 kids… he showed us their pictures and I dare say most of them don’t really look like him?), oh, and NO FOOD, only fruit and vegetable juice. Sounds great, right? No, not really. I might just trade off a few years for a mojito and a Pirate cookie here and there. Just sayin’.
Today was no Eat Pray Love day, more like Worry, Curse and Wonder WTF I’m doing here. The day started well enough, with a train ride in the Indian countryside (first class, with lots of food and happy little children), all the way to Haridwar, where we were picked up by two minibuses and their drivers with very limited English. I won’t go into details, but for the first time it hit me that we were in a third world country where we knew no one and didn’t speak the language. All of a sudden, my adventure of a lifetime was transformed into a bottomless pit of despair, where the combination of wicked pms and cold ashram chickpea curry eaten in complete silence made me fantasize about the remaining 19 days of my trip spent in luxury at the New Delhi Hilton. After all, I’d still be in India, and I could do yoga anytime I want in their “very state-of-the-art” fitness centre, with bacon and goat cheeseburgers in each hand if I chose. That, I concluded, would be friggin’ sweet.
But then, A.-R. and Hélène dragged me to yoga class and I came home to myself. The ripped wallpaper in my room, the Alcatraz-style design of our building and the sinister hook in my bathroom didn’t matter anymore. I was here to do yoga, and I did just that, and it felt right. This trip might find me again at some point crying in foetal position over something silly like grotty bath towels or a gigantic dried blood stain in the middle of a busy train station, but as long as I can set my mat on the ground and twist and bend, I’ll be fine. I think.
Three things I’m grateful for today:
1- Rishikesh is breathtakingly beautiful, and fun to walk around, and cheap. It’s going to be good to be here for a week.
2- Free wifi in the hall of my building
3- Al the cool travel gear my boys gave me from X-Mas which has been very useful so far: apparently linens don't include bed sheets...
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