Curry to Camembert

I worried that returning to France would be difficult. We left things on a good note and it’s  true that I missed it terribly, but the fact remains that I had another relationship. I embraced another culture; felt it, tasted it, ate, danced and slept with it, I fully embraced something else. Looking back, I suppose my affair with India could be described as the sort of relationship you have with an Indian on the street who you ask for directions just on the brink of sunset: it’s risque, it’s normally much more intense than it needs to be, it may sometimes result in forceful, defensive commentary or, on the other hand, an hour long conversation on something wildly inspiring. Most importantly, it usually never turns out to be the simple answer you hoped for or needed. So yes, France, ma belle, I went away and experienced a place both wonderful and exceptionally challenging but, now I’m back and I’m ready for your sincere and  calm nature which is why I’m traveling to the vineyard country side of a small town called Chalon-Sur-Soane.

Gratefully, I have been reaccepted into the charm of French culture. Charm like the reliably consistent picturesque white clouds, the beautiful cobblestone streets and imperfectly laid stone walls, the multi-colored aging roofs, the embraced dainty femininity, classic chivalry and kisses in place of hello and goodbye. Even the packaging for seasonal mushrooms are worth admiring:

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I don’t mean to compare my travels, that’s not fair. But, more and more, I realize that the character and beauty that defines anything is found in the aspects that require a closer look.

Minor Details

In shifting gears, I seem to have France on the brain. Reflecting on my time in India makes me think of Seurat\’s \”Sunday on La Grande Jatte\”:  the memories that stick out the most are of the details that demanded a closer look. This is probably because anything large worth looking at was quickly distracted by the gag reflex triggering smell, the hazed fog of pollution or diverted to someone yelling, “come into my shop, looking is free, just five minutes!” It’s not that the small details didn’t have those same distractions but I’ve learned that it’s easier to pretend like you didn’t hear someone when your knees are bent and your stare is fixed deep in observation.

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Perhaps this is naive of me to think but a culture that produces the Taj Mahal, is home to a immense and untamed natural beauty such as the Himalayas,  produce countless films as colorful and animated as Bollywood and is densely overpopulated, would lead me to believe that aesthetic value would adhere to the “the bigger the better” sort of mentality. Qualities like quiet, subdued or finite don’t seem to be fitting but what I’ve realized is that much of India’s character is in the small details that make up the grand spectacles because the details are definite and real. They are made by real hands with organic aesthetic, not polluted by technology or mechanical form, they have imperfections and demonstrate the obvious work of an individuals life time. It’s refreshing to see that even the smallest details are an account of a real person’s life work and skill. Despite the ceaseless surrounding chaos, I hear that.

Not Your Typical Bath

The Ganges river in Varanasi is to Hindus as the Vatican city is to Christians, the Taj Mahal is to architects seeking an example of perfection and a bed is to a rickshaw driver after a long day of strenuous driving. It’s the most spiritual/holy location you could be or, in this case, die. For that reason, it is also a city full of death. Hindus bring the bodies of their loved ones to the river, burn the remains (all along the river, day and night) and sprinkle the ashes in the river.  It should also be noted that not all bodies are allowed to be burned. According to Hindu beliefs, not all are allowed to be creamated. These people are instead thrown into the river whole.  They include holy men, lepers, people with small pox, pregnant women and children under the age of two. Deaths of suicide or violent crimes are usually buried.

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When struck by the sight of locals drinking the water, I asked, “unsanitary hai?” but sanitation is not a concern when a strong religious reasoning is its competition. Especially when the water they are drinking is believed to have fallen from a puncture made when Lord Vishnu stubbed his toe on the vault of heaven during his three step journey to cross the universe. She (Mother Ganga as it is known) is the ultimate symbol of purity and cleanses all the she touches. Try arguing with that!