4 am Musings.
Sarah generously allowed me to choose our first of many blog themes which we intend to subject you to.
I have been in Chennai for less than 48 hours. Twice I have found myself wide awake at 4 am, and while I have nerdily attempted to tame my restlessness with some Greek mythology a la Edith Hamilton (Yes. I know. I thought I was being very noble when I packed this particular selection, and have hence reassessed this sentiment. Last night, it was either that or read the Chennai section in my guide book for the umpteenth time), I have also watched some astonishing music videos, and punched my pillows into 50 different shapes. And I have done my fair share of musing. There I lay last night, thinking "does every driver in Chennai feel that to propel their vehicle forward, they must press down on the horn? Yes, fruit does look better on a mat when stacked in pyramids. In the US, why don't we also have little vessels of warm water and lemon to dip our hands into after eating? What time is it in the US. Can I call and bother someone?" I did. I called home, but no one was there. It was Friday night after all. I returned to my mythology. I quickly stopped, though I did wonder what the Hindu take would be on the plight of Io, who is transformed into a heifer. "Hey!" I thought, "I am free and awake!" Then I made the mistake of flipping through my guidebook, only to feel overwhelmed by the SIZE of this country and how, really, I can't even visit 2% of it, or know the names of all the sauces and rice varieties and deities and I may never really be capable of saying anything substantial in Tamil. A typical 4 am moment. But then I reassessed. I felt tingly and alive. I even had a bit of compassion for the cockroach in my room. I thought about the things I was told before I left, and how, at the time, I didn't realize that even in less than 2 days, a place can start weaving itself right into your mind. And nostrils.
Before my departure, many exclaimed "Everything will smell so different!" At 4m, I finally figured out, indeed, what Chennai smells like. Imagine a rather large trunk, kept in an attic for many, many years, filled with old leather shoes. Then, one day, out of curiosity, you bring it outside and let it bask in the hot sun, but you forget about it. A rascally child opens the trunk, and leaves a large, steaming vat of dumplings in it for two days, which spills everywhere, at which point you say "Hmmm! What's in that trunk anyways!" And you open it up.
The air here is pungent and alive, like it has lots of legs and is running down the streets with the auto-rickshaws, coursing its ways through sari and bangle shops, past the place where phone cards and lighters are sold, punching its ways into the finest hotel, resting little. I like this air. It is muscular and audacious. It has verve. And no misgivings. It knows what it wants from us. Like the small girl in the hotel this morning who said, at the breakfast buffet, "No mommy, I don't want this!" (pointing at something that I couldn't identify) "I want guava." Indeed.
I liked how I felt at 4 am. Normally, being awake at this hour because I can't sleep is a true curse. And yet so far, despite what I could have predicted, my thoughts have been my dearest companions.
I am leaving Chennai today to fly down to Madurai, and will meet with the program director of ODAM. The next time I write, I hope to tell something of my time in tiny Tiruchuli!
- Phoebe
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A travel dialogue between friends. With fruit! lots of fruits.
2 comments:
At four in the morning, you can breath in Paris. The streets are empty. It is slightly chilly, slightly damp, but so agreable. As I passed by a bakery, the sweet scent of parisian bread tickled my nostrils. As did the fragrant parfums when I passed the gardens.
Yup, I too was up at 4am in Paris on June 3rd.
The crane is leisurely, cheek-chewingly, flapping by us all...
At 4 am on Sat. night, I was ambling at the river's edge outside of the WFC's Winter Garden in NYC, taking a break from the Bang on a Can music marathon to eat soft serve amidst the rustling gardens, marvelling at the ample softness of this metropolis during off peak hours. Behind our bench lay an onyx wall above a dingy fountain, commemorating NY police who had died in action. Earlier, a little boy had pointed, inquiring if it was the Vietnam Wall. "Yes," his mother returned, staunchly pedagogical, "But only the Vietnam Wall for NY." Hee.eee. Whispering cool, lapping our lobes, the marina was lined with toy yachts, each bearing a curiously capitalist baby flag, each trumpeting a different Conde Nast publication: the New Yorker sloop, the Brides dinghy, the VOGUE skiff. Whatever their alliances, the gentle slopping of their hulls against the waves was apolitical and hypnotic. We breathed slow, licked our last, and headed back in among the date palms. Light and thick as fig gelato, the guitar of a red-haired Argentine was commanding the stage. A catch of breath- it was Juana Molina, who we had just discovered a week ago, and here she was, singing just for our glassy-eyed delight. Spread out on the marble steps and looking up, Gotham appeared an underwater dynasty, and Juana's breathy musings our buoys. No matter the city, four am is a lovely enterprise.
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