Sincere compliments are awesome

The road trip ended. If the fifty-year old body felt this exhausted after a week and two thousand miles, I suppose aging will not be all that exciting for the travel-loving me.

Getting back to normalcy included heading to the grocery store the following day. My chatty favorite was at the checkout counter.

"You have a spring break, eh" she said even while wrapping up the transactions with the customer who was ahead of me.  I nodded and smiled.

As she started processing my purchases, of course we engaged in a conversation.  "You been goofing around?" she asked with a big grin.

"That's a neat way to describe it, yes."  I am always surprised at myself.  I can be so closed about some things even as I openly talk and write about others. I didn't feel like telling her that I was on a road trip to California.  To spend time with the daughter and son-in-law. And to reconnect with old friends.

"And now it is time to prepare for classes" I said.  To some extent, I wanted to preempt any follow up question on how I goofed around.

"Oh, too bad."

"No, it is good. I like being in classes."

"Really?  You like being in front of students ..."

"Yes, I do. I love my work."  I didn't tell her that it is the screwed-up system and the atrocious colleagues that I cannot tolerate.

"Good for you."

"Yes, I am lucky."

"How about you?  Any plans?"

She told me about her upcoming trip to Hawaii, which is a home away from home for her.

"In my life, I have spent time in so many countries, because of my work.  I feel at home at most places" she added.

"I agree. The whole world is our home.  It is just that we choose to live in one place."  I was merely channeling Rudyard Kipling who wrote in Sussex that we are not able to call the entire world our home “since man's heart is small.”

"Who was it who said that travel is a better education than school?"

"I don't know who that was.  But, Mark Twain said that travel will make people get rid of bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and he also said that Americans sorely needed that travel experience.  To think that he said all that back when ..."

"That's so true."  She paused.  "You must be a good teacher" she added.

I don't know about being a good teacher. I don't know if I am even a teacher.  I tell students that I am merely a guide pointing them the directions at the appropriate moments.

"Thanks" is all I said.

She finished bagging, and I was done with the payment.  As I leaned forward to pick up the bag, she came over to the customer side, and patted me on the back and said "you are a great teacher."

I smiled and thanked her.

It is time to prepare for a new term.

The road trip is rapidly fading in life's rearview mirror.

We were young and sure to have our way

Life unfolds rapidly as we transition from the teenage years into adulthood. It speeds up even more as we live the life of adults with work and family and friends.

We look at ourselves in the mirrors and photographs. Rarely do we look anything like the youthful people we once were, and we imagine we are even now.

It hits us that time has sped by.

We wonder then what ever happened to the friends we used to hang out with when younger. The ones with whom we played backyard cricket. Went biking with.  Discussed movies and girls.  We wonder and worry whether life turned out well for those old friends who broke our young romantic hearts.

Reunions, thus, happen.

Two years ago, when I met with a college friend, after nearly 28 years, he offered me a profound perspective.  "As long as both the old friends have always wanted to reconnect, I am confident that they will meet again. Here we are."

Perhaps he is right--it is difficult to reject that conjecture when he had offered such an evidence.  I wondered then whether I would ever get to meet with a couple of other friends.  On the other hand, if that conjecture is true, then it would mean that I am completely off the mental radars of many?

What a delightful surprise it was when a few weeks ago I got an email, "Remember me?"

How could I not remember?  When did I ever forget?

A flurry of emails.

And in one, an old friend wrote, "Looking forward to the reunion!"

The last few years have been about reunions. Re-connecting all because of the shared memories. Memories of laughter and crying. Of dreams and despairs.  Of people we liked and hated.  Every reunion thus far has been phenomenal. This one, too, would be special.

We met. We talked. We laughed.  We got caught up. With our own stories. With stories of the people we knew. "What happened to that good looking guy?" I asked about one.  "And the guy who had a car with a hand-cranking sunroof?"  I remembered that because a sunroof was so rare back when we were in graduate school.  "Who was the girl who coached us to sing Chuu kar mere man ko at the international night" I asked.  I had questions in plenty, and they had a lot more to ask me too.

We talked about the people whose lives had ended even before they could become empty-nesters. The fragility of life is all the more why I have always wanted to re-connect with the old and valued friends, for there might not be a tomorrow.

And, of course, we ate.

"It is like a dream you were here!!" texted one friend after I returned home.  Another wrote, "It was great seeing you and I am glad you are back in my life."

My thoughts, exactly.

Art is everywhere

A few years ago, a neighbor-couple invited me over to have lunch with them and another couple who had spent some time in India.

The conversation was mostly about our travels to different parts of the world.  My neighbor said something like, "I want to see art in Florence. And art in Rome. And art in Paris."

When she paused, I asked her, "does your husband know about this Art you want to see in those places?"

It took a couple of seconds.  And then it was haha all around.

Perhaps it is the art-challenged nature in me that makes me think that going to a place to look at art can be exhausting. It is like eating one too many chocolate bars in a matter of minutes.  But then one cannot fly over the ocean and look at only the Mona Lisa and return, eh!

It is not that there is no possibility of art in everyday life. If we do not find it, then it simply means that we are oblivious to it. Or that we do not care.

Sometimes, even the display of fruits and vegetables in the grocery stores is colorful and arty. Or, perhaps even in the basket one carries in the store.  That's what a woman told me as I was walking up an aisle. "Your basket is so colorful and arty, with the flowers, the oranges, ..."

I thanked her.  And then hurriedly turned a corner into another aisle, placed the basket on the floor and looked at it. It looked like plain old grocery stuff.

Perhaps art, too, is in the eye of the beholder.  Even though I didn't find my grocery stuff to be exciting, I was delighted that it made somebody happy.

I do get excited when I manage to create something that looks beautiful enough even for the art-challenged me.  Like this salad that I created from the tomatoes and cilantro that were in that grocery basket:

Even more exciting it was when the son-in-law loved both the look and taste of the salad. I suppose I, too, had traveled far for art.

People are hypocrites! Most of us.

I knew it was time for a second breakfast.  Yes, dear reader, I eat way too much!

I exited, and drove through the picturesque central part of the small town that was.  Nothing along the four blocks appealed to me.

I turned around to check the place one more time.  I suppose it is the gut instinct that comes with the experience of travelling.  Something told me that there was a place right along that street where the food was going to be tasty, and I was not ready to give up.

A sign said Bakery La Petite France.  That's it, I decided.

I parked, and walked in.  A young man, perhaps ready to crossover from the late teens to the twenty, greeted me with a French accent.  I scanned the menu and noticed that the choice of side dish for eggs included ratatouille.  Ever since I watched the movie, Ratatouille, I have not let go of any chance to order that dish if ever it is on a menu.

"How do you scramble the eggs?  Do you add anything?" I asked.  I hate eggs by themselves--they smell too eggy!  Which is why the eggs I make are always with vegetables and cheese.

"We make like an omelette and then piece up" the young man earnestly replied.

I struggled, successfully, to contain my laughter.  "I wonder if you add anything like onions or ..."

He shook his head to mean no.

I figured I would combine the ratatouille with the scrambled eggs.  And placed my order. With coffee, of course.

As I waited for the food while sitting outside by the street, I noticed that if I held my head a certain way, then the lights above looked like a halo around my head.  A selfie was born.

We men, or at least some of us, can be so easily amused.

I was about halfway through the tasty breakfast, and the tasty ratatouille in which the vegetables tasted delightfully fresh, when the chef walked up to me.

In an accent that makes women fall in love with the French instead of us with men with Indian accents, he asked me about the ratatouille after a bonjour.

"Bonjour" I said. "I love it."

"You seen the movie?"

"Of course."

"That mouse is in my pocket" he said with a laugh and pretended to yank the mouse out.

"Perhaps he is still back in the kitchen" I added with a big laugh.

We men folk, from India or from France, are born to make such jokes, which we think are hilarious.  I bet if he had tried that with a woman, she would have merely smiled a polite smile, thinking within that men are stupid!

We men can be so easily amused.

"Where are you from?"

"A long time ago from India. But been here for 27 years" I replied.  "How about you?"

"From Nice. In the south of France.  You been there?"

"Not there. But, a couple of years ago I was in the Dordogne ..."

"It is pretty. The river ..." he said while his hands acted out the meandering river.  He walked back into the kitchen.

I cleaned up my plate, and drank every drop of the coffee.  Life was, yet again, good.

The chef reappeared. "I want you to taste this" he said. "Freshly made tomato soup."

"Tell me the truth.  I can take it" he said pointing to his heart.  "You give people food, they say it is good. Even when they don't like. Damn hypocrites."

He could have cursed the worst curses ever, but his accent and pleasant demeanor will only make them sound like the best compliments ever. I, on the other hand, with my inability to smile, make even the best compliments come across like the worst insults.  I hate these people who can smile away at ease! ;)

As a small, small, small time cook, I could relate to his emotions. When I make anything that I share with others, I always look for honest feedback. Even if the feedback is that I have over-salted.

I took a sip.  It did taste fresh. And it tasted wonderful. I told him that. He walked back in with a smile.

I finished that soup. Sat for a while longer.

As I got up to leave, I looked into the eatery. Deep inside was the kitchen service window and I saw him looking towards the street.  I waved him a big time bye.  As if he was waiting for my action, he leaned out through the window as much as he could and waved back.

I walked towards the car thinking that I, too, hate hypocrites--not merely in food.

Don't worry over a distant journey

This fifty-year body, with a considerably lesser mental age, cannot handle all the eight hundred miles in one single day.  The spirit is always willing, but the flesh is damn weak, and is weakening with every passing year that is marked by fewer hair on top, more grey even down there, and wrinkles all over.  While I certainly would prefer at least a few of these signs of aging to be otherwise, I wear them proudly most of the times as my medals of having lived my own life.

Thus, I stopped to spend the night at a motel.

The older I get, it is also the case anymore that motels make me feel uncomfortable. As if I am in a shady place where drug deals happen and that at any minute my car can get busted, cops will come bursting in, and that I will have to run for my life.  I live way too much a sheltered existence, I worry, and I force myself to step out of my comfort zone. It ain't easy.

The always curious me explored the content of the drawer in the bedside table.  Surprise, surprise it was not merely a Bible but also this:

Jing Si Aphorisms?

Googling had to wait for a later time.  I had to look into that book, of course.  I picked it up and opened up a page.

Life is full of coincidences, which should not surprise us at all, given that we live in a probabilistic world. Inspirational coincidences are what the religious prefer to refer to as miracles.  My father, for instance, who believes in his gods, is convinced that miracles happen all the time but that we don't watch out for them.  The atheist me, on the other hand, is convinced that wonderful coincidences happen all the time but that we don't pay attention to them.

The reflective personality in me does watch out for those coincidences, and sometimes do spot them. Like when I opened the Jing Si Aphorisms and looked at a page in random:

Here I am on a 800-mile road trip, which at the end, with all the detours, could easily become a 2,000-mile round trip, opening a page in a book I had never seen before, and the content there tells me not to worry about a distant journey as long as one finds the way.

Of course, the journey that is referred to is not a mere physical journey, but it is life that is metaphorically being addressed.  And in that, the page tells me that it is never too late.  For blossom.

Wonderful inspirational coincidences.

I didn't worry much after that over the car being broken into or about the police sirens.

I slept well.

The morning came.  The car was there.  Without any damage.  So was the driver.

I resumed the journey, hoping I knew the way.  Or, hoping I can at least find my way.

The Bovine Comedy: Run, Elsie, Run!

It was a cool 37-degree morning when the long 800-mile drive down to Southern California began.  With low clouds. Perfect weather conditions for driving, I thought to myself, unlike the atrocious summer experience the last time around.

Of course, I knew that warmer temperatures awaited me on the other side of the mountains.

A road trip offers many lessons on life.  Travel helps me know more about what lies on the other side of any metaphorical and literal mountain.  I am, after all, continuing with the same curiosity to understand that world that propelled our human ancestors to venture out of the African Savanna.

I had no idea, however, that one lesson would be presented as an improvisational comedy.

A couple of hours past the summit, while driving on a much warmer 76-degree flatland on the other side,I thought I saw a cop car's flashing light on the right shoulder a few cars ahead of me.  A minute later, a flashing cop car on the left shoulder.  I wondered whether this meant that soon we would all come to a halt--I remembered an experience from a few years ago when a cop car ahead of me all of a sudden switched his siren on and started zigzagging across the lanes forcing us to slow down and eventually stop.

This time, too, we slowed down. And we stopped.

Curiosity being my middle name, I stepped out of the car.  No visible clues.

But, there had to be something--the traffic not only on our side was stopped but in the other direction too.

And then the reason made its appearance:

A cow on the loose.  And, what appeared to be a ranch-hand running towards it.

A hilarious sight, indeed. A cow managed to closed down an important north-south commercial artery!

Meanwhile, it was quite a sight to look at the long line of vehicles behind me.  I wondered whether the people in those vehicles had any idea at all about the unfolding bovine comedy.

And then for the final scene in the comedy, when the patrol officer managed to direct the cow towards the waiting ranch-hand:

Soon, life resumed.  We were back to speeding towards whatever we were speeding towards.  It was time for dinner.  I stopped at a California fast-food favorite of mine.  I felt terribly guilty thinking that it might be only a matter of time before the cow that stopped the traffic also became food for humans.

I hoped against hope that the cow made its great escape.

But then most comedies are nothing but tragedies presented as farce.  Such is life.