Pondicherry

Day 20:

I have gone from traveling alone to traveling with a group of eight. It is quite a change! There is: Juan, my friend from Harvard Kristie, from Finland Emilie, from France Lena, from Washington State Martin, from India Bjorn, from Sweden Anne, from England Six of them had pre-booked tickets on an air conditioned bus to Pondicherry, but since Emelie and I were late comers we had to ride on the non-a/c bus. We left 45 minutes before them, and arrived 90 minutes later than them. But it wasn't as horrible of a experience as my pervious bus ride. And I had someone to pass the time with.

The first thing I noticed about Pondicherry is how bloody hot and humid it was. The temperature here (in the low 90s) is no higher than elsewhere in India I have been, but the humidity makes all the difference. At 12 degrees latitude, I think this is the furthest south I have been on the globe.

Pondicherry is an unusual place. It was French for 300 years, until 1954. The French controlled this city and some of the surrounding area in India, and used Pondi as the capital of all their South Asian possessions (which also included Mauritius and the Maldives). As a result, Pondicherie actually feels like France at times. The old town has a decidedly French atmosphere, with lavish (albeit worn) homes that could just as easily be in New Orleans. Bouganvelia and greenery adorn patios and gardens. There is a great central square, churches, and a cathedral. Pondi is also a coastal city, offering me my first glimpse of the Bay of Bengal. I have now seen both of India's coasts. At night, the promenade along the sea bursts with life and it seems the entire city flocks here to enjoy the cool breezes.

The city is mostly Indians. There aren't a lot of French still living here. But there are a lot of French tourists. In fact, every time Indians or richshaw drivers would address us on the street, it was usually in French, assuming we were French tourists. As Emelie doesn't speak much English, she probably felt right at home. French influence can also be found in the cuisine. We found a wonderful little bakery with warm fresh-baked croissants, pain au chocolate, baguettes, and cappucino, all for 15-20 rupees.

Unfortunately, our other attempts at eating did not go as well as breakfast. We had lunch in a fabulous location, on a terrace overlooking the seaside. But the food did not match the view. At least half the items on the menus were unavailable. Juan ordered spaghetti bolognese and received something more like sweet and sour noodles instead. Martin's bifstek was a slice of roast beef in a bland gravy. My prawn cocktail came swimming in mayonaise. Our beer arrived luke warm.

We decided to try a more upscale place for dinner. It was a self-proclaimed French restaurant so we figured we were in for a treat. We were wrong. Half the items on the menu were steak, and yet steak was unavailable. (I know what you're thinking: I thought they don't serve beef in India. Well, they do under certain circumstances, like when you were ruled by the French for 300 years. But, apparently, the beef comes and goes...) My french onion soup lacked both the bread and cheese on top, and seemed to lack onions as well. My father's french onion soup put it to shame. The service was overwhelmingly slow. We were there for over two hours and we had to rush at the end because our ashram gates closed at 10:30. They never actually brought me my food. They got my order wrong, brought me the wrong thing, and never got around to bringing anything else. Oh well, at least the Punch Cocos were good.

We stayed at a guest house operated by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. We got a dormitory room with beds for all eight of us in one big room for only 220 rupees (less than $1 per person). The place was impeccably clean and well-landscaped with a sculpture garden and foutain in the courtyard. The only rules: no shoes, and gates close at 10:30.