Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between invites you into my world from my years as a monk in India, to my life as a punk rock diva and beyond, peppered along the way by the men I've loved.

My blog features both excerpts from the book, and what I currently deem hot in realm of love, art and spirituality from the streets of New York City to beaches of Los Angeles, two cities I affectionately call home.

Friday, March 25, 2011

My ticket is booked destination mocha, to a saffron-soaked India - excerpt Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between

Several months and as many countries successfully checked off my list, I think I’ve got the gist of what most Western European countries have to offer.  If you don’t mind me saying the Dutch are organized; the Italians and Spaniards have freshly-squeezed orange juice at gas stations and quite possibly the hottest men; the Swiss are O.C.D. and the Portuguese may or may not eat dogs if the carcasses in their butcher shops are any indication.  While mostly pleasant, (well except for the slaughter of man’s best friend), my experiences have been so… pedestrian.  Whatever treasures may have once been hidden have already been plundered.  Not that I imagined otherwise.  In a moment of brilliant abandon I hopped a boat in Portugal for Morocco.   Leaving the large cities in favor of the Sahara Desert and colorful Berber tribes, it only took ten days of hair-raising adventure to confirm what I already suspect.  The mystery I seek is not in Europe.  And while exciting, nor is it in North Africa.  I just finished Autobiography of a Yogi, devouring it from cover-to-cover, unable to put it down.  It confirmed where I must go.  Where I’ve always known I’m headed.  I just needed to earn my travel-stripes, and more money.  
 I saved for a year’s worth of shenanigans yet only a few months in, found myself nearly broke.  All those croissants aren’t cheap.   After Morocco I headed to Switzerland where I’d heard rich Genevois like to hire undocumented nannies.   The backpacker grapevine was right and I landed a back-to-back stint as a jeunne fille* for two aristocratic families in the French-speaking city of Geneva.  Both boasted the illustrious Baron and Baroness title, and both were challenging.  The first family was lovely, but their anti-Christ-like child was hell-bent on slaying the post of nanny.  He wasn’t a bad kid.  All he wanted was his mum, a not totally unreasonable request.  The children of the second family were a delight but the Baron was an old-school ‘noble’ who thought the hired help wouldn’t object to him importing his mistress into the family home the moment his wife and kids took off to Spain en vacance.  Sorry.  That’s not how we roll in Australia.  I most certainly did mind.  And I let him know it.
This only makes my forthcoming trip all the more exciting and timely.  I’ve seen how the other half lives, the half with titles and castles and towns named in their honor.  The half that takes the Nanny down to Monaco to meet up with the Baroness and les enfants, and threatens her life should she whisper a word about the mistress in the wife’s boudoir the night prior.  I don’t want a part of it.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like me some money and I’ve no aversion to prestige. But shouldn’t it stand for something?  If we’re all going to die, there has to be more to life than material success.  Right?  I do want to achieve great things, but before I break my neck climbing the proverbial ladder of success, I want to make sure it’s leaning against the right wall.  Perhaps more than anything I want to reclaim a sense of magic; something that disappeared with the rude awakening of adulthood.  As a kid I experienced great synchronicity with the world around me, a rich spiritual connection.  I felt I not only belonged in this world, but that I was loved and celebrated.  I realize how lame that sounds, truly I do, but I sensed reciprocation from the universe.  I actually sensed it.  I want it back. 
I don’t profess any one spiritual path superior to another.  I’ve always had a soft spot for Jesus since my schools were denomination-based in a saccharin-vanilla Christian sense. Regardless of cultural origins I’m convinced we remain unique and the innumerable available spiritual paths exist to accommodate our many flavored needs.  Though raised on a blond blue-eyed Savior, I’ve booked my ticket destination mocha.   I am seeking my flavor, my reason and my answer to life’s question in a saffron-soaked India.  I don’t plan to abscond for life, but I do want to learn the one thing my religious school never taught.  I want to learn about the elephant in the room.  The one we pretend isn’t here.  I want to know what it’s all about Alfie.  I want to know the meaning of life.

* Jeune fille means “young girl,” colloquial for nanny

1 comment:

  1. i guess (and hope) life is just like a jetplane: you may be the pilot and fly, feel what been free mean, or you may be just a passenger and prey for a safe landing...