I'm back a week now and my days of utter solipsism have encountered some lovely interlopers:
like Rus my still-new fiancee,
friends like visiting Cin, Ian and baby Henry,
New York,
my shop,
life.
If you're into it (I appear to be), solo travel on the relative-cheap is invigorating - each day dawning with the new-driven-stimulus of primordial to-do's:
feed, clothe appropriately, push oneself out in to the world (vs. hibernating in a crappy hotel room, drinking banana lassis and watching BBC) and, as extra credit, enjoy the journey.
Life then is reduced to its barest-bones of you and your suitcase - and not a very big one - which is pretty cool, for a spell.
But at some point you do realize that you're writing yourself in a circle of writing, up to the moment itself.
That you can't - not on this trip, not ever (not no one) - capture all of India in your blog/diary/camera and bring it home.
And that someone, very far away and a day behind, is waiting for you to come home and emails and a few phone calls won't bridge it.
And you're ready to be there, share, let down the high guards and look after someone other than yourself for a while, and be looked after too.
More reports and photos to come, a lot more on the shopping front especially. But on home turf now so not quite so many.
Love to all
C
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