Returning to the Real World

As I sit oceanside of the sand dunes looking out across the Arabian Sea to the sun sinking beyond the horizon, I can not help but reflect back on the past 5 weeks I have spent in India. I would like to think they have changed me completely, in all the right ways, but alas I find myself wondering if I will return to same old habits once I return to a world devoid of constant yogic practices, a world of flurrying minds and motives stemming from monetary gains. Ahh, yes the world we know. I will miss the silence, I will miss the people, and I really hope I don’t begin to miss myself. I have worked really hard and sat very very still for way too fucking long to receive the opportunity to meet myself. The self that doesn’t thrive on company and conversation, rather it observes presence and can love unconditionally without giving materially. I have too many times been accused of Eat, Pray, Love with this trip. And it’s not accurate, although I will admit, I have learned how to love in India (no easy feat, mind you) and no, it does not come in some hot Brazilian form, or any form for that matter, but it’s there. Even though I still can’t pray for shit.

But enough of my hippie crap, it’s time to party! On the way to Bali, both Winni (from yoga in India) and I shared a nearly ten-hour layover in Mumbai. He is lovely company but I was so tired. When he found me in the airport at our preset “meeting spot” I was passed out on the floor and drooling on my backpack. Hot. Regardless, he did not hesitate to wake me and forget about any opportunity to spare me the embarrassment.

My flight was delayed for over an hour, which was only a problem because my next layover in Malaysia was only an hour long. Didn’t look hopeful. But towards the end of the flight, I snuck up to one of the front rows of the plane and was the first one off (except for the poor bastards in first class who have to wear suits on airplanes instead of my well-chosen linen pajama pants—their loss). When I exited the plane, I had 6 minutes until my other plane was due to take off, likely it was not even at the gate anymore but when I checked the departure board, there it was! Final boarding call! If I ran, I could make it but it wouldn’t look pretty.

And it did not, I had to take my flip-flops off after my third slip, trip, or stumble and simply sprinted like it was the 400-meter dash, only it was more like the 800. I probably looked like Phoebe in that episode of Friends where she ran through Central Park flailing every limb of her body in different directions. Weezing, gagging, and sweating, I made it as the last one to board the airplane and it was off to Bali!