Post from Varanasi

We all love getting mail. There is always something so exciting about seeing your name handwritten on an envelope. Words that have flown through the world just for you. Perhaps letters from the bank or HMRC ruin this feeling somewhat. They can keep their words frankly...I don't understand them anyway.
And here in India I have so many words to send. When I get home I'm probably going to be one of those annoying people who constantly drop into the conversation "when I was in India..." I apologise in advance. There is soooo much to take in though, and with "goggles" (as a man we met yesterday thought eyes were called) that are wide open for the weird and wonderful even the smallest thing becomes a story.
We got up early this morning to watch the sunrise over the Ganges and I was immediately inspired to write an overly lyrical paragraph in my diary in honour of the event. And whilst eating my cornflakes I wrote a poem about kites. Too much?
So expect gushing postcards from me, where everything is magical. Particularly here in Varanasi, which IS magical.
Because not only do I like to receive words (and feel free to send me post whenever you like...or maybe email in India as I'm addressless), you may have noticed that I also like to give them. I'm not selfish you know. Besides which it costs about £1 to buy and send a postcard...if that.
Also, you are often bullied into buying postcards by brightly clad women who stick bundis to your forehead so I may as well send them to you or I'll have rucksack full of them, and I'd rather fill it with new hippy clothes.
Hmm...I really don't think I'm sticking to the point today. Those kites have made my brain wander, I'm still thinking about playing the sitar and worrying about whether the mud I got on my flip-floped foot yesterday was in fact cow pat...or worse :s I won't put that in my postcards though, or any emails. I don't want everyone to know I have poo foot. You can expect only the magic. And in return feel free to send me a "no news but I'm a big fan of your work" email a la my sister. Thanks Becca, I may have read that wrong but I know that's what you meant!
And now I sign off with lots of love,
Jess xx

Trains and Mountains

Part 1

I`m writing this blog from the back of a jeep to Darjeeling. After these 2 minutes I already suspect it will be an interesting journey. For once I have an excuse for poor spelling. The road is a bit bumpy for touch screen typing.
We've just experienced Indian trains for the first time and aren't they a million miles away from Virgin Trains? Imagine a first class compartment, air conditioned, beds, blankets and a ready supply of Chai tea and coconuts.
And now put in a lot of people. The king of the area was our neighbour who talked, advised, lectured, ate, then declared at 9pm that it was bedtime, put down the bunks, here are your sheets, turn off the light please.
Now also add into the mix the constant hawking of goods. We made a list of 32 things its possible to buy. This includes toe nail clippers, screwdrivers, religious statues, etch-a-sketch and string. I wonder how many people buy these things?
Now put in some cockroaches and a mouse and two girls, feet up on the seat to avoid them. The girls check their shoes before putting them on.
And then its time to sleep only to find the king is not only a burper but a snorer too. And what a cacophony of snore sounds he has too. You get used to one tone and then he surprises you with another. If he is married I'm certain his wife hasn't slept for years. We were, however, early which is more than British Rail can manage. And it gives you such good stories and slightly hysterical laughter. The next train we are due to take was supposed to be sleeper class (lower). We are changing our tickets. You know, I did not intend to write so often but there is so much to say. But now: on with the journey.
(Posted and corrected a couple of days later)

Part 2


Now we are in Darjeeling. Quite a weird town. To look at the view is incredible...Himalayas, snowy peaks, tea fields. B-e-a-utiful.
And then you smell it. Not the fresh mountain air you'd expect but a noxious mix of car fumes and wet tarmac. So much for escaping the bad air of Kolkata.
It's ok though. Today we went trekking...away from town. And the air was good, although I would have liked a little more oxygen. And fitness. Note to self: get some stamina before Nepal or I might die and I'm too young for a heart attack.
We've made some friends here and they came trekking with us. We pretty much split into two groups: the guides, the Indian man and the German (who we've named Tom-Tom in honour of his in-built GPS)  were the athletes and miles ahead of us. The artist (us, and a couple of Slovenians, architect and sculptor) were slooooooow and stopped every few minutes for photos, eye-spy and fairytales. We are serious hikers, no?
And then back to Darjeeling in a tiny van that played The Venga Bus at full volume. Party bus. Whoop!!
And now, as we can't walk, I post two blogs in one as we sit wrapped in blankets. Cold here. Shiver.

Kolkata...this is a travel blog now

Its proving quite difficult to choose a subject for my first blog from India. Its such a bombardment on the senses that I could write an essay...and its only day 2.
We are in Kolkata, which is not the most beautiful of cities and its just as dusty and dirty as you'd imagine but unexpectedly full of nature.
The first thing we did when we arrived was to take a taxi from the airport. Incidentally, this is quite the cliche. There are no rules on the road. Indian taxi drivers are probably the best drivers in the world...just heedless of danger. We drove though gaps in traffic that i'd be afraid to walk through in a traffic jam. Anyway, as we sped through the city we passed packs of street dogs, herds of goats, baskets and baskets of live chickens, those same chickens tied to bicycle handlebars, still alive and squawking, and in bundles of 50. There is always the sound of unknown and unseen birds joined with the sound of a thousand horns, and most magical, butterflies everywhere. Big blue ones that visit while you drink coffee.
Curiously, the most exotic animals in Kolkata seem to be us. Yesterday, sitting in the park we had three separate groups come to us to ask for photos. I hardly think its for our beauty. We'd been awake for 24 hours by this point, were dusty and sweaty and (in my case) sunburnt (already? Unfair!!). Maybe then its because we are world famous dancers/blogger/animator. Maybe we were mistaken for someone else....hmm. Possibly its because I am a transparent freak. One of these new friends said she's afraid to see me in the sun. Jeez, thanks. She was 10 by the way and clearly had a lot of tact. Its ok, we had an exchange of skills while her mum acted like paparazzi. We taught her some ballet and in return learn a little classical Indian dancing. And then we did a little demonstration of contemporary. Much like the performing monkeys that we passed on the way home.

Some 'To Do' Lists

This time next week I will be in India (she jumps about a little in excitement) and while I'm there I have no commitments beyond my flights. I barely even have a list of things I want to see beyond a fairly vague and probably useless: Everything.
However, at the moment, my head is full of To-Do lists. Here is a small sample:

Pre-India List

1. Finalise the 'short list' of clothes I want to take (it currently consists of approximately twice the amount I could fit in the bag/lift of the ground for longer than 2.5 minutes);
2. Find a way of hiding the rest of my belongings so they don't mysteriously find their way into my sister's possession by the time of my return;
3. Make a Christmas present for the fam;
4. Accustom myself to both vegetarian food and spice whilst...
5. Making the most of my last opportunity to eat the following: bacon, gravy, Yorkshire pudding, black pudding, uncooked vegetables, tap water, juice...

Post-India List

1. See number 5. from above;
2. Learn about grammar. And spelling. Develop a keeneyefordetail;
3. Either embrace the modern world and learn how to use computers, phones...calculator...Twitter...or journey to a happier time before these things. Suggest: rich lady in the '20s a la Downton Abbey.
4. Make something beautiful (this always appears on my to-do lists in the hope that I discover some hidden talent for craft);
5. Perfect (read: make first attempt at) the art of making Fondant Fancies.

Next 3 Holidays List (because you've got to have something to look forward to)

1. A month (or so) in Italy in manner of Julia Roberts (Eat, Pray, Love) to learn to speak Italian properly, rather than the random selection of almost entirely unrelated words that I currently have possession of;
2. Berlin because I imagine it to be a positive Mecca of modern art and dance...and they make excellent hot dogs in Germany;
3. Tokyo via Trans-Siberian Express. I love a good train journey.

List of Objects on my Computer Desk

1. Phone
2. Pink and yellow Post-It notes with indecipherable list of numbers on it
3. Tape measure
4. Someone's tissue (eww)
5. A curly piece of plastic

Why do we care so much about the US elections?

For the last week, certainly the last couple of days, everyone it seems has been obsessed with the presidential elections. But why? We are British: so why do we care so much?
In fact someone cared so much, this was their status update last night:
"If Mitt Romney gets into power, I will take it upon myself to burn down every fast food place and twinkie factory in the US #voteobama"
A more common and less extreme update was a simple "Good luck America," because we did not wholly trust that the correct [read: our] choice would be made.
Everyone seemed to look on in horror as the polls became uncomfortably close, because we all knew who we wanted. This is what the rest of the world thought:

Now, I don't know a lot about politics, even in this country. I remember being quite enthusiastic about our 1997 elections. I got up super early to discover that Tony Blair was PM and I probably skipped a little. No, not because I was a young Labour supporter, passionate about those ideals and policies. I was 8. I was excited about Tony because he was (fractionally) more glamorous than John Major (who reminded me a little of Mr Somerville, the local vicar).
In the elections that have followed this, I've not really cared so much. I vote of course, I love to vote, but they all seem much of a muchness. No one in British politics really inspires me. British politicians of the past (probably through some weird nostalgia) were much better. More eccentric. I like an eccentric politician. It makes me think they a)have a genius quality, b)care about the country, not about the power or money c)wear interesting hats. Bring back the Bowler!
American politicians, however, are bigger, stronger, more glamorous (Tony pales in comparison), just more.... You can get excited about them because they are more exciting. The candidates seem to represent two such different images of America. Stereotypes even: one liberal, progressive and sensibly impressed by the genius of the NHS; the other who seemed anti-women's right, anti-gay rights, part of a slightly odd religion that nobody understands (not that that matters really, I'm just building up the character profile), and probably loves Country and Western (just an assumption).
As you can see I've followed it all extremely closely. I believe if I lived there I'd be most concerned about the economy. But I don't understand money. No one in the world seems to have any so I reckon things are bound to improve whoever takes the lead. I'm an optimist.
But crucially, none of it directly affects us so we can really get behind our choice, because if it all goes wrong we can simply send our sympathy across the Atlantic and continue to complain about our own boring government.
That is all except: Bravo Mr Obama. I would have voted for you. I might love you a little. And good luck for your second term...because I know you'll be reading this.

Adonna Khare and dream drawings

Found this and wanted to share because its magical: Adonna Khare and her pencil

Here are my favourites:

 

 

Some story inspiration I think...it's like something out of a dream :)

Moscow State Circus

So Friday I went to the circus.

 

Boom!

So much fun...I love a circus. I might join. First I just need a skill of some sort.

I'm already teaching myself how to juggle. It's kind of slow going though because throwing is a problem for me. That, and catching. But once I've mastered these small elements of this noble art there'll be no stopping me.

Other things to learn:

1. High-wire
2. Backflips, somersaults, etc etc
3. Skipping (like proper skipping with flips and stuff)
4. Hoola-hoop.
5. Fire hoola-hoop.

Moscow State Circus had all these treats (minus fire hoola-hoop) and more and they were A-MAZ-ING! If you get a chance, go. Here are some dates for your diary. 

My only criticism of the whole thing was the dancing, not just because it wasn't good, but because clearly none of them wanted to do it. Fortunately, this lasted only a minute at the beginning of the show so you can swiftly put their fixed grins and clicking out of your mind.

And then it's all superhuman awesomeness and clowns, scarily muscle-bound men in pink chiffon, overly-large shoes and audience participation (don't sit at the front if you don't want to go onstage).

So basically, go to the circus. I'm going to work on my juggling for a little... whilst doing a one armed handstand. On a carefully constructed tower of chairs.

 

Bad hair days

There is no denying it. My hair looks like a mop. This is not surprising and is entirely down to my own laziness so I shouldn't complain. Not getting it cut for 3 months probably isn't acceptable for someone with short hair but I got lucky. Curls cover all manner of sins.
At the moment however, they also cover what feels like my entire face (whether or not that can be counted as a 'sin' I'll leave to your discretion) and although that look works for Cousin It, it's a bit annoying for me.
I'm going to cut it all off before India though. Relief! Maybe I'll shave it...you know like Sinead O'Connor.
Errrrmm..except...on reflection, maybe not. That's a little too far.
I will of course hate my hair even more once it's gone. Without exception, ever time I leave the hairdresser I am weeping inside because they always make me look like my twin brother. N.B. I don't have an actual twin brother but he has hair worthy of McFly.
And to make matters worse, everytime this tiny catastrophe happens, one of my friends always laughs. One time (the worst time) her boyfriend was there when I saw her and she said we had the same hairstyle. He had terrible hair. Mini sob.
I have to live with that comment and this hair you know. A sympathetic lie doesn't hurt anyone. In fact I would like to champion a little white lie. Often both parties know the truth, but a little untruth goes a long way to make you feel the tiniest bit better about your new, and blessedly temporary look.
Honesty is a wonderful thing, and my friend is a rare and glimmering beacon of truth. She is that person who tells you to shut the god damn window, it's freezing in here. Or doesn't tiptoe around making you do the washing up. Or informing you that for the good of the world you probably shouldn't sing in front of other living creatures. Because sometimes you need to know these things. If you are being annoying, or selfish, or you smell bad or something, you need someone to set you straight.
But hair is an altogether different thing. No one needs to know the truth about something that is unfixable. I can see for myself what it looks like, what I need from other people is for them to lie through their teeth and tell me it's ok. You look nice.
So when I get my hair cut in a couple of weeks, no laughing. I know. I already cried about it. Tell me it's fine. Thank you.