I'm in southern France: my small auberge, on Rue Labourdonnais, has a blue enamel plaque outside saying 'Chambres disponibles pour touristes'; my A-Level French is being dusted off to chat with the owner, Gerard; and fresh baguettes, good red wine and salades de tomates with fabulously garlic vinaigrette dressing aren't hard to find.
A few boulevards back from Rue Labourdonnais, Rue Dumas and the like and Pondicherry is a normal, busy Indian seaside town. But it is still clinging onto its Gallic past more than the rest of India does its Britishness.
The sea is confusing me: I keep forgetting I'm on the other side of the country, facing east across the Bay of Bengal, rather than west onto the Arabian Sea from Kerala. Tonight, strolling along the neat promenade, I was looking forward to sunset until I realised, doh!, it was out of sight on the other side of town. And it's hard to explain, but there's also something a touch more unsettling about facing out to sea away from home...
Today I posted some parcels back home. It took all afternoon and was such fun: carrying my cargo to a small packing office on the street, run by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram which seems to have its fingers all over town. The young packer found two boxes, sealed them up with tape and then wrapped the boxes in cream muslin cloth just as you'd wrap a present. Instead of Sellotape, however, he stitched it beautifully tight with a needle. He watched me write the addresses on, commenting on how neat my handwriting was and how great it was that I was left-handed. Then it was back to the Post Office to fill out customs forms and glue them in a very specific way to the top of the heavier box. Where's the glue, I asked. Outside, she barked, under the tree.
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