Italians.

March 13, 2008

We are in OOty now, actually will be leaving in a couple of hours. Taking a "private" mini-bus down 36 hair raising switchbacks to Mysore in the plains, outside of the mountains. Oh, did I mention that it has been FREEZING since we've been here in the upper altitude. I know, I probably won't get much sympathy on that one, huh, considering we were just at the beach and it's been a steady 80 - 90 degrees every day. But when we left Coimbatore at 4:30 in the morning we were wearing a t-shirt and light pants, and it was already starting to get hot. By the time we arrived in OOty at noon, we had on a jacket, scarf and long underwear. Pretty drastic. And this is still Southern India, I'm not sure what to expect in the Himalaya's.

Two days ago we hired a guide through the hotel to take us out on a local trek around the mountains. And it was beautiful: rolling past different landscapes like pastures with lots of sheep, Eucalyptus forests, tea plantations, water Buffalo, aqueducts, into different Tota tribal villages where the children demanded that we take pictures of them, so we have a flash card almost full of beautiful smiling children with baby goats and colorfully painted houses (some where made out of bamboo and mud), and up to the top of a mountain where we could see 3 different states (Karala, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka). We could see down into the National park where we wanted to visit, and there were indeed wild fires spread throughout the area.

SO it was relay nice, right? Right. No complaints. Exceeeeept... the people from the hotel that accompanied us on the trek. There was Stephen, from Germany, who was really nice and didn't talk, and then there were the Italians. Ricardo, Sonia, and Andres. First of all Andres made us miss the bus cuz he had to go out and get cigarettes right before we left, and then walked casually back (we had to go pick him up in a jeep). And then he didn't stop talking the WHOLE time, and I mean the whole time. The only moment he stopped to breathe was to chain smoke cigarettes. There were wild chicken who only lived in the forest that barked like dogs with a gobble at the end, no joke, and I tried to record their sound, and all I got was the sound of Italians yelling at each other. Even at the top of the mountain, when Me and T were trying to meditate, there would be a split second of silence, pure beautiful silence, and then they would start in again. Which reminded us of the group of Italians in Varkala, who were there everyday in the same spot, and would wade in the water up to their knees and chain smoke. There was one in particular man who had a golden red tan, speedos, large and in charge, and he would dance all the time in the water yelling Italian songs and waving his hands around. And the men would walk up and down the beach, flat out staring at the ladies (or was that the Indian men? Probably both).

So yea, if all I do is complain, why do I constantly surround myself with the Italians. All my friends growing up, past relations, the love of my life, all Italians. Is it the Catholic thing, misery loves company, I mean, shared traditions and cultures and all that (sorry Mom and Dad). I don't know, but I do know that after all the complaints, the Italians were still a lot of fun and they just enjoy life, I guess.

We were driving back on the bus and Tonya saw a sign that said Hotel Milan, and pointed it out to Andres. And he said, "You see, everywhere you go in the world, there is Italy."

Shawn