Last night I boarded a bus in Pondicherry and after riding through the night in a reclining chair (with foot rest), my stiff back de-boarded to explore Madurai. This South Indian city is most famous for the Sri Meenakshi Temple Complex. And a prize this 16th century, 6 hectare maze of colorful intricately carved towers, dark tunnels and thousands of god depictions deserves. I spent my first 3 Madurai hours on temple grounds. The first wondering around with some self-pity over my exhaustion and confused about where exactly all the hoards of Hindu pilgrims were running. The last two were shared with a local begger woman by the central pond eating snacks, reading (me), and taking pictures with Indian tourists. Besides the bloody heat, this Madurai is soaring above my expectations. Locals are playful, it is easy to get around, and a relaxed energy rides in the air. My visit to Maduria will be quick. This afternoon I move into the Sivananda Ashram (www.sivananda.org) outside of town to embark on 4 weeks of intensive yoga. The schedule is strict. The day starts at 6am and ends with lights out at 10pm. Yesterday I met a women who did a shorter program at the main ashram in Kerala. She said it’s really tough, that they “break you down to build you up” and that she really enjoyed the yogic portions of the program (opposed to the meditation and chanting). After a few months of traveling about, I’m excited to get down with Hatha yoga, chant loud, stretch hard, and find some building blocks to arrange into a yoga foundation. After years of practicing, I am ready to acquire the basic information based on the Gita (the sacred Hindu doctrine), focus on the breath, and give this ashram business a try. Tomorrow morning, bright and early all this will start. As for the past month or so. David left me in Goa were I soaked up the sun to work through my transition back into traveling solo. Sun therapy, I like to call it. This ancient anti-depression process involves many hours on the beach splitting time between ocean swimming, embracing sun rays, and drinking fresh lime soda. Goa is a stream of beaches along India’s western coast. Each beach has its own vibe. (There is one beach that is purely Russian. Even the people who work in the restaurant are Russian and they’ve got their own brothels with ladies from home) I took up in Arambol, a northern beach the Lonely Planet claims to be a dream for travelers. I would rephrase to say “a homecoming for world’s lost hippies and laid back European holidayers”. A perfect spot for escape, it is a mixed scene. European vacationers blissed out on the beach, the rhythm of the waves massaging their stresses into molecules of sand. While practicing pois (the training version of throwing fire), hippies compare dread lock upkeep tips and take advantage of the substances that clear out their minds. The spiritual searchers come by accident, thinking a few days laid out on a beach chair will aid their quest to quiet the mind. These folks, the active soul enhancers find tucks of new age solutions – the spastic, spiritual Kundalini yoga, the skull cracking Great Freedom, secretive sat songs, and release by dancing to all 5 rhythms. There is a place for everyone and for no one. Maybe it was an issue of armpit hair length – not long or short enough – but even after a week in my beach shack, it was clear this was not the place for me. Although it isn’t my personal paradise, there was much enjoy - a secluded beach a 30 minute hike to the north, morning iyengar yoga classes, fresh salads, a funny mix of people, and a look into the real world of hippies. After 7 days of walking through a burning man scene without the huge public art forms, I met a seasonal Goan hippie/paraglider and heard stories of the “real Goa” in a shared taxi to the bus station. One bouncy bus ride - most of my time was spent in the air - and Hampi would become my home for the next week. This town is full of ruins (for sightseeing), boulder fields (for scrambling), and reservoirs (for drowning the heat). I went from a beach were I had to work real hard to enjoy myself, to a desert/canyon atmosphere were everything feel into my lap. My first few days were spent nursing the dreaded Delhi Belly on the swinging bed outside my cabana. The view of rice fields and a boulder bound river made 5 meters to the toilet at all times requirement not so bad. After I regained some strength it was all European/Isreali friends, swimming with crocodiles, boulder yoga, monkey’s crawling across my lap, motor bike riding, and temple visiting. On an afternoon walk back to my room from the Stone Charriot, I happened upon a group of women planting rice. So the rest of the day (my best Hampi hours) were spent knee high in mud, bent over plunging young rice plants into the fertile soil. Two mothers and their 4 daughter plus me equals 6 women squishing around the square plots, filling them with little green plants and occasionally sipping on hot, sweet tea. There was one man around. He was standing in the shade, supervising I guess. Once I decided on the yoga course, I had to wish this rocky home of mine a farewell and start the long trip south. Twenty-four hours of straight travel – two trains, 1 bus, and 1 amazing South Indian thali doubled the worth of the trip – brought me to Pondicherry. I spent three days in this mix-matched town. Home to the famed Aurobindo Ashram, French spirits, the ever present Indian madness, generational fisherman, and a rocky sea side, Pondicherry may be the most confusing place I’ve visited yet. Luckily I found my way to an old red beater bike to navigate the half wide, clean, quiet French streets and half scattered, chaotic, classic Indian routes. Sunrise cruises through the local village and sunsets spent peddling down the beach promenade. I made a sweet Aussie traveler friend, got the digs on Pondicherry life from the lady who waxed my legs, drank real coffee every day, and found the meanest people in India (this is a longer story). Not too bad. And now, Maduria. I’m off to a world of rules and regulations. Hopefully I won’t turn in Humpty Dumpty, pushed off the wall only to be put back together again. But if so, I expect to be put back together with a firmer glue. For now I am settling into getting educated, relaxing into not having to make any decisions, and pleased to put my bag down for one full month. 
