A city of artists
February 3, 2009
What can I complain about, when this is what I see every day from my bedroom?
The truth is, even though the Pink City is a phenomenally conservative city, it is a place where I enjoy living. I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.
That’s what I was thinking today, driving back from Delhi. Reaching Jaipur through Amber is a sight I will never tire of: the climb alongside the fort, the short passageway through the rocky hill, the plunge towards the city with in the background Lal Mahal, little ochre palace sitting on the lake. Simply phenomenal.
It is a strange thing, feeling at home in a place that is so far away from where I was born. Just like Lorraine is no longer home, Jaipur is not completely home. Paris is a temporary home, and I could very well envision Africa as home one day. Will I always be a high-heeled homeless girl?
Sorry for the spineless post. I am a little tired from my trip to Delhi.
I got home this morning to find that my bed had been delivered. At last. I am indeed very glad. I had no idea the carpenter down the street was an artist. But he is, boy, he really is. I asked him to paint my bed white, and he certainly did. Only, he didn’t wait for the paint to dry before he delivered it to my house. So my white bed has huge black fingerprints all over.
Better start yoga again soon.