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PONDICHERRY JOURNAL: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE MISSING ORANGE MARMALADE.
Culture is all around us, and even mundane daily events can contain clues to massive cultural divides.
Do not have more than one drink in Pondicherry, India. The first drink at the hotel bar is essential, in order to calm your system down from the state of cultural confusion this Franco-Indian town induces as soon as you arrive. Any subsequent drink however, will only add to the cultural confusion. Pondicherry India is a schizoid reality-twister where there are just enough indicators — like grid-style streets with French names and fleur-de-lis patterned gates and fences — to get you thinking that maybe you are really in the Marais of Paris, or a backstreet of New Orleans; until the cows walk by, or the incense-infused humidity from the Bay of Bengal sweeps in to remind you that, no, this is not a tropical Montreal, this is still India. Last week, I found myself strolling the seaside promenade of Pondicherry, a weird Hindu-Catholic result of 18th century French colonialism in India, trying to square in my mind that I just saw a statue of Mother Mary wrapped in a sari in the local church, and just ate a croissant with my curry for breakfast. Mais, c’est vrai, namaste. You can’t make this stuff up…but culture can.
Actually, to be precise (and this is important to the story, so hang on, please), I ate…
