I don’t pretend to know anything about India, not her people or culture or her religions or languages or politics or history. I only know I went there for one month, alone, at 68 because I wanted to experience India before I got too old to go. I went to Kerala, in the south, by way of Mumbai and Mysore, to see the tea plantations and coffee mountains and for yoga and Ayurvedic medicine and coconut oil massages, and to swim in the Arabian Sea. And to see monkeys.

I did all those things, which were magic beyond anything I’d hoped for, and exotic and transformational; but two years later, I have no recollection of specifics to spout off when people ask for the names of my favorite cities and hotels, the cost of the buses and overnight trains, the most dramatic mosques or churches, or great recipes for Indian food. My memories come in vignettes and feature people.

I’ve always loved meeting people when I travel and have had more than one or two outstanding encounters with kind strangers. Once, in my early 20’s, the Financial Editor of the London Times pulled over to pick me up during a train strike, and drove me to Heathrow for my flight home, and bought me a lamb dinner with strawberries and cream for dessert, so I would remember that my year in Europe, for all its trials and tribulations, ended with strawberries and cream in an elegant restaurant as my ginormous orange backpack—with an American flag sewn on it—sat on the floor beneath my muddy, blistered, sandaled feet.

But India? Memory vignettes explode like fireworks in my mind when triggered. They are small, surprising experiences of kindness, inclusion and humor that were truly startling to me. Some context about my place in the world, my value, our shared humanity, was solidified as I met strangers that month. I’ll be adding stories here as they light up my brain as I go about my life of writing books, painting, gardening, dreaming, and sweeping the kitchen floor. Glad I kept a journal to jog my memories about those forgotten specific details.

It started when I had a bad fall in 2015 that left me with a head injury. During my (nearly 2 years) of healing, my swirling brain kept seeing colorful scarves, silks of magenta and scarlet and persimmon. India, my mind told me as if it was reminding me of something I’d forgotten. When you're better, go to India. It sounded like a beautiful idea, not the least bit far-fetched, and I'd fall back into that fuzzy, concussed sleep, dreaming of the Arabian Sea and monkeys and ashrams. 

Now, I’m actually going! They say whoever travels in India comes back transformed. So I'm letting go. No planned outcomes. No social mission. No tour, no overdoing it, no trying to see all the vastness of India in one trip. Nope, just being in the place that’s right for me now—soaking, noticing, appreciating, keeping my five senses alive to the experience.

I'll hold tight to my passport, phone and money. I'll stick to my plan of lots of slow train travel to homestays in the south, in Kerala, surrounded by tea plantations, and wild animal reserves. I’ll plan to breathe, get massages, write, watch the monkeys and birds, and learn a few new ideas that may inspire me on my continued journey. My trip ends with two weeks at an Ayurvedic center with yoga and meditation and herbal study.

So I decided to start this journal. That way you guys—you readers—can be my travel buddies along the way, sharing my experiences. In advance, I thank you for listening. I'll be leaving on November 19, so keep me company!

I’m packing. Or rather, I’ve got stuff scattered all over the living room that I will soon be cramming, jamming, and compacting into one carry-on bag and one teeny-tiny 14” x 22” suitcase that United is making me check through to Mumbai. Damn. What is it with all these annoying luggage rules and charges? Back in the 70’s when I was a TWA flight attendant, we gave travelers and their baggage r-e-s-p-e-c-t and plenty of room on board. For free. (Excuse me, so sorry, that was me being cranky. I’ll now get back on point.)

What to bring is easy: everything. Pillow, sheet, mosquito net, mosquito spray, mosquito repel towelettes, yoga mat, yoga clothes, clothes for mountain mornings, clothes for 95° days by the Arabian Sea, my whole medicine cabinet, just in case of itches, rashes, pink eye, allergies, stomach upset, diarrhea, constipation, scrapes, deep wounds, hideous gashes, bites from any of the 87 venomous snakes found in India, Bengal tiger attacks…

OK, stop. I’ve done tons of international travel—often alone—throughout my life, including when I lugged a backpack the size of a baby elephant across Europe for a year (me and half the entire North American 60’s generation). How did we decide what to pack back then? Did we think other travelers would share stuff if they had something we forgot to bring? So why is this trip different? The packing such an ordeal?

Is it because I’ve lost confidence in my brain power or body strength from these past few years of recuperating? Is it simply because I’m older? By 65 or 70 we ought to be considerably more cautious, right? We ought to be taking proper group tours, not venturing off solo, arriving alone in the Mumbai airport at midnight, speeding through the Indian dark on an overnight train to Kozhikode, sharing a sleeping car with men who are strangers.

And then Zing! I remember—I was scared then, too. About being young and naïve. About forgetting stuff. About getting stuff stolen. About being lonely. I had that scared/thrilled anticipation of stepping out of my comfort zone that makes life exciting and keeps life exciting. Yes, I’m older and slower now, but also wiser: not so naïve; well-prepared for all the screaming red itches and nasty stomach rumbles that come with adventure travel. As for people, I’ve always found generous, trustworthy folks who shared my journeys along the way. There are thieves and con artists and rapists, too—I know that, I’ve been there, and I turn my back on them. Nothing I pack will keep away the boogieman. Pack too much, and it creates heavy lifting, confusion, and just more stuff to keep an eye on.

So, at this point it’s not so much about packing—it’s more a matter of unpacking. I’ll buy clothes at the markets. Helps the global economy and delights me. I’ll leave the yoga mat. It’s India—of course they will have yoga mats! And yes, they’ll also have doctors and pharmacies and Ayurvedic healers.

I’m so glad my hunger for adventure has not diminished. I still want to experience extraordinary places in the world (my world, my earth) and diverse people of the world (my sisters, my brothers). If that’s unconventional after 65, then I figure this is a fine time in my life to be unconventional.

Here are some of the items I’ve packed that are specific to this trip:
Mosquito repellant cloths, bracelets, spray
A 1961 copy of the Bhagavad Gita
Mini water purification kit
Cloth antiseptic towel & netting for bed
Flashlight
Extension cord and surge protector
Roll of toilet paper
Antiseptic gel (6 small)
Pocket-sized notebook, pens, colored pencils, eraser
Mini-chocolate bars (for me + spontaneous gifts)
And, yes, half my medicine chest (including Pepto + Imodium)

The timing might seem peculiar—Thanksgiving in India—but my trip fell into place organically, so I’m going with the flow. Besides, I’ve always liked quiet spots (a monastery, a cabin in the Rockies) for sanctuary from the holiday shopping frenzy.

It’s not as if I’m escaping a trauma at home or running away with a guru or undergoing a clandestine surgical procedure (although any of those would make for a good story, no?) I’m simply moving into a new chapter in my personal evolution, and India seems to be calling. I’m letting my heart lead the way. That said, my head is clear enough to keep me far away from Delhi’s toxic smog—I’ll be in the south.

I haven’t exactly worked out all the quirks of using social media technology (not the boomer generation’s strongest suit), so I’m being an irresponsible jerk and putting that on my husband Rick’s to-do list while I’m gone, along with…let’s see…unbox and set up Christmas, string twinkle lights, fix that crawling nest of front room extension cords, and oh, maybe find a bigger house for us to expand into. Do you think he’ll still be here when I get back?

Once I’m en route, it’s like I’ve stepped into a wind tunnel and my total focus is on transportation. United’s schedules are messed up, and from Asheville I am rerouted to Paris via Chicago and arrive at 2am (12 hours late) to Chattrapati Shivaji Maharaj airport (more on my crazy arrival later) and have to rush to catch a taxi, then a rickshaw to board the overnight bus to Hampi (more on this even crazier departure later, but happily, it includes one of many, many kind strangers I will meet on my trip).

I drop my sandals in the aisle like the other passengers did, try and fail a few times to lug myself up the metal ladder to my top bunk. Finally I decide to balance on the bottom rung, and fling my bag and purse, one at a time up onto the bed. It works. Without the weight and bulk, I pull myself up top. Once there, I tumble into the bed like a hamster rolling down an incline. That’s when I see the mattress is built with a curve down the middle, to cradle your body so you don’t fall out when the bus is rocking and rolling through the night. Or maybe it’s to prevent you from rolling into your bunk partner, especially if they’re a stranger. What a thought!

I reach to close the yellow curtains, but the bus is jerking sideways, leaving the curb, and I am thrown backwards into the cradle. Every one of my muscles is throbbing and screaming from all the travel, so I attempt a private Yin yoga session. I get set up in a cramped lotus position, manage to close the curtains, and then try to totally let go. Let go, let go—let my tensions drain out, let my thoughts melt like a clock in a Dali painting. Watch my bones melt, melt, melt. As the bus merges into Mumbai traffic, I finally exhale. Also, I suddenly realize I have to pee. Yup. No bathrooms on this bus. And 14 hours to go.

(More later.)

It’s my first full day in India without rickshaws or trains or buses to catch. With both feet on solid ground, I step onto my patio at Mowgli Guest House and the tropical humidity makes me smile. I remember that feeling from other places and times: the plane door opening in Hawaii or Mexico or Jamaica, the rush of warmth instantly welcoming you home to someplace you’ve never been before. I step off the patio, cross the wooden bridge over the Tungabhadra river, which is just a rivulet at this time of year, and follow the path through the dry rice paddy toward the rocky hills.

I feel it: my heart is being nudged open.

I’ve been hesitant, a bit cloistered, for the nearly two years since the accident, waiting until the environment was safe to reveal the vulnerable me that’s been forming inside the oyster shell. It’s not as if the après-head injury me is so dramatically different; but anytime we move into a new chapter of life (new career, life after divorce, middle age), we’ve changed, and we’re a bit tender as we take those first steps forward.

This chapter ushers in the growing-older me, the me that’s beginning the final third of my life. The hinge on my shell is a bit rusty, and I know I’ve got to move at a pace I’ve been resenting for a few years, but now acknowledge as part of who I am as I age. Slower. Fine. I won ’t be running off the edge of cliffs, hoping to sprout wings and fly anymore. In my youth, and in my middle years, that hare speed sometimes worked, and sometimes resulted in a crash landing.

My guide Raju picks me up and although he doesn’t speak much English, he’s brimming with enthusiasm and happiness. He and his wife just had a baby six days ago, and he’s a very proud father. I tell him I want to see monkeys—first we stop to buy bananas and then, boy, does he show me monkeys! They’re hanging out all over the rocks and walls of Hampi.  They’re outside a temple where a newly-married young couple asks for a photo with me. 

So, next it’s time for the Monkey Temple which is actually Hanuman’s Temple, its name bastardized by us tourists because it’s crawling with monkeys. Also, because of a curse that caused Hanuman to be born as Vanar, which makes him part-human and part-monkey. There are famously 550 stairs to climb if you’re going to the top, to the temple honoring Hanuman and his mother Anjana. I am clear with Raju, in pantomime: I’m out of shape; I have to go slow. I’ll climb partway up, share my bananas with a few monkeys, and be happy to call it a day. Raju merrily insists I’m going to climb all 550 steps.

“Come,” he demands, bounding up the first set of stairs. It’s one of the few words in his English vocabulary. “Come, come.”

Being young and a joyous new father, Raju of course keeps leaping ahead, taking 2 steps at a time and then–leaning against a rock wall, arms folded like Bugs Bunny—waiting for me to catch up. At one point, I start a breathless lecture. “Look, Raju. You are my guide. I am paying you. I’ll decide how far…” but he’s moving on and I’m talking to his back. At the next rest spot, Raju shakes his head, disappointed in my performance. He wants to know how old I am. I lie. I tell him I’m 70, hoping he’ll take pity on me.

Lots of people, mostly visitors from other parts of India, are hiking up the stone steps as well, and I am not the only slow one. “How old are you?” he starts asking every older pilgrim who’s descending from the top. In Kannada--the local language--or in Hindi, they tell him, and he translates for me with finger counts. The oldest man we encounter is 69. Raju is suddenly very proud that he’s guiding the oldest pilgrim of the day.

“Seventy,” he announces, pointing at me. “And I am taking her to the top. All 550 steps!” I know I can’t make it beyond 300. These are no smoothly carved steps; they’re uneven, broken, varying heights. At this point we’re only halfway and my lungs are burning, my legs shaking.

“Grandma,” I tell him. “GRAM-ah.” I should have known better. He begins to use the word against me.

“Come!” became “Come, Grandma!”  “To the top!” became “To the top, Grandma!”

He makes me laugh. So do the many, many monkeys I meet on the way. My bananas are well-wrapped, stashed in my purse.  I plan to use them at the highest point I get to. I keep going.

“How old is your grandma?” I manage to communicate at our next rest stop.

“She’s dead.” Even in Kannada, I get that.

“I’m sorry.”

“She died at 63.”

“So young.” I shake my head sadly.

“She’s buried up there,” says Raju, pointing to the top.

“NaNaGe,” I say. The only Kannada phrase from Lonely Planet I know so far – “I don’t understand.”

“She is buried under the Temple of Lord Hanuman.” He points again. “Up. There.”

What? I still don’t understand. Is there a burial ground under the temple? Is that why Raju wants so badly to reach the top?

“She died climbing these steps.”

Beat.

Big grin.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” I say.

“Come, Grandma. 200 more steps.”

Well, I’ll wrap this up. Speed will never again be my strongest suit. I trudged, I laughed, I sat down beside a monkey now and then. I made it. All the way to the top. The millisecond I pulled out my bananas, a monkey came flying out of nowhere, stole them all, and sat on a nearby rock staring me down as he gorged himself. The temple was closed for repairs, so I didn’t get to visit the Goddess Mother Anjana, who according to believers, brings joy and long life.

But it didn’t matter. It was my first full day in India, and I did something I thought I could no longer do. I surprised myself. I love surprises. In the end, I probably won the tortoise prize of the day. It was one of my best days ever. Period.

It's dawn in Mysore in the state of Karnataka, here in the motherland of yoga. Outside my B&B window, Islamic chants mix with bird calls, monkey chatter, rickshaw honks, crowing, mooing, and sounds I can't identify—I can’t even fathom whether they’re coming from people, machines, or animals.

I settle cross-legged on my futon-thick bed for Pranayama—breath work.  I begin with a deep inhalation which brings on a mucus-infused coughing spasm. I breathe, then cough, breathe and cough. I riffle through my pack to find some Kleenex, clear some phlegm, then try again. Breathe in, major coughing spasm. India is a noisy place, and I seem to be contributing to the racket.

On the Overnight Hampi Express train to Mysore, I was up in the night, listening to passengers hacking and hawking in the loos. It was disturbing on so many levels, not to mention the contagious gag reflex it triggered. Now I'm doing it myself. Lovely. It's not just people in Delhi who are suffering from emphysema and asthma. Locals tell me that due to all the dust in the air, combined with smoke from burning leaves, trash, farm refuse, and human bodies (we'll just slide past that one for the moment), lung diseases are rampant all over India. This morning my lungs feel like I was up till 3am smoking a couple of packs of Gitanes.

I ask Wasanth, my very hospitable driver here at the Mysore B&B, what a good remedy might be. He would know; his wife has asthma. He takes me to a homeopathic pharmacy, where I pick up some expectorant, along with Arnica for my legs, still throbbing from the Monkey Temple climb. I figure they will ache for weeks, so I stock up, and the bill for everything is less than $8.00. Then we head out on Wasanth’s rickshaw to shop for pharmaceuticals at the drug store, and I wrap my scarf around my face, Islam-style, now that I'm clued in about the city air.

The drug store is identical to the homeopathic pharmacy, stocked with items offering a different approach to healing. A tiny shop packed floor to ceiling with bottles, jars, tubes, and cartons, it has a front counter that lets you stand on the street and order what you need. I show the pharmacist the scripts written by my Asheville doctor. She takes a quick look, hands them back to me and searches the shelves.

Might I just say that we are paying evil amounts of money for pharmaceuticals? Much of the money pays for the plethora of ads in the U.S. that encourage us to insist our doctors prescribe even more pharmaceuticals. I use certain rather common creams and ointments that are so fricking expensive I can only afford one-third of what I'm supposed to be using. It wasn't until this trip, however, that the whole truth really sank in. We are getting royally screwed.

Example: One 60-gram tube of generic Clobetasol ointment (a topical for skin allergies and irritations) costs $245 online or $229 at Walgreens or $310 at CVS. That’s after my Medicare supplemental insurance! In India you pay $16 for 60 grams. At 180 grams a year, that’s$48 instead of $780 (that’s averaging out the U.S. cost of $260 x 3). What? I saved $732? Unbelievable! I flew from Asheville to Mumbai for $900, including tax.

Do the math. A trip every two years to India or a trip to my Walgreens pharmacy? Now there's a no-brainer.

 MORE MAGICAL, COLORFUL MYSORE TO COME

I’ve hired a car from Mysore to Wayanad, land of the coffee mountains, and the driver insists I sit beside him in the front seat so I don’t miss the fantastic, extraordinary, most beautiful view I have ever seen. Once out of the city, I see Kudzu climbing on trees everywhere. They are the bane of landscapers’ existence in Asheville—noxious, ropey vines invading every park, every trail.

“Kudzu?” exclaims Suhel, my driver. He is thrilled. “You know Kudzu? Most beautiful plant! I am happy you know Kudzu! Coming all the way from the USA! And you know Kudzu!” He slaps his hands on the steering wheel as I keep my eye on the swerving oncoming traffic. I’m speechless, so he goes on.

“If you are hungry, eat 3 leaves, or 5 leaves, and you are full like you have eaten bread! Very good, Kudzu. Very nutritious! I am very, very happy you know Kudzu!”

He’s also very, very happy I have a son.

“You are blessed, very blessed, ma’am!!”

“And you?” I ask. “You also have children?”

His 27-year-old son and 25-year-old daughter are studying at the University in Bangladore—robotics and internet technology. Their names are Misbah, which means “Bright Light”, he explains, and Fareeha, which means “Happy”. They are blessings, but not always, Suhel admits as we get deeper into the parenting discussion. This generation is not like our own was, we agree.

“No time for Mommy and Daddy. Always busy!” Suhel wails. “Only time we see them for sure is Ramadan...and then...not for 28 days, not for 30 days…for only 2 days! Other times? It is ‘Busy, Mommy! Busy, Daddy!’”

“We had to be far more obedient to our parents,” I tell him. “Home every weekend. At least every holiday.”

“Yes. Exactly that,” he agrees, nodding energetically, forefinger in the air. “But we must let them be busy. I am proud! I am a driver! I pay for them to study! They will learn things I do not know! Inshallah!”

I tell him my son is always playing music. “Music, music, music!” I say, my hands dancing, having caught his contagious energy.

“We are the same, you and me! You from the USA, and me from India! And our children are a new generation! No more "‘Yes, Mommy. Yes, Daddy.’” Suhel lets out a high-pitched laugh. I’m laughing, too.

When—after several wrong turns up long mountain passes (and down again), and several stops to ask for directions (which are mostly unhelpful)—we pull into the winding entrance to the Dhanagiri Homestay 4 hours later, we’ve covered every subject from religion to politics to marriage. The sun is setting.

“You know many things, ma’am,” he tells me as he grabs my bag from the back. “You know about human beings and their hearts. You are my first person who said ‘he is not just a driver, but he is a human being’. Thank you!”

I am so moved, I want to hug him. But I know it’s wrong.

“Lemonade, Mrs. Linda?” asks the manager of the homestay, taking my bag from Suhel.

“Yes, please,” I say. “For two.”

Suhel had told me his Muslim name means “Moonlight” and I love watching his face light up with a grateful smile as we head into the lobby for our lemonade.

My villa at the homestay really IS a villa! (More later)