Jaipur, the fourth day,

the first train trip between Delhi and Jaipur is quite satisfactory. Despite the second class it is very quiet and civilized. Well, all compartments are not like mine! Is it luck?! The trip is not very monotonous, small regular stops are all excuses for a little food, drinking a "cay" or to buy newspapers. I was afraid to sleep, and that during my sleep, some would come grab my bags, but despite little sleep last night, no doze for! The travel guides look a bit alarmist about the stealing but better being warned for nothing than the opposite! The observation of the landscape is undoubtedly one reason for my awakening. There are so many things to see, the Western concept of slums and shantytowns here seems an allusion to a few palaces for the rich, compared to normal houses that can be seen; In addition, a stench emerges that it is difficult to ignore.
The early morning seems apparently restricted to defecate.

For more than a half hour, the view was limited to spectacle of the Indian posteriors waiting for intestinal delivery.
The sight of this man sitting cross-legged with his arms crossed dangling at the wrist just above the upper leg: very graphic!
Finally, a little nap came; the need for relaxation was certainly too large.
The address I had selected is simply a paradise. I exchanged my views on the noisy heart of Delhi for a huge garden where the horns are almost not to be heard. I chose the little room cheaper than the others. I hope that in his sixty square meters I will not be too cramped, at least it will be less than in the one of yesterday with its six square meters!
The day started so well that I decided to go by myself as far as possible toward the center. The old Jaipur is an endless succession of "bazaars" where the fabrics are all more interesting each one than the others. The solicitors were still so many but nuanced by little intellectual touch. And why this and why that? "Because travel is sometimes like being at the cinema, one enjoys being a spectator! But there was this young Indian - is this then, the famous pride found in Rajasthan - who did not hear it in this way and that was constantly insulting me and treat me of imperialist. The escape, while difficult, was the only way out; and we never change, to one of the largest palaces Maharajah of India.

The Rambagh Palace provides at least the quiet of the prosperity. It is strange to see so many tourists here having so little contact with reality. The musicians of the garden would surely be beaten if they had the impudence to demand the smallest rupee, even if the guests have besieged them by pictures. And these elegant Indian girls, with such a western hairstyle, are they educated in an English College? What is that look somewhat condescending towards American tourists feeling so easily superiors to the turbaned clowns?

Delhi, the third day,

I am on my favorite terrace in New Delhi, desperately waiting for a cheap room to be freed. I could let me tempted by a little luxury, I shall have perhaps not later occasion, but it's still a little early I think. Unfortunately I have this feeling that everything which is not "Pure Luxury" is an equal level. The definition of "luxury" remains to be done. The quiet room with the view is "Super Deluxe". Perhaps just the idea of rest follows the idea of "luxury". The rest opposed to the work, the compensatory rest or relaxation of the soul and spirit. The view is important because it gives a dimension to the rest, bigger when the view is unobstructed. I contemplate the Connaught Place below and I feel calm. The din of horns and backfiring scooters has become impersonal, like the hums of the fans that you end up not hear. Is it really necessary to travel or find his "Room with a View"? The sea view from the huge window of this little hotel on the Normandy coast is it contemptible compared to what I have now? Certainly for those accustomed to the Normandy coast. The time factor may be important too. Contemplation of the Channel is perhaps relaxing a shorter time than that one of central New Delhi ...
The sun is strong; my shirt will again carry tonight white trails of evaporated salty sweat. That's the end of the day.

The visit of "Humayun's Tomb" was without artistic thrill. The monuments are beautiful of course, but something is missing, or maybe something is too much: the permanence of solicitation to spend money that Westerners represent too obscenely. In a calm surrounding, the pleasure might be different.
The game, the despair and the despair of the game of cruising on Connaught Place. Do I miss sex there? I think so, but the enjoyment is impossible.
The trouble calling. Physical and financial costs are further barriers between the world of my past and my present.

Delhi, the second day,

Second day in India, and the first place where it's cool and where I can write in peace. The first day was a bit difficult, no opportunity to understand by myself how life works here could be found. Being a prey to those whose job it is to live from the tourists seemed to be the only way out. I found myself successively in chic overpriced hotel, far from everything, then in a "family" as far from the center, but less expensive. The only place that the "Lonely Planet" gave me interest staying in is the "Height Hotel" where tea is already very nice. There are also inexpensive rooms, I will try to accommodate tomorrow. It's just on the Connaught Place, with a terrace overlooking it!

In Marrakech, there were already some similar situations. The panoramic terrace brings the quiet. The chic café, with air conditioning, brings the ability to write.
The visit of the great mosque of Delhi was impressive. There is something great in the mosque which is quite different in churches; it is easy to imagine that this is related to the feeling of guilt that Catholicism promotes. The infinity and the purity are concepts that seem inherent in the quiet of the mosques. It is unfortunate that today has not been spared by the solicitors of all kinds!
How to define my current being? Difficult! A little more "relaxed", for sure, but not that much. The missed departure from Paris and the unexpected night in London had their charms of course. The situation however was not simple. I had left Micky in Berlin to find Chris in London a few months ago, and I found myself in exactly the opposite situation. To run into my ex colleague at Paloma Picasso, Olivier Delannoy was not so surprising. Which species do I belong? Is it the travelers, wanderers or the elusive? Where to find the rest of the soul? In India, the rest of the body seems difficult enough, what about the soul? Leaving Europe from London had been in a kind of euphoria, whose artificial origin was not to exclude, but to arrive in Asia had something totally scary (whose origin ...). The single thought alternatively of Chris or Micky would pull out tears to my eyes that it was difficult to keep. The reason for this trip was perhaps not only personal. The imagination of the aura of recklessness under such a course was certainly part in my decision to leave, but once there, what remained of that aura? It would recur only at the return, and then, what game should be played again? Must we always give people what they want? What is the advantage to disappoint them? Can I exist only by myself without using the eyes of others? This would be a new data in my life that still require much clarification. I like the idea of being like dead if nobody thinks of me. It is an idea of death that is already very far from the physical and medical death. It is an idea where spirituality has its place, and accepts the concept of eternity. The Christ is eternal for sure! Is He by the Dogma or just because the Dogma will be read forever? Those are two interesting ideas!

Frankfurt

and now, there is the time beginning to take a new dimension. We must wait, there's nothing to do in the lobby of this airport, and writing is the best solution. Is, talking about yourself as if you were talking to others, as if others would read the silly notes that anyway you are the only one to understand, making sense? Should we congratulate ourselves or complain about the idea of being read or not? How can we claim to be honest and talk about true things when you know they might offend and not be understood by the reader? Is the reader the voyeur and the writer the exhibitionist? Isn’t the talent of the show master to satisfy the perversity of the watcher?
Was the vision of Bernard Pivot accompanied by his assistant, editor, or whatever, a super trendy blonde in leather pants in the duty-free of Frankfurt, satisfaction or frustration? Could the cultural and the profound become superficial and reduced to the same treatment as the new dresses length for the next winter?