Travel broadens the mind

Montreal in late August is a real treat. Cross the border into Canada, and mind the speed limit : max 100, min 60 and that's kilometers per hour - it doesn't actually say that in the signs. I didn't see any police cars in the 50 km stretch from the border to Montreal (and neither did I see any gas stations or rest areas), but my immigrant memory cells started doing their thing, and reminded me that that the metric system is used everywhere else outside the US. Not to mention that I thought a 100 mph speed limit was too fast to be sensible, too gauche for the laid-back Canadians.

I love Montreal. It has all the glamour of a big city without any of its rawness. The entire city seems to be bathed in a soft glow, and people seem to glide, never bustle, or even simply walk. The metro is lovely, and the Place de Arts metro station is a homage to white and grey elegance of a kind I haven't seen in any other big city I have been to. The Notre Dame cathedral is at once both dramatic and serene, leaving you gasping at this neat trick. Everyone says 'Bonjour!' first, and when you reply, 'Hello', they waltz into perfect English, much to your delight. They know a thing or two about making you feel welcome. All the help wanted signs I saw at stores put 'bilingual' at the top of their requirements.

In the meantime, I am working overtime trying to translate all that weather information. 15 degrees Celsius - what's that in American, er USian? I had much trouble with this when I first moved to America - 60 degrees Fahrenheit, what's that in Indian? And now when I travel abroad, I have to do it all over again. It was fun to read the Montreal Globe and Mail, in which I found that Bush had followed us to Canada (copycat) for a summit meeting with the Canadian PM and the Mexican President. Outside the Notre Dame cathedral, they were gathering signatures: 'hello, are you against Bush?' Kind of woke me up from my trance, and made me highpedal it to the science center where the Bodyworks exhibit had been sold out (much disappointment) and the remaining IMAX shows that day were only in French. Drat.

Back to Rue Peel, Rue Maisoneuve, Rue Saint-Catherine, Rue Crescent and the simple pleasure of sipping cappucino (mezzo is the local Starbucks tall) while watching the French-Canadians go about their daily business. And walking with them into the Jean Coutou convenience store and trolling for a favorite brand of toothbrush - wow, I feel like I have been living here for years!

It's that kind of city, and for a brief while I imagined how it would be if I really did live in Montreal. I am always thinking this: how would it be if I lived in Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires. Although I am physically moored in the US, my spirit is always on the move. I never seem to be drawn to any European city as much, they have been so over-exposed that there is no mystery left, nothing to discover. I have never visited Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires, or have friends from an of these cities, so why particularly them?

There is a branch of astrology called Astrocartography that identifies locations in the world in which you will feel "at home" in various ways. For example, Madonna's Astrocartographic "sun line" runs through London, where she has made her home. When I first learned about ACG, I discovered thatI have an important ACG line running through Buenos Aires. That made me sit up! I have another highlighted ACG line running through Turkey, a country which with I've had the most unexpected, most remarkably positive bond. The same line runs through St.Petersburg, which is due north of Turkey. (I have traveled to Hawaii only once, and that for three days, but I had the most powerful, perception-shifting experiences in that short time. Explanation? My Pluto line runs through Hawaii.)

Everyone should plan vacations to the places in the world through which they have their own personal ACG lines running. I guarantee they will make for some remarkable experiences which will really broaden the mind.

Returning to the US, it took about an hour for our turn at the immigration checkpost. I had just seen a plastic bag being retrieved from the trunk of the car in the next lane over and hurled into the garbage, so when the immigration officer asked to open the trunk, I acted all nonchalant while my stomach started to knot. Not that I was carrying anything even remotely contrabandish, but these immigration checks can make the most innocent person turn into a blubbering shifty-eyed idiot. Thankfully, the check last all of 10 seconds, and I didn't see any of my luggage leaping into the trash, so I resumed regular confident programming.

As I drove away and into the bosom of the mother ship that is the US of A, the last words of the officer played like sweet music in my ears. 'Welcome home.' For someone who is still conflicted about home - what and where it really is - these simple words of acceptance came loaded with profound meaning.