V. The Major Fifth and my day of Hallelujah

And so it is that I woke up to Jeff Buckley's rendition of "Hallelujah" playing on some sort of an endless playlist in my head. Two perfect days in the remote mountains will do that to you.

All the wiser for the gluey porridge (which could also have been some sort of painting medium on second thought!), the unanimous vote for breakfast on Day Two was a stop-by at a Starbucks on the way to Hangzhou’s West Lake, for a morning of water-colors on canvas (now that we were done with fruit and trees to last us a lifetime of drawing!). Never has a franchise coffee chain with its standard-issue baked goods looked so appealing! J

So we packed up our bags, checked out of the monastery, thanked the smiling Buddha for his blessings and waved to women washing their laundry in the clear blue mountain spring running along the hill-side.

I have to say I have now gotten this “being-in-the-moment” thing down PAT. And so in savoring the moment, the gorgeous morning, the little bridges and walkways and drooping willows, and taking time over some fabulous portraits of yours truly by Alex, Alex and I managed to comprehensively lose our way as we tail-ended the rest of the group, who were off out somewhere. Circling the perimeter of the lake, we at last saw the covered wooden pagoda of a bridge and the stone steps at the far end of the pagoda, leading down to the water’s edge, where people were busy setting up their easels and water colors, as crowds of curious holidaying locals stopped to stare. Yes, just stare.

Just in case you were not paying attention, the bridge and the water walkways had signs at regular intervals, warning against the dangers of slip-sliding into the water. My favorite was “Carefully slip, pummeling.” Umm…would you like us to pummel as we fall headlong into the Lake, or would you like us to slip carefully into it – like a gracious ballet dancer? I mean, I possibly can’t do both at the same time, you know? J Of course it goes without saying that my clumsiness is legendary, so pummeling most definitely is up my alley! Who writes these signs??! For all the clairvoyance in the world!

Finally, as we set up our easels and got started to become watercolor artists of some repute, we are all excited about painting the lake and the wooden bridge and the mountains beyond. Or so we all thought.

But, hey, Boeb wants us to paint the hotel beyond the bridge! The H-O-T-E-L, Boeb?? Like, really? Where is your sense of poetry! But wannabe-amateur-painters do as Boeb says. Paint a hotel, I do. My hotel is somewhere out there - suspended in mid-air in the clouds. Regardless of that, WE PUMMEL ON.

I promise you my disappointment at Boeb’s desire for us to become hotel brochure artists has NOTHING to do with my knocking over my paint bucket onto Boeb’s easel, which fell smack right on his head without any prelude. I will STILL blame it on the gust of wind! J which sent my plastic bucket of colored water flying into the air from my hands, splattering my brand-new pair of most favorite jeans with splotches of white and aquamarine blue-green paint, some of it landing on the canvas of my lovely and forgiving friend from the remote Island nation in front, before the plastic bucket attacked Boeb’s easel, which struck him squarely on the head. Somebody should start filming my clumsy antics soon – I am slated for fame, I tell you/ Well at least my clumsiness is! J

Boeb – beware of the wrath of Paint-bucket Gods. Next time, maybe you need to think twice before messing with them and ancient tradition, in favor of a modern-day hotel!

So, we are done – and getting restless, as Eduardo starts practising Tai’Chi on the stone steps behind my back, out of sheer boredom, and little kids come to stand next to us, like REALLY REALLY close, noses touching the canvas,  as we paint. My half-finished masterpiece will have to wait for another glorious Sunday at Hangzhou, in the indefinite future.

Lunch is at a quaint little open-air bistro place, stacked up with graffitied wooden tables and flat benches made of distressed old wood, almost set bang in the center of the tea plantations up on the hillside, surrounded on all sides by pink and white plum blossoms. Only the kitchen is covered by tarpaulin cloth. Rustic as rustic gets. Yet it feels like a fully-served and waited-on picnic in the middle of the tea plantations and blooming plum trees, with clear mountain springs running alongside us. What an afternoon this has been!

“To see a world in a grain of sand,

And heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour...”

When you are sitting in a meadow with plum blossoms all around you, drinking fragranced tea from the freshly plucked and roasted Lonjing tea leaves, squinting at the lazy Spring sunshine fingering your back deliciously, Time itself stops, and everything becomes fluid and limitless, doesn’t it? I think I now understand the true intent of these words by William Blake.

In the midst of all this serenity and ethereal-ness, some jerk drives his BMW screeching up the narrow cobble-stoned road, almost running over a pink-cheeked tiny little girl, her frock fluttering in the wind, as she intently looks for pebbles and plum flowers on the road. With our table at the edge of the meadow / field bordering the road, Eduardo and I are both quick to react. I pick her up quickly, as she sits squatting on the road still engrossed in her plum flowers, and pass her over to Eduardo, before giving the finger to the BMW jerk-ass.

What do you call a jerk in Italian, I ask him? I mean give me a REALLY passionate cuss-word, will you! J

The trouble with English cuss words like F*** or C*** is that these two-syllable words are over even before you are done saying them! Like you start saying them, and you finish – but your frustration is still seething inside you! THAT, my friends, is why I love Italian – the language! Never mind their food and their passion for life and love, and undying devotion to their mothers, and of course their ability to make every woman feel as though God made just one of her and broke the mould, Italians KNOW how to infuse passion into their cuss words too!

So he says - how bad, do you reckon? 

I don’t know – start with something that involves the male organ, you know? He grins and says “Cazzo?”

Ok but you know, you can do better than that. I need a 5 or 6-syllable cuss-word that EXPELS all my angst, like, really! How about Cazzo-head, Edo? Like Head of the Cazzo or something?

He looks at me and says “Unbelievable. Are you always so demanding, woman?” I don’t need to answer a question which answers itself, do I?

Ok so he is having a go at me now, and doubling over with laughter. And says “you know you could be good at languages, if you tried! Ok, so I present you the Italian word for Head – Testa.”

And voila – I have my cuss word of the YEAR – “Testa de Cazzo”.

Ladies and gentlemen, next time, someone dares to screw with you, or f***s up your happiness in any way at all, utter this word with all you’ve got – draaaag out the "Caaazzo" sound (pronounced Gaaatzo), and I promise you this: glory will be yours. I think you get the picture?

Gracias, Edo – for the cuss-word of the year, and a very enjoyable Sunday afternoon, cool Tai’Chi moves happening at my back whilst painting, notwithstanding! J

And this is how the most fabulous of weekends ends – a wondrous letting go of all things, a single day that turns my life around full-circle, plenty of laughter, new friends, brilliant Spring sunshine, a tan that will take me at least a couple of weeks to wear off, and a man that falls asleep on the shoulder of the road, next to a tree trunk that looks like the "Cazzo" equivalent of the tree kingdom.

Bearable lightness of being. At last.