The rituals are the same the world over. You and your fellow practitioners have a common language – not the local patois, but an ancient language, a language of ritual. You recognize the melodies. You are welcomed as one of the tribe, and you feel at home.
No, I’m not talking religion – I’m talking yoga.
On my travels of late (all domestic, and mostly for work), I have made it my mission to find and attend local yoga classes. (My other travel obsessions include farmer’s markets, public transit, coffee shops, botanical gardens, and local breweries. A girl on a business trip barely has time to work.)
The yoga ritual is familiar, the arc of the class, the sun salutations, the relaxation at the end. And then, of course, there is the common language: the Sanskrit words, sure; but also the platitudes, which are the same, down to the punctuation, the country over.