The French left Pondicherry in 1954, but there are still many left over quirks. Some police wear red pill box helmets with pride, along with their long riffles. The old crumbing French quarter is dotted with coffee stalls, and you can head to French bakeries to get exquisite pastries. It’s like a little colonial oasis, just as when you arrive in Laos, and are greeted with the opportunity to eat tasty baguettes and drink great coffee, offering a momentary respite from rice and chai. The old French buildings here are often mustard and white coloured and beautiful bougainvillea add a sweet scent and vivid colour. There’s arty cafes for the tourists and a mixture of churches, mosques and Hindu temples, along with the diminishing sea front, as the beach is receding and blocked with large concrete blocks, to slam the sea back out again.
You’ll most likely to be greeted in French, as I reply with a very rusty “bonjour”. And I’m off in search of a great masala dosa!
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