order to experience four months of pure pleasure, they didn't have any hang-ups about it.
Complimenti! Vai avanti! Congratulations, they would say. Go ahead. Knock yourself out.
Be our guest. Nobody once said, "How completely irresponsible of you," or "What a
self-indulgent luxury." But while the Italians have given me full permission to enjoy
myself, I still can't quite let go. During my first few weeks in Italy, all my Protestant
synapses were zinging in distress, looking for a task. I wanted to take on pleasure like a
homework assignment, or a giant science fair project. I pondered such questions as,
"How is pleasure most efficiently maximized?" I wondered if maybe I should spend all
my time in Italy in the library, doing research on the history of pleasure. Or maybe I
should interview Italians who've experienced a lot of pleasure in their lives, asking them
what their pleasures feel like, and then writing a report on this topic. (Double-spaced and
with one-inch margins, perhaps? To be turned in first thing Monday morning?)
When I realized that the only question at hand was, "How do I define pleasure?" and that
I was truly in a country where people would permit me to explore that question freely,
everything changed. Everything became . . . delicious. All I had to do was ask myself
every day, for the first time in my life, "What would you enjoy doing today, Liz? What
would bring you pleasure right now?" With nobody else's agenda to consider and no
other obligations to worry about, this question finally became distilled and absolutely
self-specific.
It was interesting for me to discover what I did not want to do in Italy, once I'd given
myself executive authorization to enjoy my experience there. There are so many
manifestations of pleasure in Italy, and I didn't have time to sample them all. You have to
kind of declare a pleasure major here, or you'll get overwhelmed. That being the case, I
didn't get into fashion, or opera, or cinema, or fancy automobiles, or skiing in the Alps. I
didn't even want to look at that much art. I am a bit ashamed to admit this, but I did not
visit a single museum during my entire four months in Italy. (Oh, man--it's even worse
than that. I have to confess that I did go to one museum: the National Museum of Pasta,
in Rome.) I found that all I really wanted was to eat beautiful food and to speak as much
beautiful Italian as possible. That was it. So I declared a double major, really--in speaking
and in eating (with a concentration on gelato).
The amount of pleasure this eating and speaking brought to me was inestimable, and yet
so simple. I passed a few hours once in the middle of October that might look like
nothing much to the outside observer, but which I will always count amongst the happiest
of my life. I found a market near my apartment, only a few streets over from me, which
I'd somehow never noticed before. There I approached a tiny vegetable stall with one
Italian woman and her son selling a choice assortment of their produce--such as rich,
almost algae-green leaves of spinach, tomatoes so red and bloody they looked like a
cow's organs, and champagne-colored grapes with skins as tight as a showgirl's leotard.
I selected a bunch of thin, bright asparagus. I was able to ask the woman, in comfortable
Italian, if I could possibly just take half this asparagus home? There was only one of me,
I explained to her--I didn't need much. She promptly took the asparagus from my hands
and halved it. I asked her if I could find this market every day in the same place, and she
said, yes, she was here every day, from 7:00 AM. Then her son, who was very cute, gave
me a sly look and said, "Well, she tries to be here at seven . . ." We all laughed. This
whole conversation was conducted in Italian--a language I could not speak a word of only
a few months earlier.VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in 2006 by Viking Penguin,
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright (c) Elizabeth Gilbert, 2006
All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Gilbert, Elizabeth, date.
Eat, pray, love: one woman's search for everything
across Italy, India and Indonesia / Elizabeth
Gilbert p. cm.
ISBN 0-670-03471-1
1. Gilbert, Elizabeth, date--Travel. 2. Travelers'
writings, American. I. Title.
G154.5.G55A3 2006
910.4--dc22[B] 2005042435
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Italian Garamond with Tagliente Display
Designed by Elke Sigal
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise),
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appreciated.
For Susan Bowen--
who provided refuge
even from 12,000 miles away
Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.*
--Sheryl Louise Moller
* Except when attempting to solve emergency Balinese real estate transactions, such as
described in Book 3.CONTENTS CONTENTS CONTENTS CONTENTS
Introduction
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Book Two
Chapter 37Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Book Three
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Final Recognition and Reassurance
Eat, Eat, Eat, Eat, Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray, Love Love Love Love
Introduction Introduction Introduction Introduction
or
How This Book Works
orThe 109th Bead
When you're traveling in India--especially through holy sites and Ashrams--you see a lot
of people wearing beads around their necks. You also see a lot of old photographs of
naked, skinny and intimidating Yogis (or sometimes even plump, kindly and radiant
Yogis) wearing beads, too. These strings of beads are called japa malas. They have been
used in India for centuries to assist devout Hindus and Buddhists in staying focused
during prayerful meditation. The necklace is held in one hand and fingered in a
circle--one bead touched for every repetition of mantra. When the medieval Crusaders
drove East for the holy wars, they witnessed worshippers praying with these japa malas,
admired the technique, and brought the idea home to Europe as rosary.
The traditional japa mala is strung with 108 beads. Amid the more esoteric circles of
Eastern philosophers, the number 108 is held to be most auspicious, a perfect three-digit
multiple of three, its components adding up to nine, which is three threes. And three, of
course, is the number representing supreme balance, as anyone who has ever studied
either the Holy Trinity or a simple barstool can plainly see. Being as this whole book is
about my efforts to find balance, I have decided to structure it like a japa mala, dividing
my story into 108 tales, or beads. This string of 108 tales is further divided into three
sections about Italy, India and Indonesia--the three countries I visited during this year of
self-inquiry. This division means that there are 36 tales in each section, which appeals to
me on a personal level because I am writing all this during my thirty-sixth year.
Now before I get too Louis Farrakhan here with this numerology business, let me
conclude by saying that I also like the idea of stringing these stories along the structure of
a japa mala because it is so . . . structured. Sincere spiritual investigation is, and always
has been, an endeavor of methodical discipline. Looking for Truth is not some kind of
spazzy free-for-all, not even during this, the great age of the spazzy free-for-all. As both a
seeker and a writer, I find it helpful to hang on to the beads as much as possible, the
better to keep my attention focused on what it is I'm trying to accomplish.
In any case, every japa mala has a special, extra bead--the 109th bead--which dangles
outside that balanced circle of 108 like a pendant. I used to think the 109th bead was an
emergency spare, like the extra button on a fancy sweater, or the youngest son in a royal
family. But apparently there is an even higher purpose. When your fingers reach this
marker during prayer, you are meant to pause from your absorption in meditation and
thank your teachers. So here, at my own 109th bead, I pause before I even begin. I offer
thanks to all my teachers, who have appeared before me this year in so many curious
forms.
But most especially I thank my Guru, who is compassion's very heartbeat, and who so
generously permitted me to study at her Ashram while I was in India. This is also the
moment where I would like to clarify that I write about my experiences in India purely
from a personal standpoint and not as a theological scholar or as anybody's official
spokesperson. This is why I will not be using my Guru's name throughout this
book--because I cannot speak for her. Her teachings speak best for themselves. Nor will I
reveal either the name or the location of her Ashram, thereby sparing that fine institution
publicity which it may have neither the interest in nor the resources for managing.
One final expression of gratitude: While scattered names throughout this book have beenchanged for various reasons, I've elected to change the names of every single person I
met--both Indian and Western--at this Ashram in India. This is out of respect for the fact
that most people don't go on a spiritual pilgrimage in order to appear later as a character
in a book. (Unless, of course, they are me.) I've made only one exception to this
self-imposed policy of anonymity. Richard from Texas really is named Richard, and he
really is from Texas. I wanted to use his real name because he was so important to me
when I was in India.
One last thing--when I asked Richard if it was OK with him if I mentioned in my book
that he used to be a junkie and a drunk, he said that would be totally fine.
He said, "I'd been trying to figure out how to get the word out about that, anyhow."
But first--Italy . . .
1 1 1 1
I wish Giovanni would kiss me.
Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with,
Giovanni is ten years younger than I am, and--like most Italian guys in their twenties--he
still lives with his mother. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for
me, given that I am a professional American woman in my mid-thirties, who has just
come through a failed marriage and a devastating, interminable divorce, followed
immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss
upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about seven thousand years old. Purely
as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely,
unsullied Giovanni. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman
starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed
young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed. This is why I have been
alone for many months now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year
in celibacy.
To which the savvy observer might inquire: "Then why did you come to Italy?"
