I have practiced Ashtanga yoga at studios in Seattle, New York City, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Santa Fe, New Mexico; Bend, Oregon; Madison, Wisconsin; Vancouver, British Columbia; Barcelona, Paris, and San Francisco, in addition to having put down my mat in places as disparate as Lincoln, Nebraska, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Portland, Oregon.
It’s always a bit strange going to a new studio, as I did this morning; there’s the question of what to do with your shoes and clothes, and one wonders, too, about the particular quirks of the locality; today, for instance, I received a piece of advise I never had before: to be more quiet in my jumping back during Surya Namaskara.
Okay, whatever.
Clearly, the teacher didn’t know who I am nor where I’m headed next week; had, he, I’m sure he’d have been more accepting of my thudding, bowing to my unseen greatness, or something like that.
It’s so much about ego that first time; paradoxically, I want the teacher to come around and give me adjustments, but at the same time, I’d prefer not to need them. I’m sure that this phenomenon will be even more prevalent when I get to Mysore next week.
Nevertheless, the important thing is the practice, wherever it takes place. I like that I can appear before dawn at just about any Ashtanga studio in the world, roll out my mat, and do just as loud and clumsy a practice there as anywhere else.
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