Travelblog

New Zealand - Aug 2000

2009-08-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

Nearly a decade since I wrote this as an email from Singapore. I'm very glad to have got a copy of it from my old pal Jason, because reading this again after so many years brought back so MANY memories of my New Zealand trip! A great many thankyous, Jase, for keeping this email for so long, and fwding it back to me on request!

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Ok, here goes. New Zealand is BEAUTIFUL!!!!!! The most gorgeous place I've ever seen, I mean, every place I saw looks like it belongs on a postcard! Impossibly lovely and green. It's supposed to be peak winter now, but apparently it's been a mild winter this year, so most of the time the weather was sunny and clear and windy and cold, instead of being wet and rainy and windy and cold. Good for me!

Anyway, the flight from Singapore to Christchurch was a royal pain. It took 10 hours to CC and another hour from CC to Wellington. The most boring, esp as they showed old movies (not in the sense of classics). I couldnt sleep 'cause I cant sleep sitting up. Hell, I cant even sit up sitting up!!! :-) I fidgeted all through, and must have irritated the life out of an old Kiwi guy who had the misfortune of sitting next to me! :-) HE didn’t have any problem snoring his head off. Bah! The only worthwhile hour was when we were nearing CC and flew over the Southern Alps... peak after snowy peak whizzing by beneath us. Lovely!

I had a short stopover at Christchurch which I reached at 11 am or thereabouts. I had about an hour to see part of the airport, which isnt very big anyway. Not like Changi, which spreads for kilometres and probably occupies half of Singapore's total area! But Wellington airport was smaller still! Would you believe people can come almost all the way to the plane to receive visitors? Imagine if such a thing could happen in India!

Of course, Lakshmi wasnt on time, but by the time I'd picked up my luggage, she arrived. One step outside the airport, and I had to put on my warm sweatshirt, which stayed over the rest of my clothes for the next 10 days! :-)

It was WINDY and beautifully cold!!! I loved it! We went by the airport bus to a place very near where Lakshmi stays, which is an area called Lower Hutt. Wellington is actually in five parts, and the city proper is called Wellington. The other areas are Upper Hutt, Lower Hutt and I forget the other two! I didnt go there, anyway. I think Wellington must be about the only place where you can see all four forms of transport in one place, and if you're in the right place at the right time (I was), all together at once - road, rail, sea, and air! It's SO cool!

I wasnt jetlagged at all, actually, and was all willing to go for a long walk. But what we did was walk to the supermarket where Lakshmi picked up stuff and then we took a bus back home. Wellington is a lovely place. Unlike Singapore, there are hardly any high-rises, and those few only in the city business area. Most of the houses are pretty little picturesque cottages, with little flowery gardens, and each one is SO individual! After 5 months in Singapore, believe me, that is so very refreshing! Even the so-called flats have only two storeys! :-)

The next day was also pretty quiet. I went for a loooooooooong walk in the evening with a pen friend who stays there - the walk turned out to be long because we couldnt find a coffee shop that was open! That's the one thing I disliked very much about NZ in general. Everything shuts down by 5.30 pm!

Oh, and Wellington is very famous for its coffee – what variety, what HUGE bloody cups of it they give you! Even the vending machine coffees are fresh, with the beans being ground automatically for each individual cup. A coffee-lover's dream, allright!

The actual travelling started on the third day - Wednesday. We went on a three-hour ferry ride from Wellington to a place called Picton. That was a lovely journey and I spent most of the time on the top deck, being buffeted by the wind and loving every last minute of it! Lakshmi and Papu stayed safely downstairs, and Shiv went upstairs and downstairs trying to keep us all company!

From Picton, we took the TranzCoastal train to Christchurch - five hours of a beautiful journey all along the sea coast. The carriages are very warm, and I spent most of the time in the observation coach, which is open to the breeze and gives excellent views!

Oh, that wind!!!! :-)

I managed to see two seals on what passes for a beach on these coasts...sadly, not a close view of them since the train driver wasnt obliging enough to stop for me! But good enough! WHAT a lovely journey!

We stayed at the YHA (Youth Hostel) in CC. I'm very glad I became a member of the YHA in New Zealand. Apparently there's a waiting list of many months if you try to get a membership in India. And only Delhi has a YHA hostel! bah! The one in CC is great. There's a big kitchen with all appliances and crockery, and you can do your own cooking if you like. Then a big common room with TV and lotsa ofas, and email facilities. It was great fun there.

Since we reached CC in the evening, we didnt have much time but to walk around the city centre. There's a great big cathedral right in the middle, and since the city centre square is all paved, it's pretty difficult to tell where the footpath ends and the road begins. At least, since I was looking around at things, I didnt notice, and got beeped at by drivers for stepping in front of them at a red signal! Not to mention bleeped by Shiv for being so dreamy.

How many lovely pubs there are in CC! And most of them have punny names. I loved it all! And the "chippies" they serve - ooh! You gotta have french fries in NZ to know what REALLY good fries are like! McDonald and the others are non-starters!

The next morning, we went off to take the scenic railway journey on the TranzAlpine train. Golly, talk about scenic!! It was amazing. Over deep gorges and tumbling rivers and across a huge glacier-carved valley and more snow-capped mountains all the way to a place called Greymouth.

I dont think my little Pentax could have done justice to the views, but I tried my best! The only way to get an overall view would be from a helicopter or something, I guess. Again, I was in the observation carriage even though the temperature must have been about 2 or 3 degree Celsius. I went in only occasionally, to thaw my nose and fingers out! I was wearing gloves, but it was freezing nevertheless. And what's more, I met an old American preacher whose first question was am I a Christian. When I said no, he asked if I'm a Moslem (his pronunciation). When I said no again, he looked puzzled and wanted to know if I was a Jew (!!!). I told him I was born a Hindu and he got this look on his face which plainly said "heathen" *lol* Still, he was a very nice old man from Minneapolis, even if he tried to convert me right there! Have I heard about the religion of Christ, he wanted to know, hahaha!!

Back to Greymouth... it's a tiny little place which mainly is a transit point for sports enthusiasts. It's very pretty, all the same. NZ manages to keep its cities and towns clean without ever having a single notice saying "dont litter" (Singapore is full of dire warnings!). I guess it lies in the attitude of the people. After all, there are so few of them!! I really loved the empty streets. Those people in Wellington and other smaller places, they think it's a traffic jam if there are six cars at a signal!!

The journey back to CC was not so great, because it was raining and grey. In fact, the TranzCoastal from CC to Picton was delayed by half an hour because of that, so they held back the ferry which was to take us back to Wellington. Oh, that ferry journey back to Wellington was fabulous! Nobody was allowed on the top decks because of the rain and wind and waves, so I had to stay out on a lower deck, from where you couldnt fall out! God, the wind and spray was fantastic! It was enough to blow you off your feet, and it was such gorgeous fun! I didnt go down into the lounges at all, and Lakshmi and Papu didnt come up on deck at all!

Shiv, again, spent his time travelling up and down, poor guy! :-) I'm so glad to find out that I dont get seasick either! Of course, it was only a 3-hour journey, I dunno if I could do as well on a long voyage.

The best part of the ferry trip in good weather is the view when you're getting into Picton or Wellington. The bays are fairly calm even in bad weather, and you see all these green uninhabited islands as the ship winds its way around them... ooooooh! Beautiful!!!

We got back on Saturday afternoon, and went for dinner at a friend's place. Sunday morning, and we were off again to the bus station for our journey to a place called Taupo, on the way to Rotorua. Travelling by bus in NZ is a pleasure. You dont feel any strain because the buses are so nicely upholstered and comfortable. And the views are so lovely, too. A far cry from the buses you get in India, more's the pity. I kept wishing we could take such luxury for granted too, but I dont think that will ever happen in India. *sigh* Too many people, too little money.

Taupo is good for adventure sports like bungy jumping, tandem skydiving, jet boating and the like. It has fabulous views of volcanic peaks, and it also has an enormous lake which was created during an eruption in the last century. It's about 58 km long and 45 km wide, and apparently it's roughly the size of Singapore, or slightly larger!! :-) THAT oughta give some perspective, allright! It did me! Think of 3.8 million people crammed into a space that small, when the ENTIRE population of NZ isnt that much! And yet Singapore doesnt seem crowded... I wonder how they do it.

Stayed at the YHA hostel in Taupo. It wasnt so good as the CC one, because the room was just a box! And it didnt have email either. I guess that's cause it's owned privately, or something. The owner stayed downstairs in her pvt apt.

Anyway, the next morning the YHA owner's husband took us and a Danish couple) on a sight-seeing trip all the way to Rotorua, where we were going anyway. So we got to see the Wai-o-tapu mud pools and bubbling hot lakes which were coloured orange and green and purple and rust by the minerals, and all of them poisonous! Various craters called Devil's Kitchen, Devil's Inkpot (cause the water can stain your skin if you were dumb enuf to let it touch you at all!), Devil's Playroom - all steamy and bubbly and stinking horribly of sulphur!

There was a geyser too, called Lady Knox. It's very pretty,and everyday at 10.15 am it goes off impressively because it's set off by having soap poured into it! :-) I think I MUST see the Old Faithful at Yellowstone Park... it must be pretty damn impressive!

At Rotorua we went on the skylift (the thing is called a gondola, for some strange Kiwi reason, and Lakshmi thought it was the kind you get in Italy, and was pretty disappointed!).

No big deal. Then we went to a farm show - that was pretty good. Saw a sheep being sheared - the guy finished in 5 minutes!!! That wuz quick, and the commentary was funny. Good thing the Kiwis have a sense of humour! Though sometimes the accent throws you off a little, making it a bit difficult to get the joke immediately!

The Rotorua YHA is pretty good, it's got a hot pool - spa, as they call it.

The next day we set of on an all-day tour. Our guide was one of the biggest Maoris I've ever seen, built like a house - tall, wide, solid and unyielding! And a good thing, too, as it turned out. His name was Jamal - but he's not a Muslim. Apparently his dad got the name from some TV serial character he admired! :-)
Anyway, we had a Canadian chap along too, a very nice young 19-year-old called Albert, who has already travelled to around 50 countries, including India. He waxed rhapsodic about India and it took awhile to shut him up about it and
tell him we knew all about cows on the roads! Since Lakshmi and Papu wanted to have a bath in a hot river near Wai-o-Tapu, and I didnt, I took Albert on the tour of the geyser and other assorted Devil's places. That was fun!

After that we went to a volcano called Tarawera. It's not extinct, it's just dormant. That's where Jamal's hugeness came into use. We wanted to walk down into the crater and he first took us to his usual path. That happened to look pretty much vertical to me, but I wanted to try it anyway. The whole place is ankle-deep in tiny slippery stones that give no grip, so the first thing that happened was that I slipped and was in imminent danger of going down the crater on my backside - good thing Jamal got hold of me and pulled me back up. After that he decided to take us the beginner's way down, which was much less steep and a lot more accessible! That was such an amazing experience!!! It's the weirdest feeling to be down in a crater and look up at the sides rising up at 60 degree angles all around and think - THIS is where the lava erupts from! Wow...!!!

From there Jamal took us for a surprise barbeque lunch (which he cooked) in a tiny shack deep inside a forest, with fantastic views of the hills and valleys - and golly, talk about bumpy rides, the path was hardly big enuf for our 4-wheel drive!!
After that we went to the Tarawera falls - breath-taking, and the river was SO clear we could see the pebbles and the trout that were swimming about happily! Jamal said he'd caught fish with his bare hands, but I declined the treat because the water was bloody freezing!

Back at Rotorua, we went to a Maori area of town called Ohinemutu, which is a very active area in the sense that there are hot pools everywhere, with steam rising from the cracks in the footpath and from the gardens of the houses there! It was fantastic!

Lakshmi and Papu didnt have the energy for a Maori concert in a Maori village after that, but I did. I turned out to be the only Indian in a bus filled with Europeans and Americans. We all had to sing something in our native language and I sang the National Anthem - only because some of the others got all patriotic, and I couldn't be any less!

I love Maori folk music - and we heard songs and saw dances performed by the villagers. I really like the war dance - the haka, as they call it. It's very, very VERY impressive, believe me!! Fell for the rhythm and beat immediately, so much so that I went and bought the group's CD! Yet to listen to it, of course, havent had the time yet. After that there was a traditional Maori feast, where all the food is cooked underground beneath on hot rocks... I cant say I loved the food as much. Smoked food is good in small quantities, but when the pudding tastes the same as the veggies, it's a bit much! *g* I'm afraid I didnt quite love the taste. But I DO love the Maoris, and it's a pity that the 11 percent of the population they make up is ALSO 80% of the unemployed in NZ!!!

On Thursday morning, I caught the flight out to Christchurch and by Thursday evening I was back in hot muggy Singapore, and here I am on Friday, finishing up a monster email!

A Croatian Holiday - Part 2 - Dubrovnik

2009-07-31T06:08:00.000-07:00

We had been warned of bad weather forecasts for Dubrovnik for the entire 5 days that we would be there – not heartening news at all, especially as I believed them. Pete kept saying blithely that it wouldn’t rain. The scientific basis of his prediction? “Because I say so” - in his words. His carefree attitude annoyed me immensely because I wanted to wallow in the imagined misery of our rained-out Dubrovnik trip. I didn’t want to be told to be optimistic and cheer up.

However, when our aircraft landed at Dubrovnik’s tiny airport after a 45-minute flight from Zagreb, the skies were mostly clear. It was obvious that it had been raining because of the shiny wet runway, but Pete was right – the rain had stopped. And what’s more, it pretty much kept off during our stay in Dubrovnik (raining hard only once, on one night). So Pete’s prediction did turn out correct after all… and if his “method” wasn’t based on satellite readings and weather pattern analyses and whatever other scientific methods I imagine the Met Office uses, the fact is that Pete was right and the Met Office wasn’t. Maybe they should use him to forecast the weather.

My gloomy mood was dispelled the moment I got off the aircraft and looked around – the tiny airport, the “freshly washed” aspect of the post-rain surroundings, the mountains around us and the blue skies all combined to raise my spirits. We were in Dubrovnik! We’d made it there, it wasn’t raining. Not even Pete’s smug “See? I told you it wouldn’t rain” reminder could stop me feeling pleased.

The hotel I’d booked (when we were in Osijek) was called the Hotel Perla. They had already informed us that they did not have a hotel coach for airport transfers, but that they could arrange a taxi for us at a charge (with the driver holding up a placard with our names, so we would know him). Or we could hire a taxi at the airport and make our way to the hotel ourselves.

We decided to just hire a taxi from the airport taxi stand. Still fresh from our fleecing at the hands of the Zagreb taxi driver, we were just a wee bit wary of what our experience with them would be like in Dubrovnik. We asked the manager of the taxi rank how much it would cost to get to the hotel, and we were told “220 kuna”. And so it proved, literally to the – um, whatever the smallest Croatian coin is called.

I’d booked the Hotel Perla (http://www.perla-dubrovnik.com/) because it seemed to have the best combination of price, location and good customer reviews, even if it was a good distance from the airport. It was also not close the Old Town, being situated in the Lapad area of Dubrovnik. But there was a bus stop very close by the hotel, with frequent direct bus services to the Old City, and I was all for traveling like the locals, anyway.

Lapad proved a good choice as a base, with a reasonable mixture of tourists and locals in the area, but with more residences than hotels around. Our hotel was one among many in a pedestrianised stretch of walkway about a kilometer long with restaurants/hotels/small shops on both sides, with the bus stop at one end and the beach at the other. Put baldly (and possibly badly) like that, it doesn’t seem a particularly attractive place to stay, but it was. It didn’t feel crowded (although it was) or dirty (because it wasn’t), and it was nice to be able to stroll to a different restaurant every evening, have our dinner while people-watching, and not worry about transport back to the hotel.

Hotel Perla was quite small and cosy, and the staff were friendly and very helpful - once again, a brilliant choice on my part if I do say so myself. Our room was not large, but it had a little balcony (with a table and two chairs) that looked out onto the walkway below, with the hills beyond, and just visible between the hills, a glimpse of very blue sea.

The beds in our room, though, were the most amazingly squeaky pieces of furniture we’d ever experienced – the slightest movement would create a cacophony of creaks and squeaks at various pitches, reminiscent of excited piglets. I don’t know if it was just our room, or whether all the rooms had such unmusically loud beds. They were comfortable enough, though, so after the initial surprise at the amount of noise, we didn’t really care.

It was still quite light when we got to the hotel, so after dumping our bags, we decided to check out the bus service to the Old City, to get an idea of how long it would take, etc. We bought our tickets at a newspaper kiosk opposite the bus stand (cheaper by 2 kuna than if bought on the bus – plus they saved time and the necessity to have the exact change for the bus driver) and took a comfortably air conditioned bus No 6 to the Old City.

Our first glimpse of what lay within the fortress walls took me totally by surprise – the buildings were beautifully preserved (well, rebuilt) but that was not the surprise… it was the fact that every building seemed to contain restaurants, cafes, bars or shops. Was the Old City then just a glorified shopping centre, albeit contained in beautiful old buildings? A little more exploration, however, reassured me – people did still live there, have homes there, but it was more a tourist area than a residential one. (I know – duh. The Old City is THE most famous and therefore the most touristy area possible… but I’d rather not see shops!)

We wandered up the beautiful main street, marveling at the buildings, then wandered back to the main gate where the tourist office was situated. There were one-hour guided tours advertised (90 kuna per person) and since we were at the right place at the right time, we joined up with a group that was just starting off. Our guide spoke excellent English but had a somewhat irritating way of asking questions of the group as if he was a history teacher and we his particularly stupid students. I’ve had other guides in other places on other tours ask rhetorical questions (“Does anybody know what this statue represents?”) but none of them actually expected any answers! This guy did, though… and because I was woefully ignorant of Dubrovnik’s history, I felt duly cloth-headed even though he wasn’t exactly singling me out. (I guess have to stop taking everything so personally – even my own lack of knowledge!)

What I knew of Dubrovnik’s history before I went there was this: That it is a World Heritage Site and was (is?) known as the “Pearl of the Adriatic” because of its natural beauty and its wealthy citizenry; that, despite being of hardly any strategic importance, it was bombed unmercifully and unnecessarily by the Yugoslav army in 1991; and that it was rebuilt to its former glory by the locals with plenty of foreign assistance, not the least monetarily. Oh, and that in 1667 it was nearly destroyed by a killer earthquake and rebuilt in baroque style.

You’d think that was enough historical knowledge of a place where you were going to be holidaying for just a few days, but our guide didn’t see it that way.

“Who can tell me what happened in AD 1358?”, he would ask pompously. Everybody would stand in silence while he tapped his foot on the ground. “Dubrovnik (or Ragusa as it was known then) broke away from the control of Venice.” Oh, right. Then he would march on to another part of the Old Town. “What does that building there remind you of?” More deafening silence from the group. “Something in Italy?” Silence, shuffling feet. “Does it not look like the dome of the Basilica?” Murmurs from the group, and off he would go, explaining exactly which famous architect had built it, why it looked like it did, and so on. I’m not surprised that the boyfriend of a girl in our group started yawning 2 minutes into the tour and looked half comatose by the end of it.

Oh all right, perhaps I’m razzing our guide too much, being a wee bit too unkind, and perhaps that sleepy chap was simply not interested in the tour (although his girlfriend was perky and wideeyed throughout). I suppose that really the guide was a competent enough guy who knew his history, but what was perhaps missing in the tour was a touch of humour, which would have added some interest to his driest facts.

Here’s another fact, neither dry nor humorous… there is a board on the door of a building in one of the narrow, steep little alleys that marks the building as a former synagogue. It is not in use because there are no Jews in Dubrovnik. And there are no Jews in Dubrovnik because they all, every last one of them, died in the Holocaust.

A couple of the other buildings our guide pointed out were the Rector’s Palace, which was one of the two buildings which survived the terrible earthquake of 1667 (the other being the Sponza Palace), and the oldest residential building in Dubrovnik which was owned by a businessman, not a nobleman. The building itself looked quite nice, spread over 3-4 floors, the only drawback being that it was situated in what I privately nicknamed “Cat Pee Alley” – because that’s what the little street smelt overwhelmingly of. Our guide said that the alley was the favoured place for the fat cats (literal, not human) of Dubrovnik to have a pee. Men are men and cats are cats, but I guess they’re all animals when it comes to watering the street!

After the guided tour was over, we wandered for a little while longer around the narrow little streets, coming across shop after tourist shop, each one selling pretty much the same sort of overpriced tat. The outdoor seating areas to all the restaurants were jam packed, and because there were so many smokers among them, we were not tempted to hang about.

When we got back to the hotel, I was thrilled to notice what I hadn’t seen the first time around – books! In English! (and Croatian and Norwegian, but never mind those). The friendly, pretty receptionist laughed at my obvious happiness and explained that they were books that had been left behind by other guests and I was welcome to borrow them. It was a big relief to have more reading material at hand – otherwise I would have had to ration my reading as I was down to my last two books (bought in Zagreb that morning as emergency back-up).

We enquired about ferry trips to neighbouring islands, and the receptionist said that pretty much any ferry service would be the same. There was one right next door to the hotel and we booked two tickets for the next day at 110 kuna each. The ferry trip was to include a “fish lunch” and drinks, and we would visit the Elafiti Islands – or rather, the three inhabited ones of Koločep, Lopud and Sipan. There are, I believe, 14 islands but most of them are uninhabitable.

Because we were staying in the Lapad area, the tour lady informed us that we would be taking a small boat to the port proper in the Old City, and there we would transfer to the bigger ferry which would take us around the islands. That suited me fine. So the next morning, bright and early, we (and a few others numbering maybe 10 people) met up with her, and walked down to where the boats, private and otherwise, were moored. The small boat, as she had said, was not at all busy. It was a lovely bright morning, the sea was very blue, and I really enjoyed the 20-minute trip to the harbor.

But when we got off on the jetty and saw the milling crowds, that was when it struck me that our little group would not be the only ones on the big ferry.

And so it turned out.

By the time the ferry (already carrying passengers who had probably got on at a previous pick-up point, and who had appropriated the best seats on the top deck) docked at our jetty, the majority of OAP holidaymakers were thronging around the access point to the ferry. This allowed only one person on at a time, as it was a fair step down from the jetty to the boat, and there were two crew members who grabbed each person’s arms and helped them on board.

I have to digress here for a rant (what, you were expecting a prayer maybe?) about these OAPs. I’m a polite person and Pete, being English but not a football fan (and therefore not a hooligan), is polite in general and solicitous of older people in particular. But gosh, a lot of older people sure don’t return the favour – especially those you meet on holiday. Maybe they’re polite and well behaved in their home towns where people know them... but on holiday, they leave behind any such pretences and scrabble and squabble and push and shove and elbow others to get ahead without a second thought – and to add to this, if you request them to stop shoving, they’re not above pointing out that they’re OAPs... as if that condones their selfish behaviour.

Not all of them were like that, obviously, but a good many of them certainly were – and oddly, the majority of those were members of a German tour group. After a heavy old woman stepped on my foot while pushing her way forward with not a word of apology, Pete remarked not quite sotto voce that she probably wanted to get her towel on a good seat before anybody else. (Germans have a deserved reputation for grabbing the best seats anywhere early by leaving their towels on them as a sort of "reservation".) I shushed him but an American OAP, who had heard Pete, laughed and added “I believe Germans have a reputation for being ruthless.”

The result was, by the time we managed to get on (and we were one of the last few), most of the seats had been taken. I was extremely upset – I had been really looking forward to the boat trip, and I was annoyed that the woman who sold us the tickets had implied that we would have good seats. She certainly didn’t tell us that our little group would be the last to be picked up by the ferry.

The ferry left immediately everyone was on board. For a few minutes it looked like we would have nowhere to sit at all. The seating was very basic – wooden benches and tables squeezed in on the lower deck, in three rows with a narrow aisle between. These were meant to seat three per bench. Most of the seats had been taken by the German squad, and while we were still stood looking for somewhere to park our heinies, these delightful (not!) old folk had already begun to down the vodka that was provided along with the most godawful soft drinks I’ve ever had the misfortune to taste.

We finally managed to get a seat next to a batty old woman wearing shocking pink lipstick that had bled all around her mouth. She had a massive beach bag next to her on the bench, but did she offer to move it, or make space to give us a seat? What do you think?

I would probably have stood there, fuming and very close to tears, but Pete practically pushed me down next to her, having decided that waiting for these people to be polite was a waste of time. I didn’t want him to stay standing either, so I moved up closer to her, hoping to shame her into budging up as well. All she did was move the bag between us, so that she rather than her bag was at the “window” seat. Which was fine by me because I didn’t have a problem squashing her bag.

After about 5 minutes, the old bat decided that she wanted to find another vantage point, so we dutifully made way for her to get out. But, unbelievably, she left her bag there to guard her seat. I watched her flit from seat to seat until she found a better seat towards the top end (is it aft? or stern? whatever the term is) of the boat. I don’t know quite how she managed this, as there was a young family sat there, but she was soon seated by the “window” again, with a great sea view. It didn’t look like she was coming back, so I finally (with much prompting from Pete) put her bag under the table and appropriated the window seat.

That improved my mood a bit, especially as I could now at least see the waves sparkling in the sun. It still wasn’t an ideal place for the best views of what was ahead, but it beat standing up.

The first of the three Elafiti islands that we arrived at was Kolocep. The stop here was just for 30 minutes and there didn’t seem to be much to do or see in that short time, so we didn’t bother with getting off the boat. I did, however, take the chance to try and find a better vantage point and managed to find a place to sit at the top of the boat. This was not strictly a seating area as there were huge ropes coiled there, as well as an anchor, and there wasn’t really much place to sit, but by holding on to one of the poles at the side, I could at least anchor myself and look ahead. It wasn’t the most comfortable place, but I clung there like a limpet, refusing to move even at the next island (Lopud) for fear of someone else taking my place. This time we stopped there for lunch, so it was for about an hour.

The lunch was, of course, broiled fish of some sort, served with a cabbage slaw and baskets of bread. There were also sausages available for those who didn’t want the fish, and the boat guys didn’t mind serving both fish and sausages for those so inclined. I, as a vegetarian, got the slaw along with a few slices of an amazingly awful cheese – it smelt and tasted like something dead, and not even Pete, who actually likes mouldy (read blue) cheese, could stomach more than a bite! Smelly cheese definitely is an acquired taste. On the plus side, for non-vegetarians, the fish and sausages were plentiful and very tasty, so worth being included in the ticket price! Also, the boat crew were very efficient about serving the lunch while it was still hot (the fish were cooked on board), and even came around asking if anybody wanted seconds. With that part of the trip I have no beef at all (if you will pardon an unpardonably bad pun).

By the time lunch was finished and cleared away, and those who had wandered onto the island had returned, I had consolidated my place quite nicely, moving the ropes a bit till I could sit reasonably comfortably. Pete went one better and sat on the edge of the boat, getting the advantage of what breeze there was – but I was too chicken, afraid that I would fall into the water. It was lovely to feel the wind on my face (because it was a hot day) and look at the bow wave created by the boat and the sun sparkles on the waves, and gradually my bad mood disappeared.

At the last island, Sipan, the boat docked for a couple or three hours, leaving the passengers to their devices. There was a tiny stretch of beach – more stony than sandy at that – where there were maybe a couple of dozen people stretched out on towels or sun loungers. A few were in the water in the roped-off area (beyond which the ferry boats were moored). It did look like they were having fun, and Pete got it into his head that he wanted to cool off in the water as well.

He was wearing swim shorts anyway, which made it convenient, but he insisted that he wanted to dive into the water from the boat. I tried to persuade him not to do so – he could get in the way of other boats coming in, he could scare the bejesus out of the fish (that I had been feeding with bread left over from lunch), he could end up stuck head-first in the sand (the water was very clear and consequently didn’t look deep enough to dive into) - but my carefully reasoned objections didn’t resonate with him. He did agree to jump in feet first, though, which I thought was marginally safer (broken legs vs broken neck – obvious choice, right?).

He wanted me to jump in too, but I declined on the grounds that I wasn’t wearing a swim costume, plus there was only one towel and that was his. (Cowardice had, of course, nothing to with my decision.)

I half thought one of the boat crew guys would yell out when he saw Pete stand on the rail, but he watched without so much as a warning peep as Pete dived in. Once I was certain he hadn’t broken anything (including any nearby fish), I took a couple of photos of him, then made my way around to the beach area, carrying the towel and his t-shirt, while Pete swam lazily across (as an aside, does the word “swam” look and sound as weird to you as it does to me?).

We sat around under the canopy of a cafe for a bit, sipping at a beer, until Pete's shorts were dry. I wanted to explore the little lanes that led up towards the hilltop, where there were the remains of a fort or something (a sign with an arrow pointing upwards helpfully said "fort", which is how I knew about it).

The steps leading up were pretty steep, there was no breeze and it was really warm... but I persevered because there were fruit trees and green grape vines and some very beautiful flowers and things growing by the steps (although behind fences as they were private gardens). Again, lots of fruiting orange and lemon trees, but I couldnt scrump a single fruit as they were all just beyond reach. I had to content myself with photographs. We went about three quarters of the way up, then gave it up as a bad job - it simply was too hot, and I didnt want to risk a headache, a very real possibility in that dazzling sunshine. The views from there down the hill to the sea were stunning, though, so it was not a totally wasted climb. All in all, the day trip around the Elafiti islands was worth it, made better by the absence of rain.

That evening we elected to have dinner at our hotel restaurant... as usual, the vegetable platter I got was literally just that - a platter with lightly grilled vegetables. I got by with a salad and a bowl of chips, while Pete had the whole grilled fish of some kind, and really enjoyed it.

Our meal was made all the more pleasant by our waiter, a friendly man of indeterminate age with really hairy eyebrows and a brilliant grin. He spoke very good English, and we got talking when he asked where I was from. I thought he would most likely not even have heard of Madras - imagine my surprise when he said that he had spent two weeks there while walking from Bombay to Kanyakumari! It turned out that he had spent three or four years travelling all around India on a shoestring budget, staying with Indian families who had befriended him on his wanderings in the country. He was very familiar with places I have never been to, and apparently he had even spent three months in Haridwar and Rishikesh with a blind sadhu whose mind-reading power he could personally vouch for.

He had lots more stories about his stay in India, and his affection for the country was obvious. This Croatian gentleman, who I thought would probably not even have travelled to Asia, had worked for 12 years on the QE2 as the chief purser (whatever that is) along with his wife, had been all over the world, lived in Dubrovnik for 8 months of the year and spent the winter months in warm South-East Asia. And here I'd assumed that he probably wasnt very well off and that's why he was working in a three-star hotel! He was an incredibly interesting man, and yet again it was a reminder not to take anybody’s circumstances for granted just because of where they were or what they were doing at the time I met them. (I never did find out why he was working at this hotel and not in some fancy 5-star one, though.)

Since our hotel was only a small one (just 20 rooms, and most didn’t seem occupied - yet), we got to know the staff quite well, especially as there weren’t many of them. The Hotel Perla was also perfectly situated as far as I was concerned, and we spent most of a day without doing anything much touristy. We had bought a large bottle of vermouth (and a bottle of Sprite as a mixer) and made large sweet martinis for sustenance while Pete worked on his software for a while, and I read a book, sitting out on the balcony, occasionally looking out over the pedestrian walkway and watching the people below.

I found it really amusing to find men and women walking around in public wearing what amounted pretty to just their underwear with perhaps a gauzy top as a basic cover (just the women – the men went bare-chested, sometimes with a towel slung around their waist) – you knew at once that they were tourists, there for the beach and the sun. The locals went about their business with not a second look at these holidaying people clad in not very much – par for the course, as far as they were concerned, I guess. This attire only extended to those who were walking, though – beachwear was not allowed on the buses. Those who were wearing clothes were so beautifully accessorised, it was a pleasure to look at them... light pastel outfits or summery colours with matching bags, sandals, hats, and so on. The ladies looked really stylish, cool and casual.

Anyway, it was a perfect sort of day to be incredibly lazy, and in the evening we walked down to the beach end of the walkway, just to see what was there. There were more shops along the way, more hotels and, on the beach, an open bar with chairs and tables on the shingle. This seemed like a perfect place for a drink, and Pete ordered his favourite Croatian beer while I had a cocktail that imitated the colourful sunset (both were glorious). There was an apricot tree as well, with fruits that were (at last!) within reach - and I finally got to eat a fruit within moments of being picked, the freshest it could get. The apricot was quite small, fairly sweet on the outside and pretty sour towards the seed part – but I was pleased with it anyway.

While we were there, we were hailed by a good looking, smooth talking ferry-trip sales guy. He was very persuasive, very amusing, talked nineteen to the dozen and very nearly convinced us to book tickets for a day trip by luxury bus to Montenegro in Serbia (just a few hours drive from Dubrovnik) along with a boat ride to some other islands.

Unfortunately, as per the guidebook, as an Indian passport holder, I still required a visa to enter Serbia. The sales guy said that entry into Montenegro would not be a problem as I have a UK permanent resident visa… but he couldn’t confirm for certain that I wouldn’t need a visa. Reluctantly we decided that we couldn’t really risk a bus trip – if the border security at Montenegro decided that I couldn’t enter, we’d be stuck in god knows what forsaken area, unable to go on to Montenegro and unable to return to Dubrovnik until the bus made its return trip… not to mention the waste of a day and the trip fee as well. It was a pity, as I would have loved to see Montenegro... but inshallah, I’ll get to Serbia some other time.

The next day turned out to be bright, sunny and extremely warm. Although I had told Pete earlier that we should not miss the Old City walls walk, the heat put me off even venturing out. I suggested that we go out towards the evening, when it would be cooler. But Pete insisted that we should stick to the plan and finish that part of the sightseeing, dragging a very reluctant and whiny me out of the hotel and down the walkway to the bus stop bright and early at 10.30a.m or so. The bus stop was really busy as well, making me even more whiny. I forced Pete to miss a couple of buses in the hope that the worst of the throngs would disappear (the buses came around every 10 minutes), but no such luck.

I guess that because the day was so exceptionally lovely, all the sightseers had decided to home in on the Old City. We bought a couple of bottles of water and tickets at 50 kuna apiece for the pleasure of walking the wall. The first hurdle was the steep flight of steps from where we started at the Pile Gate entrance. There was a steady stream of people coming down/going up. I guess it would have been much more pleasant in cooler weather – I don’t know what the temperature was, but it certainly felt very hot and quite humid… probably over 30C. (I know, I know, Chennai-ites - that’s practically freezing temperatures in comparison – but just leave me to my moaning, ok?) There was absolutely no breeze at all, the sun was blazing down, the steps were steep, leading steadily upwards, and I wasn’t a happy camper – until, that is, I finally got to a point where I got an uninterrupted view of the Adriatic.

It was glorious! A bright bright blue shading towards turquoise near the tower bases, with little waves that sparkled in the sunshine, here and there ferries making their usual trips, a massive cruise ship in the mid-distance, the island of Lokrum rising green from the sea – it was a breathtakingly lovely view. It also helped that the steps had more or less leveled out by now, with only the occasional upward slope. There was no respite from the sun. The only places where there was an actual cool breeze was, oddly, in the occasional little outcropping, tiny spaces (I don’t know the architectural term for these rooms), just big enough for 2-3 people to stand without bumping elbows. The breeze that came through the small openings cut in the stone was soothingly cool. I don’t know where the breeze came from, because the second you stepped out of the room, it disappeared. Those were oases of relief, I can tell you! Luckily Pete had his cap on, otherwise he would probably have suffered sunstroke – as it was, since he was wearing shorts, below the knee and up to his socks, and on his arms, he was quite severely sunburnt.

The sea views were beautiful but as we went further on there were also panoramic views over the rooftops of the Old City. They were various shades of red – the lighter coloured ones being the pre-Serb bombing older ones, and the bright red ones being the replacements used when the Old City was rebuilt. Some of the ruins had not been restored and they were quite a contrast to the reconstructed buildings.

It took two hours to walk a complete circuit of the walls, and by the time we’d finished, it was about 1.30 in the afternoon – extremely hot. The Stradun was, of course, overrun with hatted sunglassed tourists, either strolling up and down the street or seated at the outdoor tables of the various cafes. We weren’t looking to sit outside, so it was very pleasant to walk into a café and find the indoor section absolutely empty. It was dark in there, and reasonably cool, and we had a beer (Pete) and a cool drink (me) to cool off. I worked out the price for my tiny bottle of Sprite and was horrified to find that it was £3! Yikes! I didn’t want to spend all my money in just that café, and Pete, who was probably thirsting for some Guinness, suggested the Irish Pub as our next destination. It was nice and quiet to start with, and there were big-screen TV sets showing football matches. So we sat there for the rest of the afternoon, Pete drinking Guinness while I alternated between trying out the local fruit juice varieties and the different kinds of coffee from the menu. It was a pleasant way to recover from the excesses of the sun before we eventually made our way back to Lapad for our dinner.

Our last day in Dubrovnik – Sunday - was another scorcher. I wanted to do another boat trip of some sort, but since we hadn’t booked anything in advance and had started out much too late from the hotel, we were at a slight loss as to how to set about it. Pete suggested that we walk down to the bay in Lapad, from where we’d taken the boat to the Old City the other day. Dragging my heels and sulking only a little in the heat, I followed him down the shady little streets, trusting reluctantly to his homing pigeon instincts when he veered off from the road down a narrow little alley. Sure enough, we reached the mooring point quicker than if we’d gone the longer way down the main road.

So we were there. Now what?

Pete said we could follow the road around the marina to the other side, and if perhaps there would be boats that took people for rides. It looked like a short distance to the other side and indeed would not have taken 10 minutes to row across, assuming we had a row boat. But the road followed the shape of the marina, meandering around, unfolding more around every corner, and soon I was feeling really sweaty and uncomfortable (wearing jeans had not been the best idea, in retrospect) and extremely icily bad-tempered. (I’m aware of coming across as a complete misery of a travel companion – and unfortunately that’s true in very hot, humid weather. I AM not a nice person in those circumstances.)

Pete kindly tried to jolly me along (he was being extra sweet because it was his fault we were walking – I had wanted to take the bus to the Old City) but it wasn’t until we reached a tourist office that I thawed a bit (ironic usage I suppose, considering the heat). It was blissfully air-conditioned and the guy behind the counter spoke English well. (More importantly, he was rather good looking.)

The office was also a scooter-hire place, little noisy 50cc two-wheelers that you could rent for 200 kuna a day. But I wasn’t really in the mood, partly because it was already past noon and it would have been a waste of money. Also, I wasn’t sure if I would remember how to ride a scooter safely after nearly a decade of not having ridden one. In any case, Dubrovnik’s traffic was a bit iffy. Yes I know, I’m a human chicken.

The main reason, though, was that my heart was set on a boat ride, so we waited at the nearest bus-stop for a bus to Old City. As I had feared, there were no ferry trips to even the nearby Lokrum island, but at the Old City marina, we bumped into our salesman pal from the other day. He looked hot under the collar as well, and readily informed us that he was having a bad day, it was too hot and he had not been able to charm enough customers into taking his ferry trips. He did have a one-hour boat ride around the islands on offer, and since that seemed better than nothing, we ponied up 100 kuna each and were led to a small boat. There were only about 6 people on board apart from the crew, excluding us, all of them Americans on an extended trip around Europe.

The boat ride was enjoyable, as always, and this one took us around the far side of Lokrum Island (which we hadn’t seen on the other trip) which was hidden if you were looking at the island from the Old City, even from the top of the city walls. There were quite a few sunbathers perched on whatever space was available among the rather spiky-looking rocks – sunbathers with a difference, because they were lounging about “digambar” (meaning “skyclad”, meaning naked) style. Nude sunbathing/swimming was apparently restricted to that part of the island only. I have to say that the folks splashing about in the water looked mighty comfortable and cool. There were little ladders (swimming pool style) fixed to the rocks here and there to assist the swimmers in getting out of the water, and the kids were having a great time jumping from the rocks into the water, clambering out and then repeating the whole thing over. It did look like good fun…

The trip finished all too soon, but I felt a lot more cheerful thereafter. Walking back through the little lanes of the Old City, I didn’t even think to sigh about the jewellery shop where I had seen (and instantly coveted) the Most Beautiful Necklace Ever – gold beads and deep blue lapis lazuli beads somehow woven together to form a diamond shape that was pliable instead of stiff-backed. I’ve never been bothered over much with fine jewellery of any sort, but I really did fall in love with that necklace, especially when I tried it on. It looked stunning… and so was the price – something like £1,500. No way we could afford that, but it didn’t stop me from sighing over it for a few minutes.

Anyway, as I was saying, the boat ride put me in a good enough mood to even forget about the necklace.

And back in Lapad, we tried the last restaurant on our row (or the first one, approaching from the bus stop) for dinner – and what do you know, it turned out to have the best and cheapest food of all the restaurants we’d tried. Their pizza was pretty damn good, thin and crisp to the point of being nearly burnt on the bottom (which is how I like it).

Our taxi was coming at 4.30 the next morning, so we tried to check out in advance, to save us and them the trouble so early in the morning. But the receptionist said that we could do it the next morning, no problem, after breakfast - yep, they arranged for fresh hot coffee, bread rolls, cheese, ham, jam and butter especially for the two of us as a farewell gesture. That’s what I mean by friendly service and the personal touch – it’s so much nicer at small hotels with friendly staff!

The taxi driver was the same friendly chap who had brought us to the hotel when we arrived. This time the drive to the airport was much quicker, as there was hardly any traffic on the roads at that godforsaken hour of the morning. Croatia Airlines is nothing if not punctual, and our flight from Dubrovnik to Zagreb, and the connecting flight from Zagreb to Gatwick went off more or less like clockwork (minus some frustration at the transfer point in Zagreb airport which was run remarkably inefficiently – very reminiscent of the melee that usually happens in the international terminal in Madras!) But that was only a small hiccup and easily ignored – once we were safely at our embarkation point – after another lovely holiday in Croatia.

A Croatian holiday - Part 1 (Osijek and Zagreb)

2009-06-30T05:23:00.000-07:00

To tell the truth, I was a bit doubtful about going to Croatia in the waning half of June, mainly because I was afraid it would be blisteringly hot. Granted, not as hot as it is in most parts of India now, but hot enough to cause a lot of discomfort to me and - given my temperament which tends to match its environment - to anyone around me as well. As it turned out, my fears were mostly unfounded, because apart from the last 2-3 days in Dubrovnik, the weather behaved itself quite delightfully.

We reached Zagreb on Friday afternoon. It was quite warm, actually, and Pete felt the heat immediately. But, fresh from rainy and cold Shrewsbury, I actually enjoyed the warmth of the sunshine, helped along by a lovely breeze. We were met at the airport by our friend Zarko, looking casual and cool (as always, I might add), ready to drive us all the way back to Osijek. The drive from Zagreb to Osijek was made more interesting because I was able to see the fields and trees and everything along the way (last time we’d done the journey at night), while at the same time trying to avoid the scorching sunshine, magnified by the window glass, that nearly set my jeans on fire – well, that’s how it felt!

We stayed at the Hotel Silver again and it was a pleasure to recognise, and be recognised by, the staff at this small but comfortable hotel. I’ll say this about the smaller mid-range hotels – unless you’re really unlucky, what you lack in the way of decadent luxury is more than made up by the personal attention from the staff who all quickly get to know you (and vice versa). It also helps if they’re the friendly kind, of course!

This time around, we didn’t do much in and around Osijek, apart from eat and drink at the various wonderful restaurants to which Zarko and Ozana took us. No, I tell a lie, we made a few emergency trips to various hardware stores and general DIY type places for various reasons, one of them being my camera.

I don’t know what it is about holidays and my camera, but I never seem to get it all together – one or the other component always gets left behind… the charger, the battery, sometimes the camera. This time it was the memory card.

I’d remembered to bring the charger for the camera’s battery, even going to the extent of having the battery fully charged and in the camera. I felt very pleased about that... until I tried to take a photo of a walnut tree at the airport and discovered that the camera didn’t have a memory card in it. So of course Zarko had to drive us all around and about when we got to Osijek to get a memory card first thing, before we did anything else (because I insisted).

And then, after all that malarkey buying a new memory card, to discover after all that the bloody battery had somehow lost its charge, when I tried to take a photo of the kids... well, suffice it to say that I was very upset and the camera came perilously close to death by drowning in the Drava.

So did the saga of the camera end there? Not on your nelly!

The next problem turned up when we got back to the hotel and I looked in our luggage for the adaptor plug that would enable me to make use of the charger with the local plug point. Naturally, it wasn’t there (the adaptor plug, I mean).

Since UK plugs and Croatian plug points are incompatible (think of square pegs and round holes), we had to go back on the hunt for a plug which would marry the two. Easier said than done, because there weren’t any such plugs available for love or money. In the end we bought Croatian plugs, along with an emergency tool kit, and Pete attached the Croatian plugs to my British charger (after detaching the British plug first). Why hotels everywhere can’t use standardised plug points that will take any shapes or sizes of plug pins, I don’t know. It would save the disorganised type of person (me) a lot of holiday hassle.

Anyway... since the weather forecasts were gloomy, we took each day as it came, without making plans that might have been spoilt by the rain. As it turned out, it didn’t rain (except on a Monday that was also a public holiday) and the weather stayed pleasant.

We had “feesh soup” again at a really characterful restaurant, called “Kod Ruže" (translation: At the Rose – thanks, Zarko). It was kitted out with all sorts of old traditional utensils/decorations and knick-knacks that are found in any traditional Croatian house, and the decorations gave the place a really warm, homely air. I found the fish soup glorious yet again, particularly as it was really spicy (pre-ordered specially by Zarko, bless the man) – Pete sweated an entire river (no, not the Drava) but it didn’t stop him mopping the soup off his plate with the fresh crusty bread that was provided along with the noodles.

And pretty much for the entire time that we were in the restaurant, we were serenaded by a troupe of gypsy musicians. The violinist in particular was extremely talented and we tipped him rather generously. The nice thing about these guys was that they didn’t go away the moment they were given money (as was our experience with street musicians in Paris and Rome)... instead, they played even more vigorously by our table, just for us! Or possibly just for Pete, who was the tipper.

Another meal, preceded by a long leisurely stroll along the Drava river, was at the Zoo restaurant – which was a restaurant at the zoo (duh). Getting to the restaurant was fun. One way is walk across the footbridge to the other side of the Drava (on which side the zoo is situated) and walk the kilometer or to the restaurant.

We, however, walked down the promenade, all the way to a little jetty directly across from the restaurant, because crossing a river is much more fun in a ferry.
This ferry, tethered to a cable that stretched above the river from one bank to the other, was not motor powered but used the Drava’s current to drift across. The cable, of course, held back the ferry from drifting entirely away - which circumstance wouldn’t have served the purpose of visiting the zoo or the restaurant at all.

We didn’t check out the zoo itself but the restaurant décor was appropriately all leopard and zebra print, with lots of greenery. It was a very hot day, but the heat of the sun was mitigated by a fresh breeze – the only time we felt the sting of the sun’s rays was when the breeze dropped.

As we sat out in the patio garden while our table was being readed, there were a few loud explosions which puzzled me and Pete a bit. Ozana said that it was probably due to work on the mines, news to me as I hadn’t read about any mines being in operation around Osijek.

I asked what sort of mining was going on, and that was when Zarko made it clear that these weren’t the kind of mines you dig into, but the kind that blow up people – basically, the explosions were most likely from mine-clearing operations. Apparently 40% of the land in Croatia is still a minefield – literally. A sobering, quite frightening thought, to be sure, and a situation that makes farming a lot more dangerous in some areas than it would otherwise be. You certainly wouldn’t want to go wandering off the beaten path, as it were.

Landmines, a menace in war-time, obviously continue to be a menace in peacetime as well. Companies that manufacture landmines and sell them to war-torn countries should all be blown up – I for one wouldn’t care if the fat cats making money off the suffering and danger caused to innocent people were blown up along with their product! Actually, left to me, I would send the weapons manufacturers out into minefields one at a time. That way they would at least be useful.

Anyway, getting back on track... the meal at the Zoo Restaurant was a fine one, and I was actually lucky that they had a proper vegetarian entrée – a soya-vegetable patty, with fresh green peas, served with chipped potatoes and one of the gorgeous mixed salads that were such a pleasure and a part of nearly every meal. I had a cabbage slaw that was ever so slightly sour – I don’t know if that was sauerkraut, but if it was, it was scrumptious!

No trip to Osijek is complete without visiting a winery, as far as Pete is concerned. With that in mind, Zarko and Ozana arranged for a trip to a vineyard in the Baranja area which also boasted an exclusive, very impressive restaurant in the wine cellar.
The surroundings were lovely, and I saw my first ever grape vines in the vineyard there – an exciting moment. The grapes, of course, were too sour for words - I knew they would be, but I tasted one all the same. Call this the only occasion where the sour grapes didn’t cause a “sour grapes” attitude, heheh!
What made our holiday an even greater pleasure this time was the fact that the Croatian government had enforced a smoking ban in public buildings – you can’t begin to imagine the difference this made to us as non-smokers. Obviously this meant that the smokers had to go outside if they wanted a fag – and pool ol’ Zarko and Ozana had to keep popping in and out of the restaurant while we were there! There probably aren’t many Croatians happy about this rule – for certain, Zarko isn’t.

Our flight to Dubrovnik was from Zagreb on Wednesday, so on Sunday evening we went to the railway station in Osijek to book tickets for the early morning “fast train” on Tuesday – which takes about 3 hours from Osijek to Zagreb, with no stops on the way.

I have to say the station looked a bit bleak, especially as the sky was overcast and dull – or perhaps it was very quiet as it was a Sunday evening. There were also building works going on nearby – new tram lines being laid, plus a rather fancy pedestrian overbridge being built. Building sites are never pleasant on the eye, and this partly made the station area look bleaker than it was.

The problem, as Zarko explained it, is that neither project has been completed, and may not for a good few years yet. I don’t know if it’s disheartening or reassuring, the realization that governments everywhere bungle up on new constructions by underestimating the funding required, or not coming to a consensus on some vital issue or other, and so on. Osijek is a pleasant city, and deserves a better deal.

We spent Monday – which turned out to be very rainy – scuttling from coffee shop to coffee shop between rain showers, until we got to Osijek town centre… only to find that most of the shops were closed because it was a public holiday. Luckily there were icecream shops and cafes open, so we didn’t do too badly – Pete worked on his software while I read my book. And when I’d finished my book, it was time to return to Zarko & Ozana’s for a slap-up, scrumptious dinner on our last night in Osijek.

The next day we were at the station bright and early – well, early, anyway. Our train was at 5.45 a.m, but we got there a good hour early because I didn’t want to risk missing it. There was hardly anybody at the station when we got there and poor Pete couldn’t even get a coffee because there wasn’t a vending machine. He comforted himself by hauling out his laptop – Pete’s laptop is to him what a pacifier would be to a baby.

The journey to Zagreb was nothing out of the ordinary – no spectacular scenery or anything… but it still felt nice to be on a train rather than on an airplane. I dozed off and on so the journey went quicker than it would otherwise have, I suppose.

We reached Zagreb railway station (Gravni Kolodvor – and I haven’t managed to figure out yet whether it means “railway station” or whether it IS the name of the station itself) pretty much on time. The uplifting aroma of fresh bread made its way to our noses as we entered the main hall, and I bought two chocolate croissants from the bakery outlet there because suddenly we felt really hungry. Alas, the aroma was better than the taste. The thing about croissants, much as I like them, is that they tend to flake all over my clothes no matter how much care I take while eating them… but these Zagrebian croissants didn’t so much as shed a single crumb. Good, in a way, but not the mark of a true croissant. No?

Outside we found a taxi stand and got into the taxi of the first man who approached us. We should really have checked at the Information counter about the best way to get to our hotel – the Arcotel Allegra – and the approximate taxi fare to get there. But we didn’t – and paid for that omission literally, because the bloody taxi driver fleeced us like a pair of sheep. We discovered later that not only had he taken us the long way around to our hotel, he had also not reset his meter to zero... so basically instead of paying maybe 30 kuna, tops, we ended up giving him close on 100 kuna. I guess it served us right for being lazy.

B-a-a-a-ah!

The hotel was in a pretty good location, with the city’s most famous area – Jelacic Square (Trg Bana Jelačića) – just about 30 minutes stroll away. Our room wasn’t bad either, and I have no complaints about the level of service we received... but there was no warmth or any real feeling of welcome. I guess the Allegra fell somewhere between mid-to-largish in terms of size… and hotels that size tend to be somewhat soulless. Besides, according to the guide book, Zagreb’s hotels are geared to the business traveler on an expense account rather than tourists on a limited budget. (Make of that what you will!)

Anyway, we dumped our bags in the room and went downstairs for breakfast, which was quite a substantial spread, almost decadent... they even had champagne at the bar (not that we had any). Then it was back to the room so that Pete could catch up on lost sleep.

When we finally set out to check out our surroundings, I didn’t really have an idea of which direction the city centre was in, so we chose a street at random and began walking down it. The buildings didn’t seem particularly interesting, and I was beginning to wonder if we were going anywhere useful, when we came upon green and lovely Tomislav Square – and across the road from King Tomislav’s statue was the railway station (which was when we realized that the taxi driver had duped us, incidentally). The distance would have been maybe a mile or so from our hotel to the station.

Zagreb’s railway station is a rather beautiful building and the looming rainclouds did not detract from it in any way. The fact that the square is surrounded by lovely, expensive looking buildings also helped. I took a few photos and then we set off around the square, following the arrows which pointed towards St Mark’s Church, the cathedral and Jelacic Square, which is the heart of Zagreb city centre.

There were rainclouds but it didn’t rain, so the afternoon was pleasantly cool for walking – a big relief to me, because I’m not at my best (behaviour-wise and otherwise) in hot weather. The whole place looked very European – specifically Parisian, especially the buildings – and there didn’t seem to be many reminders of the damage caused by the war.

Eventually we came to Jelacic Square – a large open square, which has been around since the 17th Century, with the famous statue of Josip Jelacic on a prancing warhorse with sword held aloft (the statue made in 1866 by an Austrian, Anton Fernkorn), and many tram lines. The buildings around it were constructed in the last 200 years in a variety of styles. Mostly all pretty, which is about as much as I know of architecture, unfortunately.

The square was reasonably busy, I suppose, with both tourists and locals hanging around. I took the obligatory photographs of Josip Jelacic’s statue (which from certain angles reminded me of Rana Pratap) and then we wandered up a side street that I hoped would lead me to Dolac Market. Not that the market would be open at that time, but I wanted to pinpoint its location because I really, really wanted to see it the next day, during opening hours. (As it turned out, we didn’t have the time for this – something I regret rather a lot. But no doubt I’ll make it there the next time.)

The street was lined with little posh boutique-y shops, mainly selling bags and shoes. There didn’t seem much point to looking at anything in the shops because all the labeled goods were from the usual suspects – overpriced and overhyped. Perhaps there are places which sell things unique to Zagreb’s culture, but not around Jelacic Square, I don’t think.

North of Trg Bana Jelačića is the Upper Town, Gornji Grad. The historic hill towns of Gradec and Kaptol can be reached via the steps to Dolac market square.

So we trudged up the pretty cobbled street, following the signs for Dolac Market. There was a statue just outside the market, in the centre of a little square surrounded by restaurants (with plenty of outdoor seating), which drew my attention.

At first sight it looked like a jolly musician playing his guitar… but then Pete pointed out the hangman’s rope around his neck – and when I went round it to look at the guitarist’s companions, it was obvious that the statue was not exactly meant to represent festivity and cheer, because the two other men appeared to be dying gruesomely too, one with his ribs all showing as if he was starved. I don’t know the significance of this statue and couldn’t find any reference to it... but I have to say it would not be top on my list of things to look at while having lunch!

Since Dolac Market – did I mention the main market is underground? - was not open, we went on to Kaptol, which is the churchy area of Zagreb. Or in more formal terms, Kaptol is traditionally an ecclesiastical centre, dominated by the twin-spired Gothic Cathedral of the Assumption of Virgin Mary and St. Stephen.

It was being renovated, with lots of scaffolding somewhat marring its façade – but apparently this has been ongoing for the last few years. Right in front of the cathedral was a column with a golden statue of the Holy Mary (whom I mistook for Jesus at first – pardon my ignorance) at the top, and with four golden angels (I think) at the foot of the column.

The entrance door to the cathedral was beautiful, with statues of various saints and some really intricate designs and carvings that looked almost like filigree work, they were so delicate.

Photography was forbidden within the cathedral, so I had to content myself with taking a photo of the stained glass interior from the entrance, stealthily using the “museum” mode on my camera so that there wouldn’t be a flash to disturb the faithful at their prayers.

We didn’t go inside the cathedral for the same reason, which was a bit of a shame because it was really rather beautiful in the way of such places.

After that it was lunch time... a very very late lunch, very nearly supper. Although it would have been very nice to sit outside, the smokers had the upper hand here, so we elected to sit inside – which meant that we had the pizzeria pretty much to ourselves.

There wasn’t much time to see anything else, because it had gone quite dark, so we elected to walk back to the hotel. I felt bad about not having had enough time to see St Mark’s Church and quite a few other places in and around Zagreb, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter. There just literally was not enough time, as we were leaving for Dubrovnik the next day.

To be contd...

Brussels-Luxembourg trip - 2002

2009-01-17T08:27:00.000-08:00

I'd gone to Brussels with my friend Ramya and her friend Anjali. We had very cheap tickets on Ryanair to Brussels, but by god the Ryanair plane was about as cheap as the tickets, almost! Kinda rickety, sort of like a Chennai bus that can fly.. but of course they had to provide the basic minimum safety facilities because after all we were going to be in the air!!! The best thing that can be said for the flight is that it's about 40 minutes to Brussels Charleroi airport from London Stansted airport.

It wasnt quite an auspicious beginning to our holiday because the Information counter at Charleroi was empty. And when the lady did come by, her spoken English (as well as her enthusiasm to help) left a lot to be desired. This proved to be the case 9 times out of 10, as we found out. And Ramya was the only one who knew a few words of French. Since we were all three of us budget travellers, we had to get to the city by train and bus and tram, not a taxi - that would've been very expensive.

Anyway, the first leg of it was by bus to the nearest metro station. The Information lady had said a bus would be outside at the kerb, and so there was. But the driver insisted it was not the one we should take because it was going to Brussels Zuid south). So we let it go and what do you know, that WAS the one we should've taken! We had to wait another hour - and Charleroi airport isn’t exactly a treat for the eyes... like most of Brussels, it's being renovated. And very likely with EU money meant for other things! :)

It was a slow train journey to Brussels Centraal. From there we had to take a bus to two stops away, and then a tram down to a stop called Botanique in French and Kruidtuin in Flemish. One thing we discovered is that we couldnt read maps... that, or the maps showing "you are here" were deliberately made impossible to follow! There certainly were enough people that we saw clustered around them at various points, trying to make sense of it!

We made it finally to the Youth Hostel, exasperated and irritable and fed-up (already) with how difficult things were without French - or at least, I was all of the above, probably because of the heat. It was really uncomfortable at about 28degC the first day and 30degC the next day... I know, I've lived through 30-odd years of much greater heat and humidity in Chennai so I shouldnt be complaining about something like this - but it's easy to get used to being comfortably cool and not so easy in reverse! Plus, the Belgians seem determined to overheat all their buildings... it's most uncomfortable, especially when the temperature outside is about the same.

The Youth Hostel was another surprise - and not really a pleasant one. For starters, the people at the reception were not particularly friendly... they never responded to greetings and they hardly ever smiled either. They were also rather stingy with information about the nearest ATM or currency exchange. Apart from that, the damn hostel was ALSO being renovated (scaffolding is a part of the skyline and architecture in Brussels, it would seem) and there were workmen and dust and planks and things lying around. (Well ok, the workmen werent lying around). Not very attractive!

Our room was an 8-bed dorm, with practically no ventilation - the windows could barely be opened... and anyway, they would only let in cigarette smoke from outside, thanks to the other residents puffing away from morn till night. There was only one toilet on the ground floor for 5 rooms and their 40-odd residents AND all the flotsam and jetsam from the other floors who happened by. NOT very nice! In fact, I think this would've been probably the least attractive hostel in Europe!

Still, we got used to it... going for our showers and ablutions early in the morning before anybody could mess up the place :) And really, once I'd kinda adjusted mentally to the circumstances, the plus points showed up - friendly roomies from different countries every night... Spain, USA, Canada, Japan, China - that was fun, talking to ‘em all. They usually stayed about 2 nights, max - and since we were staying 4 nights, began to feel like a veteran after the second night! :)

The first two days the three of us wandered around Brussels - or tried to, anyway. Technically we werent lost because we knew exactly where we were... usually about a half-hour's walk from our hostel! But the annoying part was how we couldn’t seem to find ANYTHING we went to look for! :) Streets were marked on the maps, but not apparently on the street itself - no signs. We had to go to the Free University because Ramya needed to meet a couple of people... after asking a few people how to get there (no satisfactory reply, or misdirections) and listening for 5 minutes to a completely incomprehensible Metro employee - I couldnt decide if it was Flemish or French he was speaking- we decided to take a taxi - and a good thing too, or we might never have reached the damn university!

Oh, the traffic in Brussels... it's horrendous! Not the amount of it, but the attitude - people dont bother to stop for pedestrians even if the little green man glows - it's a bit like Madras in that you have to stick your hand out in a "stop" gesture and run across, hoping the car wont run you down anyway! The two most common sounds in Brussels are tyres screeching as the drivers accelerate, and - no surprise this - ambulance/police sirens!

The city centre is quite nice (though I could appreciate it only after the weather improved!)... lovely buildings. Unfortunately, acres of very unlovely concrete as well. There were hardly any flowers to be seen - and when you think of England or Amsterdam, which have flowers everywhere, it's a bit depressing. There are lots of eateries, mostly Italian or Greek, in and around the city centre. The Turkish ones all seemed to be concentrated in the Botanique area - specifically, in the streets behind and around our hostel. I think the hostel was right on the edge of a not-quite-savoury area... and we found it rather unnerving to be stared at unblinkingly by dark-eyed, rather thuggish looking Turks, and hardly any women in sight - and those that were wore Muslim clothes, voluminous and all-covering.Did I mention that you get really good sandwiches in Brussels? The choice is unlimited if you're a non-veggie; they just stare at you disbelievingly when you insist on "vegetarian only" :) And man, the sandwiches are huge! After the first couple of times, Ramya and I would order one and have it cut in half - that was more than enough, really.
Toilets were quite a rarity, really... no public toilets that we ever found, nor even any signs for them. And in most places, you had to pay 30 cents to use the toilet. Anjali pointed out only a zillion times that in Chicago and most places in America, toilets are free and there are water fountains every 10 feet and nobody charges you for it! I was almost ready to pay for her ticket back, if only to shut her up :) In any case, if you were to believe all she said, Chicago must be Paradise on earth, and its inhabitants angels. Not fallen ones, either! ha!

The guildhouses (buildings that housed various merchants' guilds, with very elaborately decorated outer facades - almost royal) were impressive - but that most famous of Brussells' statues, the Mannekin Pis (pissing boy), was really tiny! When we saw him, he was clothed... and not very well, either, in ragged green shorts! He's dressed up differently depending on the occasion (like say Valentine's Day) and has more than 600 outfits! Good going for a little 2-foot statue, eh?
Another quite bizarre creation was the Atomium... a building that's built to look like the structure of an atom. Its dimensions are impressive, but we didnt really want to go inside to look at some scientific exhibition. The gardens and trees around the Atomium were actually the first lush greenery that we came across in Brussels, and what a welcome change it was! Especially as it was a lot cooler there than in the city centre.

The one-day trip we made to Luxembourg was more the kind of thing I love... it takes about an hour and a half to get there, and the route is completely beautiful. It takes you up hill and down dale, with thick forests on both sides for some of the way, and the countryside is almost English with all the green meadows. We stopped at a castle (St Anne's) on the way but though the views were spectacular, the minus points were that all the signs and explanations were in French and Flemish, two languages none of us knew.

Had it been in German, I could have coped, but as it is, I dont have much data about the place! They didnt have even the tourist literature in English - pah! Just like the French (or the Belgians) to be so arrogantly insular. One thing I did understand was that it was owned by hunting enthusiasts, because most of the rooms were full of stuffed and mounted animals and birds - boars, deer, wolves, all kinds of pretty colourful birds - and even the skulls of dead animals. Pretty gruesome, really. Not my cuppa tea, anyway.

Luxembourg is the most picturesque, beautiful little country... it's also one of the smallest - 82 km long and about 58 km wide, I think. It was a fortress in medieval times, and the huge, solid walls that you find here and there are in use even now - though not as a fortress. It's the headquarters of the translators for the various EU languages, and there are dozens of modern buildings being built to accommodate various EU offices and banks. The population of Luxembourg is only about 450,000 - and about 18000 people come in everyday to work from France, Belgium and Germany, its neighbours.

It's a very, VERY expensive city, however. And looks like it, too!

We managed to visit one more city in Belgium - Bruges. It used to be a major inland port and financial centre in the medieval ages... in fact, the word "bourse" originated here. But as the port got more and more silted up, traders moved on to ports in Amsterdam and Rotterdam and other places, and Bruges lost its importance. Its appeal now is that most of the town is almost exactly as it used to be hundreds of years ago.

Bruges is also very famous for lace. We saw a lace-maker at work - my GOODNESS it's complicated. They use upto 250 bobbins with the finest thread to make the finest lace... less fine lace uses fewer bobbins. Lacemakers have to go to lace-making school for upto 8 years! No wonder it's so expensive.

Actually when we went to Bruges, it was absolutely jam-packed with tourists - think of Ranganathan Street! Yes, actually as crowded as that! Our guide said even he'd never seen it as teeming, and he had to hold up his umbrella, yellow handle up, so that we could locate him in the throngs :) Still, it's a lovely little town – the buildings have brightly coloured and decorated facades - in fact, some of them seem to be two-dimensional, especially when you see them all in a row, side by side. I loved the quaint little bridges and the river that flowed through the town. There were boat rides to be had, but there wouldnt have been the GHOST of a chance of getting on without at least a two-hour wait, so we had to forget it. About the same could be said for the horse-drawn carriages that clopped their way around. Though tourism is the major earner for Bruges now, I wouldn’t like to be a resident there... imagine a place where you can hardly drive on the road - never mind drive, you cant even cycle! And walking involves lots of ducking and dodging to sidestep other tourists!

All around Brussels and Bruges there are loads of chocolate shops and lace shops, all claiming to have the authentic thing. But quite a lot of the lace is apparently made in Asia... you have to be very careful not to buy junk and pay through your nose for the privilege as well! As for the chocolates, I've never seen so many beautiful shapes and names, but I wasnt much tempted to try 'em out. Even the smell of chocolate can get too much.

And talking about chocolate, we went to the chocolate museum in Brussels... they could do with more enthusiastic employees, to start with, but it was allright. What impressed me were the chocolate sculptures there - hats and dresses and jewellery! None of it edible, of course, or for sale, and all of it behind glass - understandably enough, I suppose.

We left Brussels the same way we entered it - in a welter of confusion! We'd started from the hostel early enough, around 9.30am, in case we got lost or missed our way or something. Our flight was at 1.30pm, but we had to be there at least by 1pm. We took a taxi down to the station in perfectly good order, checked the train timings and destinations and went to buy a ticket. The ticket-salesperson was as true to Belgian form as we'd experienced - he didnt smile, was barely civil, didnt even look at us, but he gave us the tickets for the 10.47 express we'd asked for, which we thought went to Charleroi.

What we didnt know (and he didnt inform us) was that there are two airports in Brussels - one's Brussels airport (duh) and the other's Charleroi. The 10.47 that we'd wanted to take went to Brussels airport, not Charleroi - but he didnt see fit to put us right on that.

So we got on the train at 10.47, marvelling at how easy it'd all been and congratulating each other for being so efficient. That disappeared completely when the ticket collector came around and said we were headed in the wrong direction for the wrong airport, and we had to return to Brussels Centraal station!! And of course, this being the express train, it didnt stop anywhere but at Brussels airport. So we had to take the train back to Brussels Noord, and change trains again. Finally from Noord, we took a taxi to the airport and got there at 1.10pm - just in time! Charleroi airport didnt look any better that time either... passengers for 2-3 flights were all herded into one room (overheated as always) surrounded by boards and "men working" signs - to the last, Brussels was under renovation!

Germany/Holland trip - April 2002

2009-01-17T08:09:00.000-08:00

Found a couple of old emails about my trip to Germany in 2002, which my sister had sent back to me as I didnt have a copy. This was pre-blog days, so the travelogue was just an email to friends. Thought I'd post them on this site and make them a public and permanent (ish) record.

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April 2002

This weekend just past (Easter time), I got to use my European Schengen visa for the first time...

Pete took me to Germany, because everybody had a long weekend here – from Good Friday to Monday, which was a bank or public holiday. We got back just this morning, after four really lovely days. The best part was that the weather was very fine, too... sunny and clear and not too cold.

Pete decided that we'd take the car on the ferry to Holland, and then drive from there to Germany. The trip to Hoek von Holland (Hook of Holland) took about 7 hours by ferry. From there we (that is to say, Pete) drove down to Cologne, in Germany. My god, the first thing - and the most impressive - you notice about Germany is the motorways, the autobahns. The speed at which the vehicles go is fantastic. I used to think it was quite fast in England (about 70mph officially on the motorway, but most cars do about 90) but Germany must be the most lenient where speed is concerned... can you imagine, Pete was almost chased down the autobahns by dozens of cars, and he was doing an incredible 110 miles per hour (about 190 kmph, I think). Is it any wonder that German race drivers are the best in the world??? They have a headstart on every other country's champs! I must say it was great to be going that fast, though - and boy, it certainly saves on travel time! But Ithink Pete was rathe r startled to find that cars were sort of queuing up behind him to pass... he's not used to being less than the fastest maniac on the road, I guess!!

Anyway, to get back to Cologne... I found my German came in very useful in translating the traffic signs and things, and in understand what the Germans said, even if my spoken language wasnt exactly fluent! :) I think I was a pretty good navigator! I'm certainly getting better at reading maps. We drove right into Cologne city centre and found a hotel right opposite the main railway station. Cologne is a very beautiful city, situated on both sides of the Rhine river and connected by some rather nice bridges.

Our hotel room balcony looked out at the railway station - goodness, the trains are very colourful! Red and yellow, blue and yellow, black and orange... rather like butterflies! :) And right behind the railway station is the Cologne cathedral, a great Gothic building that soars into the air in spiky towers. It looks like something escaped from a fairy tale... very incongruous between all those modern buildings, especially as we could only see the tall spires. The cathedral is absolutely glorious inside, with huge panels of stained glass showing scenes from the Bible and Jesus' life. Since it was a sunny day, the glass absolutely glowed - it was incredibly beautiful.

The rest of the cathedral's interior looks almost drab in comparison, but there are some lovely carvings of angels and things if you look closely in the dingy light. I guess if they put in bright modern lamps, the beauty of the stained glass would be lost. Gothic architecture is unreal... the eye just keeps going up because the towers and pillars and everything are so narrow and tall and spiky. There's no sense of breadth, just height.

There are also some Roman ruins in Cologne... we didnt get to do the official Roman road walking tour in the city because it was not at a convenient time - or something like that. Anyway, we walked around the city centre to the different plazas and found some Roman relics on our own. There's the remnants of a really huge Roman sewer system - yeah I know, of all things to walk into, a drainage system!! :) But the tunnel is man-height and of course it's bone dry and clean now (but who knows, I might have some ancient Roman dust on my shoe!!). It was also rather cool to see the original stone walls and all... real Roman ruins!!!

Cologne has lots of very nice street-side cafes... and on mild summer evenings, I guess they get really crowded with people. It wasnt too bad when we went because it's only spring now and the good weather was unexpected... not many tourists were about! :) Actually, the second notable thing about Germany is that there seem to be many many more non-Aryans than actual Germans around... plenty of Muslim Turks and Greeks, Chinese and some Negroes as well. Oh well, I guess they were very liberal with asylum-seekers, after all.

Since Bonn is only 21 km from Cologne (trust me on this, since you go on the motorway, you're in Bonn almost before you start!!) :) Bonn is not as pretty as Cologne, but it's also situated on both sides of the Rhine. Most people go for long walks by the Rhine... it's very pleasant, and you get to look at the fabulously elaborate bungalows and mansions and penthouses which look out over the Rhine from a height - they're all situated at a height, and have lots of trees hiding them from the common people! :) Not that any of the Germans look common... they all seem to have great new cars and dress very well - I didnt see much evidence of poverty or dirt. On the other hand I didnt actually go anywhere near what could be called the seamier side of the cities.

We took a detour into the German countryside on our trip back to Holland... the German countryside is rather different from the English countryside - I'm not sure exactly how, though it's just as pretty, and the houses are very nice too. One thing I did notice is that the fields there dont have borders - whereas in England, they usually are bordered with low stone walls or hedges cut to size.

Since we had almost all of Monday to kill (the ferry back was at 10pm), I persuaded Pete to drive to Amsterdam. We picked up a Dutch hitchhiker on the way, since he wanted a lift into Amsterdam. We thought he might be useful in directing us there, but he was rather less than that! :) He didnt know the way in, he didnt know where there were parking areas in the city centre, he didnt know where the central station was, and he didnt even know what some of the street signs meant, when I asked! Silly fellow. It was a little difficult navigating in Holland but not impossible, because I could usually make out what the words meant, even though I dont know Dutch... but it's fairly similar to German, and that helped.

Anyway, since Monday was a bank holiday, there were very few empty parking lots in the city centre. But finally Pete found a tiny space behind a trailer somewhere, and squeezed the Landrover into it - he just about got all four wheels in! :) That man can make the Landrover almost sit up and beg... what a driver! Someday I hope to be able to be a 10th as good! :)

Guess what the first thing you'll notice about Amsterdam? No, not the flowers... the bike roads! Cyclists are given as much importance as cars and lorries, so ALL streets have a cycle-path and at least one car lane, and most big roads have tram lines as well. In fact, you could say your chances of being run over are threefold - cars, cycles and trams! :)

Amsterdam the city was jam-packed with tourists and locals. If I thought Germany had lots of foreigners (or people of non-German descent, anyway), Amsterdam beats that hollow. Actually it seems like it's been taken over by the Chinese... a large chunk of the city centre is commanded by the Chinese - shops, businesses, eateries, even Chinese souvenir shops! What a brilliant idea - buy authentic Chinese buddhas and other trinkets in the middle of Europe. Ha! Anyway, there are many people of Jamaican/African/Chinese/Philippine extract in Holland, it seems... many of the Dutch are mixed-race offspring.

Back to the city... it's full of long narrow streets, chocabloc with shops and eateries... the lovely thing about it is that there are canals all over the place, and little squares and bridges overlooking the waterways where people can sit and have coffee and watch the barges and boats going by. And then there are the "weed" cafes, where you can smoke cannabis – the drug is legal in Holland! It smells dreadful, I must say - rather like a cigar gone bad. Pooh! And cigars are enough to make you sick!

I got quite tired of the city... it's too crowded and noisy for my tastes. I did feel bad that I couldnt go to a single museum, but they were shut because of the bank holiday. Never mind, I'll do that in May!

Anyhow... we didnt have the time to do a round-the-city tour on a barge, so I elected to go driving into the countryside and take the long way back to Hoek von Holland to board the ferry. So we took off to a place called Haarlem... the route from Haarlem to another place further down towards Hoek von Holland, called Leiden, is the main flower area. It's too early now for all the flowers to come out, but we managed to find some in a little town called Keukenhof. That's the main town for visitors and tourists who want to see the famed tulip fields.

The tulips were only just flowering - we could see the little buds, but they hadnt opened out yet. Still, there were huge rows of bright yellow and cream daffodils, and wonderful purple flowers with an amazing fragrance, and some vivid red ones... I cant wait to get back in May and see whole fields of 'em!

The way back to Hoek of Holland, the route we took, also went through The Hague! :) That's one heck of beautiful city, but man, it looks posh. The houses are huge mansions, with loads of trees and parks and things around them, and every other car seems to be a Porsche or BMW... unfortunately we didnt have time to see anything of interest there, but my overall impression of the Hague is - plenty of money!!! :)

Well, that's about it... we made it to the ferry about right on time, and got here this morning.

Concert in the Arena - Roger Waters

2008-05-20T06:18:00.001-07:00

Last year, Pete saw Roger Waters play live in a concert at Earl’s Court in London, courtesy a VIP ticket which was my Christmas present to him (and thanks to which I’ve probably earned Brownie points for life, heh). As he never tires of telling me, he got there way ahead of the opening time, was allowed in because of his VIP status, and actually got to watch Roger Waters and Nick Mason rehearse before the show – a sort of private performance, if you will, because apparently there was nobody else in the auditorium. Not just that, he shook hands with them – the awesome significance of which action can only be understood by diehard fans of Pink Floyd.

Of course, by sitting there, he missed the VIPs-only exclusive pre-concert dinner, but he considers that no loss at all, given what he got to see and hear.

But ever since that concert, he’s been regretting that I didn’t go with him, as he had enjoyed the whole performance so very much and thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. (I’ll go with that once-in-a-lifetime thing – the reason I got only one VIP ticket was because it was so damn expensive, I couldn’t afford two! And since he’s a bigger fan of Roger Waters than me, it seemed only fair that he should go. That said, had it been David Gilmour, that ticket would have been for me. Actually I’d probably have bought two tickets, retirement fund be damned!)

Anyway, with my mother and my cousin both visiting with us at the moment, Pete decided that he would give us a taste of the experience of a lifetime by booking tickets for the Roger Waters concert at the O2 Arena (formerly the Millennium Dome aka the Multi-billion Pound White Elephant) in London. No, they weren’t VIP tickets – we ~~have~~ had only one retirement fund. But they were good enough tickets that our seats yesterday were directly facing the stage, about a fifth of the way up to the nosebleed section.

Amma and Hema had both been primed by Pete for two days before the show – watching DVDs of albums and previous concerts, documentaries on how this or that album was made, and listening to Pink Floyd on the music system as well, with pop quizzes after each programme on what they had seen and heard (just kidding). Amma was in any case reasonably familiar with Floyd’s more famous albums from previous such instructive sessions with Pete (over the last 2-3 years, that is), so she was definitely looking forward to the concert. As for me, I was enthusiastic as well, although probably not at the level of excitement that would have been generated by a Dave Gilmour concert.

The SatNav took us all the way to the O2 Arena with no problems faced apart from the traffic and speed limits imposed in London. We were there fairly early, so we were able to park with no trouble. Since we had 2-3 hours to kill, Pete, who had done some research on the Arena, suggested a river trip up and down the Thames on one of the local ferries – Thames Clippers. To my amazement, the tickets for the two-hour round-trip for the four of us amounted to just £18 – less than £5 per person. None of us had been on the boat before, so it was a new experience. And what fun it was!

The ferry was practically empty at the QE2 Pier, which is the starting point from the O2 Arena. The seats were surprisingly comfortable, but we chose to go out to the rear of the ferry, which was not enclosed, and look out at the wharves we passed, pointing out the top bits of various famous buildings that we could see, for Hema’s edification. The ferry took an hour to get to the turnaround point of the London Eye – and if there were no speed limits imposed for boats on the Thames in the central area of London, I’m betting the ferry could have cut a good 20 minutes off the trip, both ways. In any case, slow or fast, it was fun to be on and probably the cheapest way to get to various tourist points. Next time we might just park the car at the Arena (£20 for 24 hours) and make our way from there by ferry.

Anyhow… back to the Arena and the concert. At first, seeing the milling crowds outside was a bit worrying – how long might it take just ot get in? – but the O2 employees were very efficient and the lines dwindled down swiftly. The enormous auditorium was very nearly filled to capacity. Outside there were food stalls - everything from stir fries to carvery bars. I didn’t check the prices of anything for two reasons… one, we’d brought a packed lunch, and two, the lines at the counters were quite daunting. I was also quite surprised that people were allowed to bring food and drink into the auditorium.

As for the concert itself, it began pretty much on time. The music, as expected, was fantastic, with plenty of Floyd favourites belted out with the entire crowd joining in – an awesome depth of sound that had to be heard to be believed. In fact, I doubt you heard it consciously – it was more like experiencing it in your bones, right down to your tiniest cells!

The main beef I had was with the lighting. I dunno if it was in a bid to stop people taking decent photographs, but the smoke machines were constantly going, making the air very hazy, and the spotlights focused on the stage were either red or blue. So, although there were two large TV screens on either side of the stage, apart from the backdrop of the stage itself, we never did get to see proper close-ups of Roger Waters and the others – neither their faces nor their instruments being played. They were all in blue shadows or a violent shade of red.

Only the VIP rows right down by the stage would have had a proper view of Waters and his co-players. Which, I thought, was pretty damned unfair to all the hundreds of others who weren’t VIPs. Yes, I know the concert was mainly about the music, which everybody could hear (hell, they couldn’t NOT hear it!)… but this was a live concert, after all, and we had all gone to watch Waters play as much as to hear him play. The organisers could have used the big backdrop to show the band members at least some of the time, instead of running all those visuals and images and whatnot. I would have absolutely LOVED to watch the amazing saxophonist close-up on the screen.

That said, the special effects - the flying Spaceman and the flying Pink Pig and especially the laser prism, which did a proper job of splitting a beam of light into a perfectly gorgeous rainbow that swirled all around the auditorium - were fantastic to see. The Spaceman in fact floated close enough to us that the people in the row below were able to actually touch it – too bad that in doing that, the Spaceman got pushed away from us!

The band played all my favourite Floyd songs – Wish You Were Here, Money, Us and Them, Shine and of COURSE Another Brick In The Wall – among others, so I was thrilled to bits. It was glorious! Amma and Hema enjoyed the entire show too... and actually amma regretted not knowing the lyrics and having to stay silent while the audience roared the words and stomped the floor and thrust their arms in the air and generally had a fantastic time. I guess Pete will have to get amma the lyrics for the songs and have her memorise them… perhaps we’ll be having a Pink Floyd karaoke party soon, who knows! Heheh.

It’s a pity that Roger Waters (according to rumours) has given his last concert in the UK, prior to hanging up his mic (or guitar, whatever). I can only hope that Dave Gilmour hasn’t come to any such decision because one of my greatest wishes is to see him in concert, live. Maybe even on VIP tickets. That would really be a dream come true, if it happens.

One week in Seattle

2008-01-30T04:29:00.001-08:00

British Airways has everybody firmly by the short and curlies, when it comes to a direct flight to Seattle from the UK. In an effort to break that painfully expensive grip, this time I decided we would leave from Manchester airport rather than Heathrow. Accordingly we booked our tickets with BMI (British Midlands) to Chicago, changing to United Airlines at Chicago for the second and final leg to Seattle.

On the face of it, it seemed like a really good idea. The drive to Manchester was less than half the time it takes to drive to Heathrow from Shrewsbury. (Okay, that’s because Manchester is less than half the distance from Shrewsbury to London, but still…) At the airport we weren’t faced with utter chaos or milling crowds, and were able to check in without any hassle - especially as I knew this time to provide my sister’s address to the check-in lady. I also bought two pairs of posh, baby-soft and very warm Italian leather gloves at a discount, which made things better still.

There was a mildly alarming moment when we stepped into a lift to get to the Departures area, and found a sign on the far wall that said in bright red "LIFT OUT OF ORDER". We stared at one another for a couple of seconds, but before we could wonder what to do, the lift started off with a slight jerk and took us as per normal to the right floor. So THAT was all right. I wonder if someone was playing a joke, or if the lift was expected to be out of order at some point.

Anyway, the flight left on time. A nice touch provided by BMI was free bottles of chilled water for the passengers, and a rack of glossy magazines at the entrance to the plane - again, free. It was really nice to be provided some additional reading material, and I imagine that most people would leave the magazines behind for collection and the eventual entertainment of future passengers.

Not only that, the vegetarian food I was served for lunch was delicious. Yes, actually delicious! A piping hot pumpkin risotto, and afterwards we were offered ice-cream. I’ve never been offered ice-cream on any flight to anywhere before, much less given a choice of flavours. Ok, so the choice was vanilla or chocolate, not exactly the most exotic varieties… but they were Ben & Jerry’s ice-creams, premium stuff. And very nice the vanilla was, too.

(Anybody wonder why I’m bothering to devote so much time and effort on plain-jane icecreams? Anybody thinking dear god this woman needs to get a life and stop waxing lyrical about basic ice-creams? I’m right there with you… it’s just that I was so taken by surprise - an airline meal that ranked as yummy, with ice cream to follow! Ok, no more.)

Yeah, so it seemed worthwhile to not travel by British Airways. The flight was boring as flights normally are. I wasn’t particularly tempted by the movies on offer, especially as it took me a while to figure out how to keep the damn earphones hooked to my ears. They weren’t the usual button-ended ones, these were large and flat and had a curvy plastic bit that pulled out and went behind the ear. Or something like that. Anyway, by the time the earphones stopped falling off the moment I gave up holding them in place, most of the programmes were well into their stuff. I ended up watching a really rather bloody movie called “3.10 to Yuma”. The boorish Ozzie actor Russell Crowe did nothing to endear himself to me with the smirky murderous character he played. (I wonder if he had to act at all – maybe that was the real him.) I kinda sorta maybe like Christian Bale, so I was able to watch the movie… but then he died at the end and it put me off watching anything else.

The rest of the flight was not memorable for anything other than cramped quarters. And we landed in Chicago right on time. Outside it looked sunny and bright, like summer. Of course that was an illusion, because the outside temperature was below freezing. It really was cold. Then we found that we had to collect our baggage and re-check them in for our flight to Seattle. This was not as painful a process as it sounds - we only had to take the suitcases over to the United Airlines baggage attendant, and he zapped them and sent them - and us - on our way. So that was another bit of all right.

Thus far, it all seemed too good to be true. And it was. We had about two hours to wait for our flight to Seattle, but were informed - completely unintelligibly - by a UA lady that our plane had a problem and was being checked by mechanics. Basically, nobody knew when the flight would take off. Yay. We sat around disconsolately, occasionally looking up when the UA lady garbled some more updates, aware only that we werent going to be flying anytime soon. Eventually, after about 2 hours again, we were asked to board the plane.

You'd think this would mean that the flight was ready to take off. Not so. After we'd sat on the runway for half an hour, the pilot informed us that due to the previous problem, some baggage had been left unloaded as the baggage dept hadnt been told that the problem was sorted. It turned out, after some more time, that NONE of the baggage had been loaded! We looked out of the window to find that there was just one man who was loading up the plane, one suitcase at a time, after zapping each one manually. This was going to take forever.

Then our friendly pilot came on the PA system yet again, explaining that it might take a while longer to load the items as the solitary man could only work for 10 minutes at a time because of the cold weather, and he had to take 5 minutes off after that due to health and safety regulations. Okay, so this was going to take forever and possibly a few days extra. Incredibly, as it turned out, not only was the luggage not loaded, the plane hadnt even been re-fuelled! So much for the efficiency of United Airlines at Chicago.

The flight to Seattle was 4 and a half hours of sheer boredom. The less said about it the better.

At Seattle-Tacoma, my sister had been waiting for quite a while as she had not known about the delay at Chicago. In fact, she had not known that we were flying United Airlines, and she was a bit frazzled because nobody at Sea-Tac had even heard of BMI-baby, much less any information about incoming BMI flights from Chicago! However, once we arrived, our baggage also appeared fairly quickly, so we were able to get home without much hassle.

I've never seen so woefully bare a fridge in my life as I did at my sister's - the hollow, echoing emptiness of the interior was emphasised further by the size of the fridge! So the first thing we did the next day was go shopping for groceries, starting with milk. No wonder my mother prefers to be there and make sure that the fridge is kept fed and watered! Not to mention my sister as well.

Radha's idea was that we would drop her off at work in the morning, then take the car to do whatever we wanted to do. This would have worked out better (for me) had Pete not needed to get on with his programming as well. So we only went out on two days - in the daytime, that is. One of the days was by default as there was going to be a powercut in the area from 10am-3pm. There wouldnt have been much point to staying at home with no heating and no way to use the computer. So that day was earmarked for driving down (or up - whichever's correct) to Seattle's city centre and doing some sightseeing.

After dropping Radha off at Microsoft, Pete and I navigated our way downtown (does downtown mean city centre in Americanese?) without too much hassle. The drive down was slightly hairy as Pete was driving in peak Seattle traffic in an unfamiliar car on the wrong side of the road (or rather, on the right) while being totally new to the road network. Still, we made good time and even managed to find a parking space fairly close to the Seattle Space Needle. I wanted to check out the Duck Tour, which had been recommended, but unfortunately it was only running Friday-Sunday, perhaps because it wasnt peak tourist time.

So we went first to the Science Fiction Museum - well, with Pete being such a huge sci-fi fan, where else could we go? The building housing the museum was strangely designed in flowing curves reminiscent of - what else, cities in outer space as conceived by writers and artists. They were also very brightly coloured - red, purple, sky blue, glittering in the winter sunshine. The building was most certainly eye-catching.

The familiar strains of the "Star Trek" tune? melody? sounds? ushered us in. Tickets were $15 each but they were worth it as it gave us entry to the Sci-Fi Museum as well as the Experience Music Project. The Sci-Fi museum was reasonably fun, setting out the history and rise of science fiction writing, biographies of famous sci-fi authors, first edition books, and so on. Also lots of costumes and props used by actors in famous sci-fi TV series and so on. The evolution of make-believe futuristic guns has to be seen to be believed. The earliest ones looked like very badly made toys. The latest ones look like they could be the prototype for real guns of the future!

Next we went to the Experience Music Project. The first thing to catch our eye was the immense structure of guitars, violins and the occasional accordion - over 500 instruments, I think - some of which were computer-controlled to play gentle plinks and plonks all the time to make the sound of one chord. Unfortunately, photography was not allowed within the building at all whatsoever, so I dont have any way of showing how big and impressive the structure was. I also am not sure what the structure was called, but its creator was a German guy called Trimpin.

One of the permanent exhibitions there was of guitars - from the very first kinds ever invented to the most modern varieties with funky shapes, and everything in between from all over the world. It was quite interesting, even though the most that I know about guitars is that I cant play one. I do enjoy the sound, though, and it was great to see video clips of famous guitarists doing their stuff.

There were two other exhibitions that were featured - one on the contribution of Latinos to American music, and in the Sci-Fi section, sculptural works by an artist called Rik Allen. Cant say I was particularly enamoured of his work theme (futuristic imagery based on sci-fi), but a documentary on how he makes his glass sculptures was very interesting.

However, the bit I liked best was the Sound Lab, where you were given basic how-to-play instructions for the guitar, keyboards and drums. It was good fun because I've never tried the drums and have always wanted to know how they were played. By me, very badly, but it was fun to try. With the piano/keyboards, I discovered that my thumbs were much too short to use. At least an inch too short. I guess I'm never going to be a keyboards genius. I dont much care for piano music, but by god you've got to admire people who can use both hands to play simultaneously and apparently independently! Perhaps you have to start very early? And the guitar-playing experience, I dont even want to talk about it. As for Pete, he was in music heaven. Since he's a DJ, he knew exactly what everything there was for, and he had a gala time trying it all out like a pro. I'm only surprised that it didnt take longer than it did to drag him out of there!

After that we walked to the Seattle Space Needle which was conveniently close by. The restaurant at the top was closed - just as well - and because it was off-season, there was hardly any wait for the lift to take us up some 500 feet to the top. The view from there was stunning, especially as the weather was sunny and clear. Tall snow-covered mountain ranges stood in the distance, with Mt Rainier towering all by itself over everything else. The skyscrapers looked as if they'd been given a good wash, the lake was as blue as could be, boats and yachts sailed about gently (and quietly, from that height!)... I clicked away with my camera until Pete reminded me gently that there was a Starbucks in the cafe. Where there is a Starbucks, there's Pete clamouring for his favourite beverage, so we went in and sat by the large picture windows, looking out over the view. It wasnt the worst way to spend a quiet half hour.

Shopping was the next thing on my agenda. I'd wanted to get a pair of decent sneakers to replace my walking boots for casual wear. The boots are fantastic high-end pricey ones meant for professional hikers etc, very comfortable to wear for long walks and all that, but a royal pain to lace up every time I wanted to go out briefly, even if it was only stepping into the garage. And I wanted a handbag as well. But first I wanted to get a top or t-shirt to replace the jumper I was wearing, as it had picked up a large smear of chocolate all down the front. I dont know how that happened.

Apart from that, I wasnt fussed about getting anything for myself... although I was open to persuasion!

So we took the monorail into Westlake Center, Seattle's huge shopping mall in the middle of the city. The monorail stopped right at the second or third floor entrance into the mall, conveniently. I dived into the first handbag shop I saw and spent the next 30 minutes trying out practically every bag there (it wasnt a very big shop), with Pete pointing out what he considered were suitable candidates. I hate shopping for handbags because invariably I find that the one I buy doesnt look as good as it did before I paid for it. And of COURSE bags carried by other women look better than any of mine. Still, eventually I made my choice.

Then we went on to a clothes shop that had a serious sale going on - 75% off - and found me a T-shirt (which I thankfully changed into). Of course I couldnt stop with a T-shirt, so we also got me a nice posh shirt and an even nicer silk/linen jacket. Sometimes shopping can be fun! The lady at the shop directed us to another place that sold good-quality men's clothes, so we toddled off there to get Pete a coat. Boy was that a posh shop! The salesman there could have talked anybody into buying anything, he was that slick.

The end result was that Pete got a fantastic posh leather jacket at a fantastic posh price that had my jaw coming into sudden contact with my big toe (it hurt!)... but at least I stopped the sales guy from selling my husband one of those ridiculously long and large t-shirts worn by rappers. But while his spiel was on, I had worrying visions of Pete in one of those shirts, wearing a few kilos of bling jewellery and baggy trousers halfway down his backside, with his hands and fingers contorted into those inexplicable positions so beloved of all rappers... ugh. I say it again: UGH! (Yeah, I'm one of those who finds most rap crap.)

Eventually it was time to start back because we had to pick up Radha from her office and then go directly to a pub for the weekly quiz session. That was when we discovered that while it was easy to find downtown, what with plenty of overhead signs that indicated the way to the City Centre, it wasnt so easy to get out of it as there were no helpful signs pointing the way back to Redmond (where Radha's office is). I couldnt read the damn map because we had to keep moving - not that staying still would have helped, because I cant read maps. We could see where we needed to be - way overhead on the bridge across the water - but where we were was in the residential area of god knows where, and apparently heading further inwards.

Somehow or other Pete's homing instincts manouevred us out onto the right Inter-State highway, but we had no idea if were going in the right direction. It appeared that we were rushing headlong towards Vancouver, Canada, however, and that didnt seem right to me. A quick phone call to Radha later, we found that we were going North where we should have been heading South, so it was off the I-S at the next exit and soon we were rushing in the right direction. It was much too late to pick up Radha from her office, so she got a lift to the pub with a colleague and tried to guide us to get there on our own. Finally she sent a text to Pete's phone with the directions and after a wrong turn (my fault) and an unforeseen detour, we reached the pub. Just in time, too, for the quiz was just beginning.

The pub was an English-style one which showed rugby games and served Guinness, so Pete was taken care of. Radha, Pete and I formed a team (we called ourselves "The Latecomers", because we so nearly were) and had fun answering the questions in the various rounds. We did pretty well too, because we came second overall, winning $30 (or something like that) as well as a flurry of bottle-opener keychains. The team that came first - Radha's best friend and companions - beat us by just 3 points. All in all, it was a very enjoyable evening.

Radha's friend Carmen arranged for a wine tasting at the Columbia Winery on the evening before we had to return home. Columbia Winery is one of the many many wineries in and around Seattle and in Washington State. This was an outing that we all knew Pete would enjoy tremendously, and so it turned out. We met up with Carmen, her husband Jim and one of his friends and proceeded to sip at various wines. As always, I couldnt tell the difference between the various wines in terms of aroma, but I guess I knew which ones I liked and which I didnt like quite as much. Basically, medium dry white is good - reds are out on account of even a little bit gives me thumping headaches and sweet dessert wines are TOTALLY out. It always makes me want to giggle when wine aficionados talk about wines that deliver lingering notes of cherry cola, roasted espresso bean, charcoal, tobacco, cough syrup and possibly my mother's vattha kuzhambu. It just seems so pretentious... although I'm sure it's not and people are talking through their oh-so-discerning palates and not just through their hat. Just put it down to distressingly lower-class ignorance on my part.

Anyway, we came away with four bottles of wine, which pleased both me and Pete but for different reasons. He was pleased to have got 4 bottles, I was pleased that he'd stopped with four bottles, so all was well in our world. A week was much too short a trip to Seattle, but I guess we'll be going back there to sample more of its delights. I havent been to Mt Rainier, for instance, and Pete hasnt been to all of the hundreds of wineries in and around Seattle!

As always, our trip back home wasnt without its share of drama. We left Seattle on time and reached Chicago without any hassle. When we disembarked from the plane and entered Terminal 1, Pete spotted a row of computer/Internet points and decided that he would recharge his laptop right then and there. We were under the impression that we had to collect our baggage and re-check it in for the flight back to Manchester. We had less than two hours before take-off. Anyway, like an idiot, Pete suggested that I should pick up our baggage and meet him back at the computer point, after which we would take the train to Terminal 5. Like an even bigger idiot, I went off to do as he said despite some misgivings.

We'd both forgotten that once out of the security area, I would not be able to get back to where Pete was without going through security all over again. And that was only for passengers who were departing from that terminal. Not only that, I had my passport and Pete's with me while he, for some odd reason, had the boarding passes. He didnt even know which terminal we were leaving from, or which airlines!

Anyway, off I went downstairs to the baggage area and waited and waited for our suitcases to appear. Finally I went and asked an official why our baggage hadnt arrived yet. He said that they'd have been checked through directly from Seattle. The re-checking-in bit was only on arrival in the USA, at the first point of entry. Huh! If only I'd known that at the start...!

So I went back upstairs to get Pete - only to find, of course, that I couldnt get back inside past security check. I asked at an information booth about how to contact Pete, and was told to ask any United Airlines employee.

I cornered a UA woman who was just standing around and explained the whole situation - husband plugged to computer inside, got to get to Terminal 5 to catch flight to UK leaving in less than an hour, no way of contacting said husband, very VERY urgent matter, pls help - and she asked me to page him through the paging phone. Great! I rushed to the paging phone, but there was nobody on the other end. Back I went to another UA employee, only this time I managed to choose a halfwit, because he simply said "I've no idea what to do" and then studiously avoided my eye thereafter!

Now really in a panic - our flight left in 40 minutes! - I went through the whole situation with yet another UA employee. She was much more sympathetic, although she couldnt help me herself. I had to speak to one of the folks who were checking in baggage. And no, I couldnt jump the line. So I waited an agonizing 10 more minutes and related the whole story once again to the man at the counter. He, thank god, was not only intelligent AND sympathetic but also actually proactive. After confirming that we had indeed arrived from Seattle and were going on to Manchester, he issued me a security pass.

I thought the pass meant that I would be allowed through rightaway - but nothing of the sort. I had to go through security all over again, taking off my coat and shoes and belt and thali and shoving my handbag and everything through the X-ray machine. Then the whole thing in reverse, practically like getting dressed again. By this time I was certain that we would miss the flight, I didnt know if Pete was even still there or whether he'd decided to go on to Terminal 5 and catch up with me there... to say that I was distressed would have been putting it mildly! But, thank goodness, Pete hadnt left the area. I threw myself at him, babbling tearfully about security men and time and flights and everything else, while he steered me towards the exit.

We rushed downstairs to the Arrivals floor, following the signs to "Train to Terminals" - but it turned out that the lift to the train level was out of order. To our disbelief, we had to go back upstairs to Departures and run up the escalator - which was ALSO out of order - to get to the train level. Luckily there was a train right there, which we thankfully got into. By the time we reached Terminal 5, there were 20 minutes to departure.

Naturally enough, at Security Check, we got the one security guy probably in the entire terminal who was zealous enough to go through each and every item in my handbag. I wasnt allowed to touch my bag or anything he took out of it, or even point out anything to him. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and opened everything that looked suspicious - my lip gloss, eye liner pen, miniature perfume bottle, hand cream tube, etc, looking at each item, sniffing it, peering at it from different angles and then meticulously setting each one aside. Finally he looked up and started to say "Ma'am if you dont have a transparent plastic bag, we'll have to..." - but Pete and I both knew what was coming, so I said "Yeah, keep it all!" at the same time as Pete said "Yeah, we've got a plane to catch" ... and then we grabbed my handbag and legged it from there.

Our Boarding Gate was 15 out of a possible 21, so we ran like maniacs past the moving walkways which would have made things quicker, but - yep, those were out of order. We could hear our names being announced "last call for Mr and Mrs Edwards" on the PA system, and believe me, it's not worth the excitement to be the passengers who are paged!

We made it to Gate 15 in the nick of time. I suspect that if a BMI employee with a walkie-talkie (or other form of communicaton) who saw us thundering down had not informed ahead that Mr and Mrs Edwards were nearly there, they would have closed the gate and we would have missed the flight. Phew!

With a start like that, I guess I should have known what to expect from the flight back. I sat next to the fidgetiest pre-teenager you could hope to find; it was all sharp elbows in my side and the odd kick. Then the meal they served me, in dismal contrast to the in-flight one I'd had the first time, was atrocious. Soggy boiled vegetables with bullet rice and tomato paste. And for a snack, I actually got a perfectly hard, perfectly dry little bagel. Just that. One hard little bagel. So I returned it to the steward. (He deserved it, the poncy little swish.) We had some pretty terrible turbulence as well, so all in all, it wasnt the pleasantest of long-distance flights. But... no pain no gain, and I'll take the pain of long-distance travel any day for the gains at journey's end!

Osijek (Croatia) - Part 3

2007-11-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

CONTINUED FROM Part 2

CLICK HERE FOR PART 1

A short drive from Osijek is the town of Vukovar, which was pretty much destroyed in every way possible during the war – economically, culturally, infrastructurally. Its town centre was reduced to actual rubble. It’s limping its way back to normality, at least on the surface – a lot of the buildings are new, but for every two buildings that are new, there are the broken, bullet-riddled, shell-damaged remnants of older buildings that give a horrible insight into how awful the damage was to this town. The water tower has been left with all its battle scars intact as a reminder of the horrors of war. An impressive idea – except that I found little, sometimes cheerfully colourful, mini replicas of the damaged water tower being sold as tourist souvenirs in the shopping malls of Osijek. To my mind it took away from the gravitas of the whole tower-as-reminder plan. On the other hand, I suppose anything that makes money for Osijek and Vukovar (and other affected towns) should be seen as a plus… I don’t know.

There is a memorial to the war victims in Vukovar – a large white cross on the banks of the Danube. It was sobering to see people bring lighted candles in little bottles and wreaths of flowers to lay at the foot of the cross. Despite the bright sunny day, it didn’t feel cheerful… said mood not helped by seeing the shell and bullet damage to nearby buildings. I felt uncomfortable taking photos of it – it felt like an intrusion into the lives and memories of the people who had lost loved ones, and for whom the scars of the war were not of long ago, but of the very recent past. I thought it might be disrespectful for us as tourists to be clicking away merrily, so I didn’t even raise my camera. But Ozana asked us to stand with the cross in the background while she took a couple of photos of us, so I guess the discomfort was more in my mind than anywhere else.

Apparently the repair work and normality are not reflective of the relationship between the Serbs and Croats – I guess it’s about the same as the uneasy truce between Hindus and Muslims in the troubled parts of India, with the Serbs and the Croats living in hostile segregation, and their kids going to segregated schools. It’s a pity, but understandable… when you’ve lost family and friends, it can’t be easy to forgive and forget.

With Pete being such a big wino – er, wine connoisseur, I mean – a winery simply had to be on Zarko’s itinerary. And so it turned out. We went to a winery in a little town (village?) called Iloc, where there is also an 18th century palace (of sorts) – large, pink and pretty. Much damaged, again, but at least restoration works were going on. There are plenty of damaged buildings that either haven’t been repaired because of lack of funds, or will never be repaired because nobody knows who owns it and the original ownership documents have gone forever. I asked Ozana if somebody with money could offer to completely re-build any severely damaged building (especially if it’s situated in a place with great views), but she said that unless they could prove ownership by providing the original paperwork/documentation, nobody would be allowed to just appropriate anything. Not even the government itself could take over a derelict place that had once been privately owned. Since the former owners of many properties might well have been killed – or fled the country – along with all family, and with all provenance to the properties lost as well, chances are that the buildings will never be repaired or rebuilt. I don’t know whether that should be seen as a shame or as justice rendered to the former owners.

Anyway, back to Iloc, the pink palace and the winery. Near the damaged pink castle was an (ongoing) archaeological dig with the remains of a 15th century buliding visible. The views from the top of the bank by the dig were beautiful – the serene Danube, the trees just beginning to turn colour, the clear blue skies and sunshine made for perfect photographs. It was also quiet and peaceful, with no noise from traffic or anything but a few birds. And us. But we did shut up for a bit. Really.

The winery was only a small one open to the public, and again, there was no information for non-Croatian tourists. The nice lady at the office took us to the massive cellar and told us to go down and have a look at the even more massive wine barrels. The biggest barrels held about 15,000 litres of wine each, and if Pete could have taken it home somehow, he would have. (Even if it meant stealing.) I have no idea whether the barrels were made out in the open and then taken down to the cellar and filled (likely), or whether they were made in the cellar itself (not very likely). Either way it seems unimaginable to me that they could have been moved, they would have been SO heavy… (even given the evidence of rails with the help of which they would have been moved!) Still, since great big barrels don’t grow on trees or anywhere else in Nature, I guess they WERE made by human hands and they WERE transported by human methods, one way or the other!

After we’d had our fill of the somewhat dark and chilly cellar and admired all the cobwebby and dusty bottles of wine stored in the racks to age (and after we had dissuaded Pete from hiding a few bottles in his coat), we went up into the fresh air again and back into the office, where our friendly office manager/clerk lady had set out wine glasses for a tasting session. We had taster glasses of a few different kinds of wine, which were very nice. So nice and so heady that now I don’t know if the wines came free, or whether they’d had to bepaid for! I know I didn’t pay anybody anything, so it’s likely it was Zarko.

That evening we had dinner by the Danube, at a posh restaurant. We sat outside so as to see the river view. Scary – and incredible – to think that the buildings we could see on the opposite bank of the river were in another country – Serbia. No wonder the Serbs had found it so easy to attack Croatia!

One of the other towns we went (this time taking the kids as well, which was fun) to was Ðakovo, a peaceful place with nothing much going for it but a beautiful cathedral with two very tall belfries. (To take a proper photo of the cathedral’s entire height I would have had to lie down flat on my back – but I’m not that crazy or that enthusiastic a photographer. Besides, I prefer not to be pointed out by passers-by as a weirdo.)

Of course, if you were into horses, you would be greatly enthusiastic about the Lipizzaner training stables, which also we visited. Apparently these horses are the world’s most favourite riding horses. Well, who woulda thunk it? Not me. I don’t know one breed of horse from another (although I can tell a large horse from a small one) and I wouldn’t ride one if somebody paid me to do it. I thought I’d take a few photos of the horses in the stables, but it was too dark in there plus the horses wouldn’t stay still long enough for a photo. All I got was a series of horse-head shaped blurs. Not much good for sharing with friends and family but – thinking about it – I could probably hold an exhibition of modern impressionist equine photography. Any sponsors out there?

There’s also, according to various tourist brochures, an Embroidery Exhibition that is held in Ðakovo, but that takes place in early July. One of these years, as an amateur but fairly enthusiastic embroiderer, I’d like to visit the exhibition at the right time and see what marvellous creations are shown there. (I thought I’d mention it, that’s all).

Since Pete’s very interested in live music, we (Zarko, Pete and me) went back to the music festival on the last night to watch one of Croatia’s most successful pop-rock bands, Daleka Obala. The lead singer wasn’t much to look at – pot bellied, mid-40s or thereabouts, not exactly smartly dressed – but his voice was glorious. His looks and voice reminded me of Andrew Strong who played Deco Cuffe in the movie “The Commitments” (incidentally one of my favourites), and Pete and I both enjoyed the music very much, even though we didn’t understand a WORD of it.

Luckily music is one of those things that transcends language and culture – all you have to do to enjoy any music is to like it. And we did. Zarko of course was in his own world, transported back to his youth, bopping away happily to the music since he grew up listening to that band. Ozana unfortunately missed the concert because she had to relieve her lovely mother of baby-sitting duties – else she would have had as much fun as Zarko at the concert. The continuing popularity of the original band and this guy (I don’t know his name) was attested to by the enthusiastic response of the mostly teenage and early 20s crowd – they would have been very young at the time Daleka Obala was at its peak - LOVED his songs and sang along to every one. The singer was a true performer in that he vibed with his audience and got them to join in and take part – it was a wonderful experience!

But the clouds of cigarette smoke within that enclosed hall became too much for me after a while, so I had to go outside for the last half-hour and listen to the music from there. (Not that I had any trouble hearing it – you could have heard the speakers blasting out the sound from 10 blocks away… the sign of a really good concert, in Pete’s opinion).

Pete and I wanted to see the old town and the town centre itself in daylight, so we walked to the town centre from the hotel (and back) a few times – there isn’t a convenient taxi service in Osijek in the sense that there aren’t any to hail off the street. You have to call for one in advance – not particularly useful. Once we took a tram halfway – did I mention that there is a tram service in Osijek? It dates back to the late 1800s. It’s useful if you’re in or around the town centre, or if you want to get to the railway station, but not if you’re off the beaten track, as it were. There is a church in Tvrdja that once used to be a Turkish mosque - hence the onion towers. It was peaceful inside, but not especially remarkable.

Zarko, Pete, Borna and I also took time off to visit the remains of the Turkish fortress, as well as take a look around the museum which has a lot of relics from the Roman occupation, dating back to the 1AD or thereabouts. The nice thing was that the museum was relaxed and not anal about its exhibits - the sarcophagi, statues, busts and other marble remnants were right there in the open, with little labels to mark their age. You could touch them (but I didnt) or even sit on them (but I didnt) or for all I know carve your initials on them (but I didnt)... I guess the fact that nobody's damaged or defaced them says a lot about the civic mindedness of the locals. (Pete used one of the marble seats - it was only about 1500 years old, heyho - as a coat rack while he checked out the loo, but that's neither here nor there, is it?)

Outside the museum (where we took the opportunity to get a photo with Borna) there was some sort of cultural festivities going on, with a horse-drawn carriage ready to take tourists around, and brightly-costumed people singing. Zarko said that they were representatives of minorities in Osijek and they were singing their folk songs. The music was simple but lovely... but then I'm a sucker for folk music from anywhere. There were lots of people in traditional costume - which meant plenty of bright, pretty embroidery. Yeah, I'm a sucker for embroidery and bright colours too.

Oh, and if ever you read anywhere that Hotel Silver is just a few minutes walk away from Osijek town centre, you have my permission to give a cynical laugh. It’s at least a 40-minute walk one way – admittedly not a bad walk, with all the greenery and parks and gorgeous shady trees and everything, but a few minutes??? HA! What they wont say to ignorant tourists just to make you choose their hotel…

All in all, the week in Osijek went by far too quickly, what with walks on the lovely promenade by River Drava, coffee/drinks at the riverside bars, icecream in the town centre, photos of the pedestrian bridge by night (and day) - this cute little boy with his cute little pup deserved a photo! - and all the sight seeing trips. Pete said it was easy to make oneself understood even though we didn’t speak the local lingo. Yes, easy enough with such thoughtful hosts as Zarko and Ozana translating and otherwise smoothing our way in most places! Strangely enough, what little German I remembered came in fairly handy on the few occasions that we had to negotiate our way in the restaurants or cafes when our lovely hosts were busy with their work. They were such fun to be with, so kind and generous with their time despite their busy workdays, their kids so enthusiastic and loving, that Pete has been trying to invite himself over there for Christmas for another special trip and a second taste of Croatian hospitality. And truth to say, I’m not about to dissuade him!

END

Osijek (Croatia) - Part 2

2007-11-18T16:35:00.000-08:00

CONTINUED FROM Part 1 - CLICK HERE

The next day we were up more or less early and ready for our long sightseeing day. We walked down to Zarko and Ozana’s because it was so close to the hotel. It was fun to meet their two little sons, 7-year-old Borna and 6-year-old Carlo, and also Ozana’s lovely mother Margita. Communication with all of them was mostly through smiles and hand gestures, or more effectively with Zarko or Ozana translating back and forth – it was required if we actually wanted any information conveyed or understood! Margita spoke a little English and that combined with my very fractured German ensured that we managed to understand one another a little. Margita was there to look after the two little guys – and very kind of her it was too, to offer to babysit them while we went off gallivanting.

The first stop was a local “market” – a long line of little stalls selling fruit, sweets, cakes, savoury rolls, wines, jams, handicrafts and so on, all locally made and very likely hand-made in individual homes. I don’t think there was any “small industry” type produce there. The market is a new local tradition, so to speak – started with the intention of attracting potential tourists. Speaking as a tourist, I thought it was a good idea – we got to see local handmade things, and traditions have to start SOMEwhere after all!

Of course the first stall we stopped at had to be one selling home-made wines and liqueurs, juices and fruit compotes. Why “of course”? Because Pete the wine connoisseur was there. Catch him not sampling the goodies, especially as the samples were free. We bought a few bottles of blackberry wine, some plum liqueur (I think) and a bottle of blackberry juice as well. All from the first stall we stopped at - but how could we resist, especially when the vendor was so smiley and friendly and eager to describe the things she was selling?

While the guys went off to put the bottles in the car, Ozana and I wandered down past the stalls, admiring the beautiful embroidered doilies and table runners and table napkins. There were bottles of all shapes and sizes, some with very long thin necks, some painted with little scenes of Osijek, as souvenirs. Some of the long-necked bottles wore little straw hats with ribbons – those were very cute! I bought a couple of those - the bottles survived the flight, but the straw hats were crushed. (As was I, when I saw them.)

There were also large, life-size straw animals dotting the place – a giraffe, a horse, and so on. Very creatively done!

Anyway, there was a little open air restaurant sort of thing with long benches and tables where people were sat having beers and generally socialising. (Yes, beers at 10am – so what? It was Sunday!). So we sat there as well and ordered beers and soft drinks… and watched fish being cooked on open fires. Well not quite on. The fish were on impaled on sticks and stood around the fires… they were smoked and cooked from the heat, but not directly over the flame. They looked interesting and smelt pretty good too. But Zarko said we should save our appetite for a fancy meal later, plus we’d had breakfast at the hotel (the only morning that we bothered with it), so we left those fish alone. (You can read about our culinary adventures and experiences here.)

After about an hour or so, Zarko looked somewhat pointedly at his watch, from which we inferred that we were meant to be elsewhere, and that quickly. The elsewhere turned out to be the famous marshlands called Kopački Rit Nature Park. (No credit to me that I hadn’t even heard of it.) It is one of the largest wetlands in Europe and is formed by the confluence of the River Danube and the River Drava. The fast-flowing Drava forces the Danube to back up and flood the flatlands, so that there is no saying what shape the flatlands will be from year to year (depends on the strength of the floods). We went on an hour’s boat trip and saw hundreds of cormorants on the tree-tops, which I think were gathering prior to the autumn migration – and just so there are no misunderstandings, it was the cormorants migrating, not the tree-tops.

I did spot a couple of other bird types – one of them herons – but my knowledge of birds is close to zero, so I’ve no idea what the others were. Someone with more knowledge of birds would have made better use of the binoculars which were thoughtfully provided on the boat – they were pretty effective in looking at tree-tops, believe me!

There was a guide on the boat who talked pretty much non-stop through the trip… but as she spoke exclusively in Croatian, it whooshed right over our heads. Zarko and Ozana were kind enough to translate the more interesting bits, though. The marshlands were very peaceful and quiet – and the scenery was quite different, with lots of rushes and grasslands and trees which I couldn’t name to save my life. We were too late in the season for the flowers (water lilies and such like), which was a shame.

The lakes are also full of various types of fish – not that we saw any. And fishing isn’t allowed any more.

At one end (northern end, I think) of Kopački Rit is a villa which was used by Marshal Tito as his hunting lodge. It’s in pretty poor shape now, but it must have been pretty impressive when it was being used. Apparently there are plans to make it a restaurant, but nothing’s come of those plans yet. The park in which the lodge is situated is utterly beautiful, full of trees and green expanses of grass. It was heavily mined during the war. Most of the mines have been cleared and there are walking paths, but apparently it’s still not a good idea to go wandering off on unmarked land. Just in case you get very very unlucky.

Zarko remarked that mines were still being unearthed on farming land – usually by the farmer while ploughing his land, and usually to fatal effect. Quite scary to think about it – that the effects of war last for years and years and one can never be quite safe enough. Then again, unexploded bombs and mines from the first World War still turn up now and again, more than half a century later… so I guess on that scale, 10-11 years isn’t much..

Anyway… on the way from the park, we saw some paragliding going on in a field. There were lots of cars parked there and we joined them to watch the fun. It did indeed look like great fun. Each participant was attached to an expert in some arcane way that I cant begin to explain – basically the expert was behind the participant and controlled the parachute. And when they rose in the air, they looked like they were seated. Apologies for the sketchy description. Anyway, the road was long and absolutely straight – it went on until it merged into the horizon. No kidding. Osijek is situated in a very flat area of Croatia!

There wasn’t much of a wind to get the paragliders off the ground, try as they would. So what they did was attach the two paragliders at a time to a rope which was on a winch in the back of a car. Then the car took off down the road like a bat out of hell, and after a few awkward running steps, the paragliders rose into the air. The car continued down the road, letting out more and more rope until the parachutes had reached the optimum height. They then unhooked themselves from the car and flew around for a few minutes – some of the parachutes corkscrewed in the air, which looked like great fun to me but which made Pete feel a bit ill just to think about (wimp!). I don’t know if the spinning was deliberate or just bad control, but since all the parachutes landed perfectly, I assume it wasn’t deliberate. Whatever, it looked really exciting and one of these days I’d like to try it. Probably in Osijek, though… it’s bound to be cheaper there than in the UK!

Probably what I enjoyed most about the day was the visit to a traditional Croatian house. We all got out of the car at what we thought was the show house and trooped into the front yard, me exclaiming at the lovely little garden and colourful flowers, the picturesque well, the pretty rooms and what not, taking photographs of everything that caught my eye. Then a couple of people appeared, looking a bit surprised. After a brief conversation with them, Zarko and Ozana came back quickly, informing us, as they ushered us out, that we had entered a private residence, not the one that was open to tourists.

Oops. No wonder the house owners had looked bemused!

Eventually we got to the right place and piled out again at the entrance to a long, single storey building. This time we were greeted by a gentleman (the owner of the house, but this time one officially there to show visitors around!) wearing traditional Croatian clothes, loose and embroidered, with a jaunty little hat. He greeted us with a cheery “Welcome, how are you”, but then having apparently exhausted his stock of the English language, he explained everything in Croatian, with Zarko and Ozana once again becoming our interpreters.

The traditional Croatian house is single storeyed and long, with multiple doorways from the outside into the various rooms. That’s because the entire family – like the Indian joint family – lived in the same house, but had different entrances for convenience. The length of the house denoted the wealth of the family. Most of the families lived self-sufficiently as a unit – each member had a job to do, and that way the family didn’t have to rely on an outsider to do anything – and more importantly, didn’t have to pay any outsider. Whether it was shoeing a horse or making sausages or weaving clothes or making wines, every home had someone in the family who could and did do the job. And every home had a blacksmith’s smithy, carpenter's tools, smoking room, granary, wood store and everything else required for total self-reliance.

Every Croatian house traditionally has a basement. In fact, the basement was always the first thing to be constructed – or rather, dug out, because the clay from the hole that was dug to make the basement was used to make bricks to make the ceiling/roof for the basement itself. Then a shed was built over it. This room above the cellar housed the horse tack, saddles, bridles and what not, plus the various tools required for the various tasks around the farm and the house (saws, hammers, chisels, etc), the blacksmith’s bellows and work area, and so on. There was just LOADS of stuff there – even a sled, to get around in the winter. You wouldn’t have mistaken it for Santa’s sled, though. Not enough cheery red paintwork on it – in fact, there wasn’t any cheery red paintwork on it at all. It was just your basic sled.

Self-sufficiency being the lifestyle for a traditional Croatian family, they also grew their own grapes for wine, fruit and vegetables for the house, kept pigs, cows, hens and other poultry, horses (for getting around on, I suppose – and possibly for ploughing the fields) and of course dogs and cats. Rats were very likely not part of the plan but they were there too.

The cellar, this one 17 metres long, was mainly used for storing wine and it was always at an even 12°C, no matter what the weather outside. At the far end was a sectioned-off place which was only meant for family and which was used to bury a bottle of wine for every son born in the family. When the son reached 21 years of age, the bottle was dug out and opened in his honour. In this house the bottles were out in the open for display, but our cheerful guide said that usually they were buried in the ground.

After examining all that, we went into the house itself. I was surprised to see bunches of dried red chillies – oops, paprika, I mean – hanging up outside the house, above the veranda, along with bunches of dried garlic… rather like you would see in India, to ward off evil. There were no dried lemons though. One other thing I noticed about most buildings - whether it was a hotel or a private residence - was that they had various kinds of pumpkins, gourds or squashes, bunches of corn and/or bowls of walnuts in their shells left around as decoration. I assumed they were real ones, but as their shells are as hard as rock, there was no real way of saying if they were models or the real thing.

Our host explained that the first room in the house, the one which passers-by on the street could see into, belonged to the head of the family – and was for these reasons always richly decorated and beautifully kept so as to make the most favourable impression on everyone. Further rooms which led from it belonged to the sons or daughters, according to age, I guess. And as I mentioned earlier, each room had its own access door to the outside.

Most of the things in the house – the clothes on display, cupboards, beds, chairs, utensils for washing, cooking and eating, the weaving loom, etc – were all authentic, all having been used by the past occupants. They were all left in place, pretty much exactly as it would have been in times past, so we got a very good idea of how they would have led their lives.

There was a large bread oven inside the house - naturally the family made their own bread - above which was a wooden platform. Our guide said that in the winter, the children would sleep there to take advantage of the warmth from the oven. Nothing wasted there, not even surplus heat. And once the children were toasted crisp, they were stored as winter rations for the family. I'm JOKING!

After we had satisfied ourselves peering into the smoking room to look at the dried sausages hanging there, examining the large jars of pickled vegetables and paprika, exclaiming over the bottled jams and preserves, our host led us to the section where the animals were housed. There were a couple of rather large horses and a little pony. He invited us all to have a ride on the horses, but we politely declined. My refusal was made the more firm when I saw one of the horses aim a kick with its back legs at the other horse – and he actually wanted us to ride the bad-tempered one, although he tried to reassure us of its gentleness. Um… no thanks.

Oddly enough, Pete took him up on his offer despite being terribly allergic to horses (and cats, although nobody’s offered him their cat to ride on). He walked sedately once around the little compound with our host holding the reins, and then on his own, even cantering a little. I was quite impressed, because by god that horse looked about 10 feet tall when we were close to it. I liked the little pony though. It was small enough to walk right under the other horses with a couple of feet to spare overhead!

After that it was time for mein host to display his circus talents, Riding his horse lightly and effortlessly around, then standing up on its back while in motion and so on. When he leaped off it at the end, we gave him a good round of applause. He deserved it.

Then it was time for some eats. A bottle of plum brandy (sljivovitz) was brought out, along with little traditional beakers to drink it out of, and a bottle of some lovely home-made elderflower cordial. Also a very large platter of various dried meats and hams and cheeses, and home-made bread. All of it had been made right on that farm (and in that house) – apparently if you classify your property as a farm, even if it’s only for display to visitors, it HAS to be run as one. Which means our host had to cure the meats, make the cheese, wine, cordials, etc, all on the premises. Basically, it was a fully working farm. Cool.

Much later on, after returning Ozana home, we went for a walk around Osijek city centre. The buildings looked absolutely lovely in the soft yellow lighting, with the dancing fountain in the middle throwing up its jets of water. Although it was fairly late in the evening, there were loads of young people hanging around there – but not once did I feel uneasy or worried. I don’t know the crime rates in Osijek and whether they’ve gone up or down or whatever, but it felt like a safe place. (And if it isn’t, all I can say is that ignorance was certainly bliss!).

CLICK HERE FOR Part 3

Osijek (Croatia) - Part 1

2007-11-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

“So where are you going on holiday?” my boss asked when I applied for a week’s leave.

“Croatia”, I said.

He took a breath, probably to come up with something pat on the lines of “Oh yes, I’ve been there” but then it sunk in, and he just stared at me blankly for a couple of moments, clearly unable to think of anything encouraging to say.

“Well,” he ventured at last. “There’s a place I know nothing about." And couldnt imagine visiting, no doubt.

The visiting part of it was well within my imagination, but as for information about Croatia – well, I wasn’t going to tell him that I didn’t myself know very much about it either. Sure, I knew the basics – that it used to be part of Yugoslavia and that it had been at war with Serbia a few years ago. But other than that I was woefully ignorant of its history, culture – even its currency (which is the kuna, by the way).

But let me start this trip from the beginning… which is, as denizens of the Third World will know only too well, at the Visa and Consular Services section at the embassy of whichever country you’re trying to visit. And said denizens will also be completely familiar with the running-around-in-a-last-minute-panic - because no matter how much information you go armed with, the all-powerful little people behind the plastic partition will always want something you didn’t imagine you’d need for a visa application. For instance, despite having seen my Permanent Resident visa, my marriage certificate, salary slip and proof of funds, they actually wanted a letter from my employer as proof that I wasn’t playing hookey from work. *sigh*

We managed to convince the dear lady that we were happily married and that I wasn’t going to leave my husband (once we got to Croatia) and start a new exciting career there as an illegal alien. So, apart from that, and some running around to pay the visa fee at a particular bank’s particular branch in a particular format and getting back to the consulate with the proof of payment before they closed for the day (mighty narrow window of opportunity – 11am to 2pm Mon-Thurs only), it was all smooth (!) going. I wasn’t sure I’d get my passport back within 5 working days, given that there was a postal strike that week… but I was pleasantly surprised when it arrived in the next day’s post. I was quite happy not to have the nail-biting finish to my visa application (Check out this link) this time around.

We were flying with Croatian Airlines from Heathrow to Zagreb. I have to say that I didn’t expect much from the airline, thinking that it would be more or less a rattly bus with wings. I certainly didn’t expect the flight to be on schedule. But oh what a pleasant surprise – we boarded the aircraft exactly at the announced time. That we sat in the aircraft for half an hour thereafter was not the airline’s fault – it was the usual Heathrow delay.

The second pleasant surprise, when we boarded the aircraft and found our seats, was that the Airbus had leg room. Inches and inches of it! In fact, a full 8 inches between my knees and the back of the seat in front. (At 5’8”, it’s such a close fit for me that by the end of most flights, my knees take on the pattern of the upholstery.) Pete couldn’t believe the amount of legroom the aircraft had, not to mention the extra width of the seats. The service was excellent as well, even if the food that I got was inedible. (The latter bit applies to all airlines – and maybe it was my fault for specifying Asian Vegetarian.)

The flight to Zagreb was about an hour and a bit, or possibly two hours – I’m not sure, because I slept through most of it, waking only to try a few bites of my decidedly un-Asian but very vegetarian meal of half-cooked rice in a mystery dressing with soggy canned boiled beans and carrot accompanied by a dry roll, and four grapes (complete with crunchy seeds) for dessert. What can I say. Yum… not! But believe me when I say that I wouldn’t exchange a single grain of rice from that meal for anything better if it meant that I would be sitting in a less comfortable seat. I mean that. Not one single grain of that oddly flavourless rice.

The landing at Zagreb was possibly one of the smoothest I’ve experienced – no kangaroo hops, no G-force flattening you to your seat because of too-hard braking, nothing but a touchdown as gentle as a butterfly settling on a flower. Ok, that’s a little exaggeration but it was a smooth touchdown. Croatian Airlines most certainly gets an enthusiastic thumbs-up from both me and Pete as a great little airline!

One step into the airport, one breath of the air inside the building, and I knew we as non-smokers were in a sad minority. Phew! You could almost cut the fag fug with a knife, so to speak.

At Passport Control, Pete’s passport got barely a glance (as usual), but the Croatian official gave me and my passport a thorough going-over, asking where I was from and where I lived and where I was going and why and how long I planned to stay and the names of my parents -

WTF? My parents’ names? There I was, 35-plus years old, a Permanent Resident of a First World country no less, much married and accompanied by my husband - and that official thug wanted to know my parents’ names to fill in a form? I couldn’t believe my ears, but he sat there, pen at the ready, waiting for the information. I must say I was never happier to announce “Mr Ramanathan Subramaniam and Mrs Kalpagam Ramanathan”, and watch his jaw drop slightly. And I smirked only a little bit as he officiously pushed across the official piece of paper and the official pen through the official gap for me to officially spell out the names.

Ha.

Outside, Zarko was waiting to take us to Osijek, three hours drive (or roughly 150 miles) away. There wasn’t much to see in the dark, so again I slept most of the way to Osijek. The Hotel Silver had been informed in advance that we would arrive late, so we were checked in right away. Our room was on the third – and top – floor, in what Pete insisted on calling the penthouse suite. It was a pleasant room, all said and done, right under the eaves with the bed against one wall. Since the room was under the eaves, the ceiling sloped down to two sides. There was much meeting of heads with ceilings in the first couple of days – but as intelligent little lab rats, we soon learnt to stoop when we wanted to access the TV or our suitcases. (The third side was all glass windows from ceiling to floor, looking out onto the street.)

Zarko gave us just enough time to throw our suitcases into the room before he hustled us back out into the night. It was beer time, even though it was nearly midnight!

In Osijek a lot of restaurants stay open till very late (past 12am) and the nightclubs go on for longer still. We tried out the local Osjecki beer which to my palate tasted like any other beer – in a word, yuk – but which Pete loved. We didn’t have much time for more than a couple of beers as the restaurant was closing. But Zarko had other plans for us anyway. Since the night was still young, he drove us to Tvrdja (the old part of town with the remains of a fortress), where there was a concert going on as part of a music festival. I’m not entirely sure if it was part of the Independence Day (October 8) celebrations… but whatever the reason, I fully expected to hear Croatian music.

As we walked up to the huge marquee, the tune seemed strangely familiar to my ears although I couldn’t quite place it (dammit, it was 12.30am and I was sleepy!). Then, to my astonishment, I heard Pete humming along, and I couldn’t help but ask him how he knew the words to a Croatian song.

“It’s Irish music, an Irish drinking song,” he pointed out. “The Wild Rover.”

Of course!

That’s what it was. Not Croatian music, but Irish. And once I knew that, the lyrics which had seemed incomprehensible suddenly rearranged themselves in my brain as: “And it's No, Nay, never,
No, nay never no more
Will I play the wild rover,
No never no more”

It was an Irish band playing it, too. The authentic stuff. Just goes to show that if you hear something other than what you were expecting to hear at that time and in that place, your ears hallucinate. Mine do, anyway. Sometimes the logic switch just doesn’t allow itself to be turned on.

The band was great, the music familiar and well loved, the crowds of young Croats happily – and non-violently – drunk, with beer stalls and popcorn sellers and hot roasted chestnuts all doing roaring business at what I would have considered an unearthly hour of the morning, were I not on holiday. What was not to love?

Eventually we headed back to the hotel because, as Zarko said, we had a full day’s worth of touristy things to do the next day. And there in our hotel room, we discovered yet another wonderful surprise – a soft, comfortable, spacious bed and fluffy pillows that must have dropped straight from heaven. Not something you find in a 3-star hotel anywhere, and sometimes not even in a 5-star one! Those pillows stayed fluffy and wonderful through our entire stay at the hotel – a commendable achievement indeed because I’m the sort of sleeper who has to pummel and thump and squash my pillow to find the perfect texture and position before I can go to sleep. Those pillows were lovely and if there had been any way I could have stolen them without fear of discovery, I would have. There, I said it.

CLICK HERE FOR Part 2

A bite of the Big Apple

2007-11-06T17:10:00.000-08:00

Part of the Manhattan skyline seen from our cruise boat

Back from a hectic 9 days in New York and I still cant decide if I would love to live there or run screaming at the very thought. It's so crowded and most important of all, SO expensive! A tiny shoebox apartment rented by my cousin's husband in Manhattan cost something like $2000 a month! Perhaps it would be nicer to live outside the city – in Danbury, Connecticut, for instance, which is where my brother lives, and which is about an hour and a quarter’s driving time away from the big city’s bright lights. Again, though, Pete says he couldn’t live in Danbury as it is too unfocused, as in there’s no specific “town centre”, and he couldn’t live anywhere without that community “feel” to it. (Oh well, he’s a small town boy after all).

I liked Danbury, though. It has a wide-open aspect, a feeling of large, open, uncrowded space that appeals to me. And oh, the fall colours there were gorgeous. Everything is bigger in the US, more colourful, more emphasised, larger than life - as I might have observed before. This includes the trees, which soar to dizzying heights (and I haven’t even seen giant sequoias or other over-large specimens yet) and blaze with colours ranging from fluorescent yellow to blazing reds and every shade in between… Yeah, I could live in Danbury. Not that I’m going to get a chance to do so, not with Pete being so firmly averse to living in the States. Still, why let that stop me making decisions about imaginary lifestyle changes, right?

New York is an assault on the senses – all the senses. Especially sight. And sound. Very often smell too. Times Square is a perfect example of this – so many flashing lights from soooo many giant hoardings on even more giantly buildings. Here’s a fact I learnt recently – you can make more money renting the outside of buildings to advertisers than you can from having the building occupied. If you’re lucky enough and rich enough to own an entire building in Times Square, that is. I’m told – and I believe it – there’s a building which is entirely empty for that very reason. There are no occupants. No occupants = no insurance required. No insurance = very large amounts of money saved, and even larger sums of money earned from advertising. This can only happen in New York, I’m sure. Or at least only in America. And what’s more, the law is that all buildings in Times Square MUST be brightly lit up. So they are.

The crowds on Halloween night had to be experienced to be believed, but my sister assured me that it was nothing compared to the masses of people that heave their way into Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Apparently, the one time she and her friends did the New Year’s Eve thing, it was freezing or below and yet they kept coming across people who were clad very lightly. Since my sister and pals had layered themselves up into waddling spheres to combat the cold, they were sort of surprised. But when they got to Times Square, they realised why – the people there were so heavily packed together that it was enough to keep them warm. So warm, in fact, that quite soon they had to shed several layers or suffocate. Now there’s an experience I could do very well without, no matter how iconic an experience it might be to watch the ball drop in Times Square at midnight on Dec 31.

However, back to Halloween and the Parade. It was glorious! Everywhere we went, houses were decorated with pumpkins and lanterns and ghosts and ghouls and whatnot, and all along the way, on the train, on the streets, in pubs, shops, restaurants, you name it, people wore the oddest clothes. Some of them were in full costume with the appropriate make-up but plenty of others signified willing merely by donning a silly cap or hat while still wearing business suits. Strange sights indeed, but there were stranger sights still. It’s amazing just how seriously the Americans take Halloween – or rather, how enthusiastically they celebrate it. Here in the UK (I mean my locality in Shrewsbury) you only have the neighbourhood kids dressed half-heartedly in pathetic costumes, coming around just for the free sweets and chocolate. Sure, Halloween is an American import, but if you intend to celebrate it, it ought to be done with more style, rather than just adopt the greed part of it and leave the costumery and general fun and frolic well alone. That’s just my take on it, of course.

The Parade itself was fantastic. The weather was perfect for participants and observers, too – just cool enough. (We had PERFECT weather all week - no rain, just pleasant, cool, crisp, sunny autumn days.) I don’t know how long people had been waiting at the barriers by the side of the roads, but by the time we got anywhere there, they were standing, packed four deep. You had to be a Croatian (very tall, in other words) if you wanted to see more than the tops of waving flags and pennants! Still, with some determined but discreet wriggling, my mother, sister and brother eventually manoeuvred to a point from where they could see the parade. Pete had found a vantage point – a somewhat raised part of the kerb – so I joined him there and watched him video the best part of the parade. I didn’t have a camera and I wouldn’t have been able to take photos of the paraders anyway – sometimes even being 5’8” tall just isn’t enough!

If I’m able to be in NY next year at Halloween time, I intend to take part in the Parade too. It just seemed like such fun! You could see how much time and effort people had put into the sets and floats and costumes. There were company-sponsored floats which would obviously have had plenty of money spent on them and the people in them, but there were hundreds of others who were there just for the fun of it. Private paraders, as I think of them. My personal favourite – and believe me when I say it was difficult to choose – from the floats was a group of zombies who synchronised their moves to the music of “Thriller” – good fun to watch and a very, very slow way of getting from one place to another! My favourite private parader was a guy that we saw on the subway who was wearing a large ribbon-wrapped gift box – the gift tag on it said “From: God, To: Women”. He was reasonably cute too!

But the cutest, most adorable participants were of course the babies and young children – at various points I saw the world’s littlest policeman (complete with belt and the various fixings that cops in that part of the world wear), a baby elephant, a baby teddy bear, a bunny, Batman (or is that Batbaby?), the sweetest little Devil all in red, with a trident and horns, no less… I could go on. The teddy bear baby was actually so small in its mother’s arms (plus she was holding it in a rather casual manner!) that at first I thought it was a stuffed toy… but the baby bear was just asleep and quite human. Which was amazing enough in all that noise (the sleeping part, not the human part). The only drawback to watching the Parade were our wickedly aching feet at the end of the day, for there was literally no space to sit down anywhere along the route. Oh the crowds!

The last time I was in New York, we didn’t get to see Grand Central Station. But this time we went there quite a few times (mostly to take the train back to Danbury) and each time it was a breathtaking experience. Built on the noble, massive lines of a cathedral, the main concourse is fantastic, with a huge, very high domed ceiling and attractive soft lighting. You almost wanted to speak in whispers, rather like you would do if you were in St Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. Or St Paul’s Cathedral in London.

The entrances to the various platforms had beautiful doorways, looking like they belonged in a palace. So when you stepped through them, out into the stuffy, smelly and unlovely platform to get the train, it was a solid reality check... from the almost sublime to the definitely banal. The food hall in the station's basement has a name as grand as the station itself – it’s the Dining Concourse, no less.

You do get a huge variety of food stalls and there’s a reasonable amount even for vegetarians. I don’t know what misfiring neuron in my brain urged me to ask for a pretzel – I’ve had them before and they’re ok, but not madly fascinating. And then, to compound that order, I foolishly nodded when the stall guy asked me a question, even though I hadnt quite understood him. Very dumb thing to do, because my pretzel arrived absolutely smothered on one side with large salt crystals (THAT was what he’d asked) which I then had to brush off before every bite of the pretzel... which was pretty much tasteless... because I’d brushed off the salt...

Heartburn and blood pressure must be rife among the New Yorkers if plain salted-encrusted pretzels are a favourite! In hindsight, I should have had the jalapeno pretzel. Or not had a pretzel at all, come to think of it...

The Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art is closed on Mondays. We found that out only after Kumar, who had painstakingly driven us all the way into the City and deposited us outside the museum, had driven off to look for a parking spot for the car. Did we have a phone between us that actually worked? Nope. We had to mooch around outside on the steps, waiting for him to come back, before we could give him the good news. So rather than get the car back out and do the whole depositing-parking-waiting thing again, we took two taxis to the Museum of Natural History which, luckily, was open. Why two taxis? Because we were five, and the normal taxis only take four passengers. You do get the larger kind of taxis which can take 5 people, but those are few and far between.

The Natural History museum was pretty cool, but the Metropolitan was what I'd got on my list as a "must-see". We did get to it later in the week, and it was worth the wait. We had an hour's guided overview tour of the museum, which was informative, and after that we were let loose to wander around by ourselves. I liked the Egyptian section and the South and South-East Asian sections, but the African one didnt quite grab my interest. (Perhaps it was just a case of information overload.) The exhibits all had little informative cards, but it was a lot better with the audio set and headphones. You had to rent an audio kit, and if you came across anything that excited you, you keyed in the number of the display and listened to the soothingly male voiceover your headphones, giving you more details about the item. Pretty cool.

My favourite section of MoMA was the medieval paintings - which turned out to be also the preferred destination of about half the geriatric population of the USA. That meant having to delicately elbow your way through the throng, earning yourself a few rheumy but nevertheless fierce glares. That, or you had to resign yourself to moving at the rate of 2 inches per 10 minutes from painting to painting. Luckily there werent too many that I wanted to admire in close-up (and by "too many" I'm thinking of the Vatican Museum, where there are SO many gorgeous paintings that it made me dizzy and despondent at the same time - so many things to look at, so little time!), so I could pick and choose my battles with the elderly enthusiasts. It was fairly tame on the whole, although one of the dear ladies came close to skewering my foot to the floor with her cane. (I managed to side-step it.)

Another trip that I crossed off my list was the Circle Line Sightseeing Tour - we took the 3-hour trip, since the day was so sunny and clear and bright. It was also windy, as attested by my hair seen below.

Slightly windblown me, with that attractive
dragged-through-a-thorny-bush-backwards chic

We saw the Statue of Liberty fairly close up (personally I thought she looked a bit grumpy, but I could have been mistaken) and went all the way around Manhattan Island.

More Manhattan skyline

That full round-trip was especially nice because we'd been warned beforehand that if the currents were strong, the boat might not go all the way around. I'm glad it did, because we got to see the back of Manhattan (I mean the northernmost part) which is a wonderfully thick forest. Nobody lives there, nobody's built anything there and nobody will. It's an indication of how the island would have looked 300-400 years ago, and it's going to be preserved that way. Actually the amount of greenery in the middle of New York is amazing... and heartening.

I would have gone for The Beast speedboat ride, but I found out about it too late. Besides, nobody wanted to accompany me - or, rather more importantly, nobody would agree to wait for me while I checked it out. That's one for the next trip, methinks.

Our guide on the tour was a lovely old gentleman called Jim. He had a gentle sense of humour and was very pleasant and patient - two attributes that do not describe most New Yorkers... and sure enough, he's actually a Texan. You dont get to hear Please or Thank You anywhere much from anybody in NY, and smiles are at a premium as well. It certainly makes you appreciate the courtesy with which you're treated most everywhere in the UK.

One of the nuggets of information imparted by Jim is that there are over 80,000 restaurants or eateries in New York. And over 125 different kinds of cuisine. We sampled Vietnamese cuisine in Danbury - BIG mistake. Perhaps it was just that restaurant, but I'm in no hurry to give the cuisine another go. We tried the Dragon, a Szechwan Hunan restaurant, which was fantastic. Penang, a Malaysian restaurant, which was pretty darn good. (Pete sweated bullets but loved the dishes all the same.) Don Pedro, a Cuban-Caribbean fusion restaurant, another HUGE hit with Pete. It was a bit short on vegetarian dishes, but between our helpful Mexican waiter and a friendly chef, we got by with salads, beans and rice. Watan, the best eatery in my opinion (I'm biased towards Indian food, so sue me), a pure-veg Gujarati place... you got an unlimited thali for $25 a head, and the sort of food that made you wish you had three or four stomachs to fill. The last restaurant we visited was a Mexican grill (I cant remember its name), but I really dont know how authentic it was - the food was ok but not noteworthy. And not particularly Mexican. I mean, a Mexican restaurant that cant do simple nachos with cheese...??!!

Reserved for the next trip is a visit to Dawat, Madhur Jaffrey's restaurant.

If you're in New York, you gotta see a show in Broadway. So we did, a treat from my brother on my sister's birthday. We got to watch "Wicked", a brilliant musical that is an "alternative prequel" to The Wizard of Oz. It's about Elphiba, the wicked green witch of the west who really wasnt wicked, and Glinda, the Good Witch, who's very blonde and wasnt quite good but wasnt quite wicked either. The girl who played Elphiba had the most glorious, clear, soaring voice that sent shivers down my spine - I wish I could remember her name. The show was a bit slow in the first half, but the second half was brilliant. All in all, it was a wonderful experience, all the better for having excellent and very expensive seats. All thanks to my generous little brother.

The trip back home was uneventful until we reached the English coastline. I had a window seat and a beautiful view of everything below as it was a crystal clear night with not a hint of cloud. It was absolutely amazing to see the lights of cities and towns... they looked like delicately filigreed gold ornaments scattered over with beads, flung carelessly on a velvet background. And then as the aircraft came closer, I could see lots of flashing, winking, colourful lights popping off all over the place - almost like the camera flashes you see at a concert. They were puzzling for a few moments, until Pete suddenly realised that it was Guy Fawkes Night - and the pretty popping lights were fireworks going off. They were fantastic to look at as we dropped towards the runway, and I have to say that the fireworks seen from above were SPECTACULAR!

And after all that, although I'm glad to be home, I still cant help wondering what it would be like to be a New Yorker - the jury's still out on that. I guess I'll need a few more bites of the Big Apple to make up my mind!

Aug 24-27 2007 - Four days in the Scottish Highlands

2007-08-30T05:01:00.000-07:00

And not a photograph to show for it. All entirely my fault for forgetting, at the last minute, to take the camera. In my defence, though, it got left behind only because I had (thoughtfully) remembered to put the battery to charge. Look at it this way - had I forgotten to charge the battery, I would most likely have packed the camera in the morning. But then I would have been unable to take photos anyway as the battery would have run out of juice. Two scenarios, same result. I regret the result even more as, this time, Sudha came with us to the Highlands and it would have been nice for both of us to have some photos to share with friends and family. Especially as it took a lot of guilt-tripping, pleading and threatening to get her to agree to come with us in the first place.

It was all quite last-minute (more defence for forgetting to take the camera) - I got back from work around 5.20pm on Thursday, and did some last-minute washing-up while waiting for Sudha's phone call announcing her arrival in Shrewsbury. (Yes, I admit I could have remembered the camera at this time - but I didnt because I was doing my last-minute packing as well.) When she finally called, I zoomed off to the railway station to pick her up - only to find that she was nowhere in the vicinity. One frantic phone call to her later, I realised she was waiting at the bus station. Duh! She'd travelled by bus - something that should not have surprised me, knowing Sudha.

Anyway, by the time we negotiated the rush hour traffic (made worse by road works) and got home, Pete was home and ready to leave. Very soon thereafter, we were off on the 7-hour drive to Glentruim in the Highlands. The drive was pretty much without incident and we reached Glentruim at 1am. Our friend Ian, despite the fact that he had had a very busy day with another equally packed day to follow, had stayed up to welcome us. We got an even more lavish welcome from his two dogs, Poppy (a 2 year old retriever) and Dylan (a 14-year-old border collie).

The next day, the first thing on our agenda was a visit to the distillery at Dalwhinnie, which is famous for its single malt whisky. We were too late for the noon tour and too early for the next one, so after buying tickets, Pete took us for a drive up to the mountains, right to the point where vehicles are not encouraged to go any further because of the terrain, the flora/fauna and the vagaries of the weather at high altitudes. Only the completely foolhardy would proceed beyond that point in an unsuitable vehicle - plus, we had a whisky tour booked!

The Dalwhinnie distillery is a fairly small one (or so it seemed to me) and the tour short but informative. We also saw peat for the first time - dried out completely, and looking like large balls of cowdung. (Wonder what peat looks like when it is freshly dug out from the ground.) And one of these days I'd like to see a proper Irish peat bog!

Anyway... the distillery is the highest in Scotland. It has only 6 or 7 employees, (much reduced from the years gone by) but from what I gathered, they're the fourth generation of workers at the distillery. It is also a meteorological station, with data recorded daily by the manager, no matter what the weather. And not the least, Dalwhinnie (pronounced "Dullweeny", by the way - heheh, that's a phonetic spelling!) means "meeting place". There are some photos of the distillery here. Photography isnt allowed within the distillery in any case.

We had a "free" taster of the single malt whisky at the end of the tour. Pete hates whisky, so I had his as well - even though I dont like whisky really. Free or not, why waste it, right?

After the distillery tour, the next stop was the little village shop in Laggan (pronounced "Laagun") to pick up supplies for the night's dinner, which Sudha and I were cooking as a gesture of thanks to Jo and Ian, saving them the trouble of catering for us after a long, busy day at the shop. It looked like being an interesting time, as the kitchen had only a 2-oven Aga range cooker, not a gas-hob. Aficionados of Aga range cookers will probably gasp in horror that I mentioned "only" and "2-oven Aga range cooker" in the same breath. But since Sudha and I were not used to such luxuries as an Aga, we were slightly doubtful about cooking on it. It's basically two large hot plates - one for high heat, the other for simmering - and two ovens, for quick cooking and for slow-cooking (or warming). The advantage is that the Aga is always on, the disadvantage is that you cant turn down the heat instantly like with a gas-hob.

Our menu was going to be onion bhajis as a starter, with lemon rice, alu-chole, phulkas and marinated pan-fried salmon (Sudha's solo input, as I've never cooked fish) for the main. Basically we were left to it, as Pete was in the shop upgrading their software and Ian and Jo were away doing other things. As it turned out, we did a pretty decent job considering that we had never used an Aga before. We did start quite early for fear of being caught short - or duffing up and then not having enough time to rectify any disasters! It didnt matter that we finished cooking well before dinner time, as the Aga could keep food warm indefinitely without drying it out too much. Jo and Ian were very pleased not to have to do the cooking, and we were pleased that we didnt embarrass ourselves with a culinary disaster!

Saturday's outing was to Aviemore, the ski resort in the Cairngorms. Obviously there wasnt any snow there, but the Cairngorm Mountain Railway funicular was still taking people to the top. It was a beautiful day for it, sunny and clear. No matter how good the weather is down below, though, there's no saying what it will be like at the top. When we got there, the clouds had descended and there was nothing to be seen of the view. Plus, it was extremely windy and very cold. However, by the time we had a hot chocolate at the Ptarmigan Restaurant, the clouds had disappeared and the glorious view of the mountain tops and the valley below was all ours to marvel at.

Marvelling turned out to be a very cold affair after a while, making our exposed ears ache and noses run, so we went back inside to look at the exhibition of local flora and fauna, and from there into the shop. Oddly, there were beaded purses and bags as well as leather craftwork on sale, made by artisans in Kolkata, India... at wildly inflated prices, but of course. As if that wasnt strange enough, Sudha actually met two of her professors from Oxford in the shop - talk about serendipity. On that day, at that time, in a little shop on top of one of the tallest mountains in Scotland! What are the odds? (Actually, on reflection, pretty good!)

From Aviemore, we went off towards Inverness. Dozens of bikers had congregated there for the "Thunder in the Glens" event. Huge, gleaming Harley Davidsons and Yamahas and other bikes roared past us time after time - they were impressive, allright. So were the bikers themselves. I cant help thinking that if you want to be a biker, you've to be BIG and balding, and if you can manage scary looking, that's a bonus. And we're talking about the women bikers here. (Only kidding! Heh)

Pete needed to buy a component for his computer, so the next stop was a shopping centre. Sudha and I wandered around Borders while we waited for him, me all the while resisting the temptation to max out my credit card on all sorts of yummy-sounding books. I have to say I resisted successfully, but Pete bought a computer book of some sort! And because there was a Starbucks in Borders, of course he had to stop for his favourite mocha frappuccino with hazelnut syrup. (I had a somewhat mouth-puckering peach-pomegranate slushie, if anybody wants to know. Sudha didnt have anything.)

Then, although it was getting towards 6pm, Pete drove up to Loch Ness. We didnt go the whole way around the lake (it's 22 miles long) as we were running out of time and had to get back to Glentruim. I'd warned Sudha right at the start of the trip of the dire consequences of cribbing about her thesis - basically, that I would throw her to Nessie - so she was probably on her best behaviour. I'm happy to say that at no time was there an opportunity to carry out my threat. Glad tidings all round!

The reason we had to get back to Glentruim was that we were meant to be going out for dinner. Unfortunately, we had neglected to book ahead and all the restaurants/pubs for miles around were jam-packed - something we discovered only at 9pm, when most restaurants and pubs stop taking food orders in any case. In the end, Jo cooked us a wonderful dinner with what seemed like the least effort (on my part, anyway - Sudha is always ready with a helping hand and lived up to her reputation!).

Sunday we went to a pretty little village - or town? - called Grantown on Spey as Ian had informed us that the Highland Games were taking place there. We got to Grantown at 1 pm - perfect timing as the pipe band was just about to make its way to Heathfield Park where the games were being held. We simply followed the band there. I just love the bagpipes - some people dont like the sound, likening it to squealing cats... but I think they sound fantastic, especially in a band with the drums and other instruments providing the background.

The atmosphere at the park was that of a fairground - and indeed there were the ubiquitous fairground rides and games with the usual garishly coloured and scantily clad women painted on the sides. I've always wondered whom they were meant to attract - men, to go on the rides? Really? Do orange faces and green hair really do it for them? I dont see women - even those "that way" inclined - being attracted to these pathetic and sometimes scary paintings!

In any case, we ignored the rides (I've been on similar ones before, anyway) in favour of gawking at the people around us. Most of the men wore kilts. There's something really impressive about large Scottish men clad formally in kilts - any predisposition towards giggling at "men in skirts" is neatly cut off at the pass. They look fierce and really impressive. (Yes, that was worth repeating.)

We mainly watched the shot-putters - you had to give it to them, they were mostly men of the extra-large economy-size variety. You simply didnt want to laugh at them because one thump from their extra-large economy-sized fist could sink you knee-deep into the ground! One of them, a good-looking red-haired giant (whose name, I found out eventually, was Bruce Robb), 6'5" tall if he was an inch, was just majestic. Despite his size, he was strangely graceful as he "twirled" with the shotput held just by his ear, before letting it fly. And BOY, did it fly! He was easily the best shotputter in the bunch, his throws being feet ahead of his closest rival.

The Highland Games were not of the local variety. The world record holder for the hammer throw (cant remember his name because I never knew it in the first place!) was in the competition - and true to his reputation, he was by far the best. Mr Robb, surprisingly, was not as good at the hammer throw as he was with the shotput. Not that it stopped me watching him... the man was poetry in motion. AND wearing a red kilt. Sudha and I both agreed that the Games would have been made far more interesting had the men stayed true to tradition and not worn anything beneath their kilts! (They mostly wore baggy shorts - bah.)

When I could drag myself away from the shotputters, the other event which drew my attention was the Highland dancing. It was quite strange to my eyes - graceful and yet sort of awkward at the same time. The kilts the dancers wore were lovely, as were the dancers themselves. Of course, since I know nothing of the background or history of these dances, or what they represent, the dances seemed almost monotonous after a bit because the steps didnt seem to vary all that much. But I suppose Bharatanatyam would be as strange to Scottish eyes, unless the moves/intentions are explained...

What we really wanted to see was the caber tossing, but it was not scheduled till late in the evening, and we couldnt spare that much time as we had a meal booked at a restaurant in Newtonmore (yes, we learned from the previous day's mistake and reserved our places!). Plus, it was getting really cold with the nippy north wind - summer, huh! - and we werent warmly enough clad. Comfort beats curiosity any day. So we went home and from there to dinner.

Newsflash: Sudha tried haggis. And liked it! Unless you know beforehand what a haggis is, and how it is cooked, I guess it's not a problem. It's also not a problem if you're a fairly adventurous omnivore, which Sudha is. I had the vegetarian version of it, and that was pretty good. Lentils, barley, oatmeal and spices. Kind of like a chewy upma, to put it in Indian terms. It was served with a mountain of mashed-potato-and-turnip (tatties and neeps, as they're known in Scotland). Yum.

While on the topic of haggis, I'm also disappointed not have seen the "haggis hurling" at the games. The haggis seems to be a versatile thing - you can eat it, hunt it, play with it, grow it... the possibilities are endless, apparently! I found it really cute that a lot of restaurants advertise their haggis as "homegrown" or "home reared" - as if it's a living thing... just tickles me funny bone for some reason!

Early Monday morning Pete went off to the shop because he had to tinker with his software. That left me and Sudha free to do as we liked. There are some lovely woods behind Jo and Ian's house, leading down to the river. Ian was kind enough to take us for a walk down to the river, along with the dogs. Poppy was especially thrilled with this trip because there's nothing she loves better than leaping into the river to retrieve a stick. The downside to that was that she insisted on shaking off the excess water from her fur while standing lovingly close to you. Luckily Ian bore the brunt of this ersatz shower - just as well, because the water was c-c-cold!

Later he drove Sudha and me to a little village called Kingussie (pronounced "kinyoussie". Well, kin you? *heehee*) where there was a small exhibition of paintings, sculpture, embroidery, weaving and photographs, all done by a local lady (now no more, I suspect, although I'm not sure). Some of her work was remarkable, although both Sudha and I were uncharitable enough to think that she could have done a lot more and a lot better - considering the number of art courses she had done in her lifetime!

Or maybe it's just sour grapes on my part and a balanced evaluation on Sudha's. :)

We left the Highlands at about 2pm, which put paid to my plan of spending a few hours in Edinburgh on the way back. The drive back home wasnt without incident. As Pete pulled into a service station to get a coffee, we heard a loud bang from the back. It was a burst tyre. We couldnt find anything sharp enough and heavy enough that could have made a Range Rover tyre go pop... so perhaps it was a spontaneous affair. Or maybe we just missed whatever it was. Just as well that we were on the slip road off the motorway when it happened, rather than on the motorway itself.

We stood around while Pete changed the tyre - it's massively heavy and Sudha and I together could barely move it. It seemed best to observe as we certainly couldnt help Pete. The changing of the tyre delayed us by an hour or thereabouts and we were soon back on the road. I took over driving for a short while, to let Pete relax a little. I'm not sure how much he relaxed with me driving on the motorway, but all hail to him for not flinching at any time! Despite everything we were back in Shrewsbury by 10.30pm, finally ending the last bank holiday long weekend for 2007!

And this - finally - is the end of the last bank holiday weekend travelogue too.

USA trip April 29 - May 16 2006 - Part 2

2006-07-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

After the frozen Yellowstone Lake had been photographed by everybody to their heart's content, we headed off in the RV to

THE GRAND TETONS, another range of mountains, grand as their name says but IMHO not a patch on Yellowstone. However, getting there was probably the most exciting and breath-taking part of the experience. It involved going through Wyoming, the Cowboy State. I LOVE that name, and all that it connotes - wide open skies, high mountains, clean air, etcetc - thanks to the various books I've read, but main thanks owed to Louis l'Amour and his always-honourable, brave, 6'2"-in-their-socks heroes with strong manly names like Logan, Callahan, Flint and not to mention the Sacketts. (But I digress - unlike the strong, manly, short-on-words-but-long-on-action cowboys mentioned!)

Anyway, getting to Jackson Hole (the last frontier of the true Wild West) which is situated in a valley surrounded by hugely high mountains, was quite an adventure in itself. Radha was driving and although she is a very good, very confident driver, the twisting, turning mountain roads that seemed to rise to terrifying heights really quickly, taxed even her driving skills. The size of the RV was probably the biggest difficulty, as I'm sure she could have managed a smaller vehicle quite comfortably.

At the highest point of the pass, there was a big clearing where vehicles could park and people could look down into the valley - and man, it was dizzying to see just how far down Jackson Hole really was. There were also warnings to check the brakes on the vehicles, as the drive down had extremely steep gradients. So Pete took over driving the RV at that point.

Jackson Hole is probably THE place for skiers of all kinds, and as a town I found it extremely picturesque and pretty, with lovely wooden buildings. It had atmosphere and character - or maybe I was just seeing it through Louis l'Amour eyes. (It really was a pretty town, though.) We didnt stop there, though, except to fuel up and take much needed loo breaks. Once the RV had been fed, we drove through the town towards the Grand Tetons. The mountains were jagged and snow-covered, but somehow they we found them lacking in the majesty of the Yellowstone Mountains. We'd probably have appreciated the Grand Tetons more if we'd seen them first!

Not to be disparaging about these mountains, though... no doubt about it, they were beautiful too. But I guess it was their setting that was lacking a little something - flat boring plains. We did stop by a lake called Lake Jenny - another picture-perfect, large, placid lake that faithfully reflected the surrounding mountains in its waters. There wasnt much of a shore to this lake, just rocks and stones. We went down to the water scrambled about the stones for a bit, taking photos. (I threw a few stones into the water, just so as to give them something to exist for. Thanks to me, they could now spend the next few hundred years making their way back to shore. It HAD to be done, see?)

We took in the sights of Jackson Hole Reservoir on the way out - nothing spectacular about the reservoir because it was the usual mirror-still huge lake (yawn) bordered by picturesque snow-covered mountains (yawwwwn) rising high into the clear blue sky (yaaaawwwwwwwn). How much of a good thing can you take in, after all? Even spectacular views become boring when you get them all the time, wherever you go. (OXYGEN_DEPLETING YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN).... I'm KIDDING, of course! It was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. What CAN get boring for readers, though, is coming across the description "beautiful" all the time...

The next stop was Idaho Falls, in Idaho (duh). The drive there took about 4 hours or so, and Kumar did the honours this time. Back up through the pass, through lots of flat country (with the mountains tantalisingly surrounding us) and some more mountains, we reached the RV camp where we stayed the night. This wasnt as cosy and small as the one near Yellowstone Park, but it served its purpose. All you can really ask for at camps like this are clean toilets and shower areas - and this park provided both.

The next morning, we were back on the road to Salt Lake City, to return the RV and take a taxi to the airport. Our next destination was

SAN FRANCISCO, via Las Vegas airport. I think I disliked the airport on sight, not the least because it was unpleasantly warm inside. I dont even want to think about how hot it was outside! Plus there were slot machines EVERYWHERE! Ok, Vegas is a gambler's paradise, but does it have to start right at the airport? Honestly, after we had walked what seemed like miles inside the airport, trying to get to the terminal to get our connecting flight, and going through yet another security check, I was quite certain that the airport was secondary to the slot machines and casinos. It's like they built the airport as an afterthought around the gambling areas. My friend assures me that Vegas is worth a trip, just for a day, just to see how amazing the casinos are... well, I dunno about that. Maybe one day, when I have time and money to spare. But until then it's gonna be un-tacky, worthwhile travelling!

We were visiting San Francisco mainly (possibly only) because I'd so wanted to go there. I had a few reasons for this (in no particular order): One, I'd been wanting to visit the city, having heard so much about it. Two, I wanted to meet up with an old school friend, a very good pal whom I hadnt seen in years, and his wife as well. And three, we also wanted to catch up with a cousin of ours who's settled there.

It was quite late at night by the time we got out of the airport, thanks to the flying time + the time difference. (It was either an hour ahead or an hour behind Vegas.) Anyway, Bhanu's husband Shiv came to pick us up, along with their 9-year-old daughter Janani, who was wildly excited about our arrival. Luckily their house is quite close to the airport - just a 15-minute drive or so - as Shiv had to go back to the airport a short while later to pick up Bhanu, who was coming back from Boston after a conference! She would have arrived at more or less the same time as us, except that her flight was delayed by a few hours.

Bhanu and Shivakumar live in the most gorgeous house I've ever seen. And their hospitality was even more heart-warming. Shiv had actually cooked a four-course meal for us, catering to all our various dietary and medical requirements (makes us sound like a bunch of octogenarians, I know) - it was absolutely delicious and absolutely welcome. Nothing like home-made food cooked and served with so much care!

Weather-wise, San Francisco is probably the best sort of place in which to live. Not too hot, not too cold - just right (said Baby Bear). The advantage of that being that jasmines, lemon trees, orange trees, curry leaf plants etc, all grow without trouble. Would that I could grow curry leaves here...

The next day, (after a rather heavenly breakfast of idlis), Shiv dropped us off at the railway station, so that we could get the train into the city. It was not the most pleasant of experiences, the train being really crowded. If it had been India, there would have been footboarders for sure. But it wasnt India, so the would-be footboarders were all crushed in with us less intrepid travellers when the doors closed. I guess it's safer that way, but it's also not comfortable!

We got off the train at the other end, wondering: 1. How to get to where we wanted to go and 2. Where we wanted to go. We had of course asked Bhanu and Shiv what to see and where to go. But, as usually happens, we segued practically seamlessly from floundering in a pool of ignorance to drowning in an ocean of information. "Depends on what you want to do", they'd say, and then reel off a list of things that ALL sounded like we wanted to do, and rightaway! Of course, we'd have needed a few days of relentless touring to do it all.

Finally the decision was made when we saw a bus come past that mentioned "Fisherman's Wharf". Since it was a name that had been mentioned, we all got onto the bus. It was probably the best decision because as it meandered its way all around town, we got to see quite a lot of what was covered on the official open-top or pseudo-tram tours. (But of course we didnt realise that until we'd got onto a pseudo-tram for their one-hour hop-on hop-off trip, and discovered that we'd already been to most of their halts!)

But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. We got off at Fisherman's Wharf and stood around for a bit, looking out at the sea and wondering in a vague sort of way what to do next. I took a few photographs of seagulls with Radha's camera, just to have something to do. The pseudo-car (looked like the authentic cable car but wasnt because it ran on tyres) tour seemed a good idea, so we opted for the one-hour one. And then, since we had some time on our hands before the tour started, we went to look at a genuine WWII submarine moored at Pier 45, the USS Pampanito, that had seen action and was open for tourists. Actually "seen action" doesnt quite do it justice, because she sank 6 Japanese ships and damaged 4 others, AND rescued some 85 odd seamen whose ship had been sunk (by the Japanese, presumably).

It was a very interesting tour because we got to see for ourselves how cramped the space was for 79-odd men to live in for days, underwater, with a steadily diminishing quality of air to make things even more difficult. And then to think that they rescued some 85 other seamen - it simply boggled the mind. How DID 150-plus human beings manage to survive in that cramped, minimalist space with probably minimum food as well, without killing each other or themselves??

I have to admit here that I was probably conned by a streetside trickster. There was this guy who had three cups and a coin, moving them around rapidly and asking people to guess under which cup the coin was. There were a few other guys around him, giving him money ($60 a pop!!!) and guessing right (or wrong). I was watching in idle fascination and guessed correctly a couple of times. But of course the "magician" said I couldnt win unless I parted with my money. I wouldnt have done it except that Pete encouraged me! And just like that, in the blink of an eye (and a wrong guess), I'd lost sixty dollars!

Shellshocked wouldnt begin to describe my state - okay, $60 is not exactly a huge amount but it was the speed with which it happened that was the shock. Now that I think of it, I'm sure that at least two of the guys who were "playing" were probably in the pay of the trickster to lure dimwits like me! Boy did I ever learn a lesson - and quicker than a wink, too. I'm not cut out for gambling, me. Losing money for no reason other than greed is just not my style. (Although losing money because of stupidity apparently is.)

Anyway, by the time we had dawdled our way to the faux tram tour, there were only 5 places left - just right for us! Had we come even a few seconds later, we would have missed that tour! Our driver/guide was a nice enough guy, obligingly explaining everything about each place of interest... but I'm afraid I wasnt a particularly good listener. American history just seems so insular and not connected with "history" as I understand it (as in affecting the rest of the world). But the ride was good for some lovely views of San Francisco.

We didnt get off at any of the stops - one, because we would have had to wait an hour for the next car and two, because there were no guarantees of getting a seat anyway. It was amazingly chilly because of the wind (it was an open car, as in no windows) even though the sun was shining. Especially in the shade. Brrr. So we missed out on the Ghirardelli Icecream and Chocolate Shop, the Boudin bread museum (which I was sorry about because I LOVE sourdough bread and would have loved to have visited the museum/bakery where it all started), the Union Square and sundry other places of tourist interest - and didnt care one bit, I might add!

It's been documented before, but my god, this is a city full of steep, steep roads. At some points, from the top of a road, the view was like that obtained from the top of really high rollercoasters. Despite knowing that the trams would NOT be reaching any kind of thrilling speed (in fact they were a few hundred mph short of it), I still couldnt help feeling a little rush of adrenalin, looking down at the drop. But the trams were very sedate and the illusion of a roller-coaster was very quickly shattered.

After the tour, we decided we'd walk to the "crookedest street in the world" - Lombard Street. It's actually NOT the crookedest street in the world, or even in San Francisco, or actually even the steepest, but hey, why be accurate about anything, right? It turned out to be quite a long walk from Fisherman's Wharf to Lombard Street, and poor amma was suffering a bit from a painful knee. It was a fairly steep rise to even get to the bottom of Lombard Street - we did it in stages. The steepest roads are usually "broken" by flat areas of roads perpendicular to the vertical rise, so they provide convenient rest areas of sorts. I dont know about the others, but I motivated myself by thinking of the lovely flat area where I would not be walking or standing at a 60-degree angle.

There was a bit of hesitation when we came to the bottom of Lombard Street... should we climb up that or not? In the event the hesitation was only minor - it would have been pretty darned stupid NOT to walk up to the top after having come such a long way up. But first we stood and watched all the cars zig-zag their way slowly down - quite a sight. There's no zig-zagging up this street because it's strictly one-way.

Once at the top of Lombard Street, we hopped on to the first cable car that came along - and this time it was the authentic kind, with people actually allowed to stand on the footboard. It was crowded but fun. We hadnt the least idea where it was going but when we realised that it was going to stop at Chinatown, we hopped off. First thing to do was get some icecream and cold drinks, so we did, at a little Indian sell-everything-under-the-sun corner shop. Then we walked down the little streets in Chinatown - it was like being in Singapore, except a lot more vertical.

The next thing on the agenda was, of course, the famous San Francisco bridge - the Golden Gate. Nothing to do but go and look at it. We could see it from where we were, so we just started walking in its general direction, hoping to get down eventually to some Pier or other and thence see our way there. What we didnt know at this point was that was NOT the Golden Gate, but the Bay Bridge. Not that we ever got there - we were far too tired by then to bother. The map we had didnt seem to make sense as far as tram or bus stops were concerned, and finally we just hailed a taxi that had stopped conveniently near us to disgorge its passengers.

That was the best decision we'd made yet, as the taxi driver was a very friendly, very amiable chap who set us right on the bridge we thought was the Golden Gate and cheerfully drove us to the Golden Gate entrance area. He turned out to be an excellent guide as well, pointing out the various things he thought we should be interested in, and explaining their history. He was happy to wait for us while we walked across the Golden Gate but the thought of a minimum two-mile walk across and back simply did not appeal to any of us. So we just took a few photographs of the bridge - which by the way is not golden, but red, and was also wreathed in mist because it was not a clear day - and asked the taxi driver to drop us back at the railway station. The total fare was a lot less than I'd expected and would have been cheap at twice the price. The taxi driver got a nice fat tip - again, well worth every penny. Or cent.

The annoying part thereafter - we could actually SEE the train that we should have been in time for, but we were a minute too late to catch it. All we could do was watch helplessly as it pulled away, nice and empty. Bah. We had a 40-minute wait for the next one, and it seemed like a good idea to Pete to find the nearest Starbucks and have a coffee (Have I said he's a Starbucks fan?). Unfortunately the nearest Starbucks was closed. Double bah. We mooched along the road until I saw a Borders, which perked us all up considerably. Pete thought I would end up getting every book I saw, but I gamely restrained myself because I was already having visions of being over the luggage limit for the flight back home. In the event it was Pete who loaded up with a good dozen computer books, all about a thousand pages fat, because they were cheaper than in the UK. All I got was one cookbook book - and even that was a present from Radha!

The next day Pete and I were supposed to be picked up for around 9.30am by my friend Rags and his wife Vasavi (isnt that just the most beautiful name?), to go to a winery in Napa Valley. But they discovered that the winery only opened at noon, so our departure was postponed slightly. Just as well, because then we could say goodbye to Kumar, who was flying back to Erie that morning. We would be flying back to Seattle the next day, early. The holiday was coming to an end.

But before that we had the day to spend at the winery. The drive was about an hour or so, and the day got steadily hotter as we reached the Napa Valley area. The change in temperature was nothing short of amazing - in San Francisco, it was bright and sunny but not unduly hot... but in Napa Valley, my god, it felt like Hyderabad. Not humid but very, very hot! It was quite crowded at that winery, mainly because the tasting was free of charge. The picnic areas outside were full of people with hampers of food and bottles of wine. We didnt waste any time in finding a wine that we all liked, got a couple of bottles, and went outside to find a bit of shade in which to sit. Vasavi, being designated driver, did not have very much wine. Me, not being much of a drinker, didnt have half as much as Pete and Rags put away. But it was a time of lots of talk, laughter and reminiscing about school days (for Rags and me, that is) and old friends and places in Chennai, and setting the world to rights.

We stayed at the winery till we were nearly kicked out, then went back with Rags and Vasavi to their lovely new home for more wine, martinis and chatter. (Rags makes the most sensational martinis - his specialty. I dunno if they were stirred or shaken, but the martinis were just wow.) The hours flew by and before we knew it, it was 1 in the morning. We just HAD to get back home, as our flight was at 6am (or some such godawful early hour) and we hadnt even packed. Vasavi and Rags drove us back to Bhanu's place, where we had to say our reluctant goodbyes. If only we'd had more time to spend in San Francisco...

Back in Seattle, we had only a day before we flew back to the UK. That was spent pretty much in last-minute shopping and packing.

But even the drive to the airport wasnt without its share of drama. Radha had to borrow her friend's car (as it was bigger and more powerful than hers) to take us and our luggage. Halfway there, the electrics in the car began to act up. It was a bit of touch and go whether we would actually get to the airport before a breakdown occurred, but we made it. (As it happened, the car DID break down when amma and Radha were on their way back home!)

We were good and early at the airport, but finally we had to say our goodbyes and check in, with heavy hearts. I really didnt want to go, but all holidays have to come to an end - unfortunately. Pete and I sat around at the airport until our flights were called. And then we discovered that the terminal we should have been at was a train trip away! We could see the terminal out of the window, but it was a separate building, only connected by a shuttle.

We had not known this until then, so after that it was a frantic run to the train shuttle station , which seemed like a few miles away inside the airport. We had to wait two minutes for the train to arrive, and believe me, the four-minute ride to the correct terminal seemed endless. We were 10 minutes over the final security call for boarding, and it seemed certain that we had missed our flight. It would have been an extreme irony had we missed it, considering how early we'd arrived at the airport - but luckily the flight had been delayed 10 minutes and the passengers had only just begun to board. Phew! Made it by the skin of our teeth.
All the way back, all we could talk about was how much fun it had been. Pete had started the trip not really wanting to go to the States, but even he had to admit that it was well worth making a return trip - or trips. That's a promise I have in hand.

USA trip April 29-May 16 2006 - Part 1

2006-06-07T00:25:00.000-07:00

Wow, it sure has been a long time since I wrote any travel posts… not because I haven’t been anywhere but because there doesn’t seem to be enough time to sit down and write. Don’t get me wrong, there’s time to sit down but then I end up doing other stuff – embroidery or watching TV or just reading. It takes some serious self-discipline to actually write – or type, as the case may be.

The US trip – first one for both me and Pete – was absolutely fantastic, if really hectic. Actually, the very fact that we went to so many places, saw so much, did so much AND took so many photos is the major deterrent when it comes to writing it all down (“oh man, it’s going to take AGES to write all this” – and then I end up doing something else just so I don’t have to think about writing). It’s a vicious circle.

But I’ve decided to breach the circle. This travelogue is not going to be a word-for-word, scene-by-scene description of events – I leave that to my brother, who’s doing an excellent, very funny job of it (look up http://gopalsworld.blogspot.com/). Mine’s going to be more a city-by-city jobbie. Or experience by experience.

Anyway, on with it. The travails I went through before my travels (I kill myself with my laborious wordplay sometimes) are documented here: http://shyamram.blogspot.com/2006/05/trip-that-almost-didnt-happen.html. Luckily it all worked out, and we left Heathrow on 29th April, touching down at

NEW YORK, at the John F Kennedy Airport the same day. There’s something to be said for time zones when you gain a few hours extra of daylight. On the other hand, the bright daylight highlighted the rather sorry state of JFK. It wasn’t the most impressive airport from the inside – in fact, it looked (and felt) rather like Chennai International Airport before the improvements. Not much to be said for the outside either, once we got out of the inside.

I was actually dreading Passport Control, but it turned out a lot less hassle in one way (I expected to be given a body search but that didn’t happen, phew) while getting on Pete’s nerves royally in other ways. After waiting in a rather haphazard queue for over an hour, we finally got to where we could see the passport control officials sitting in their little plastic cubicles. (I was unpleasantly quite shocked that all of them were carrying guns! They weren’t cops – just regular employees at passport control!) Person after person was called and eventually sent on their way.

At first there were about 7-8 officials checking passports and visas. Then, as the throng dwindled down, a couple of them closed up shop and wandered away. And then there were 5. Amma, Pete and I (and a Malay lady) were the very last in the queue. There was an officious lady who directed us to a cubicle but the official just locked up and went away. She then told us to wait at another cubicle - but it turned out that every time we went and stood in front of an official, they would get up, lock their station and walk off – even though we were stood there waiting right in front of them! They totally ignored us even though it was obvious we needed to be officially let through.

This happened three times and finally Pete lost his temper. He stomped up to the officious lady and politely (but forcefully) explained the situation to her. She looked pissed off (but I’m assuming it was with her colleagues, not with us) and went to the last remaining official. HE wasnt happy at being the last working man, but he was nice enough to us. He fingerprinted us, photographed us and finally told us to have a nice stay as he sent us off towards the baggage carousels.

The first thing I noticed out on the road was the size of the cars. Every other car seemed to be half a truck long and about as high – absolutely huge! Coming from a country where the cars are usually little, and even the SUVs seem small in comparison to American cars… well, I was a little shell shocked. Not to mention dwarfed.

In daylight, the part of New York that we were in looked rather grubby. Even the drive to Manhattan wasn’t madly impressive, unless you count the maniac drivers in their monster vehicles. I’ve never seen such a display of outright bad driving outside of Belgium – methinks even the Belgians would be impressed. Yes, India is a country of TERRIBLE drivers, but at least they’re not changing lanes and muscling their way ahead at signals at 60 miles an hour! Frankly, New York traffic terrified me. I’m all admiration for Kumar who has actually driven there and braved the local traffic. I wouldn’t do it for worlds.

The architecture – such as it is – of New York was quite fascinating. The skyscrapers were all properly impressive and some of them even stunningly beautiful in their symmetry and soaring size. Sandwiched between them in odd places, though, were buildings that looked like they’d been transplanted whole from Europe. Gothic spikes, fairy-tale towers, little brick-and-stone constructions – it was a real mish-mash of styles. I guess that’s a legacy of the immigrants who came there in previous centuries.

The New York subway system is not geared for tourists or amateurs, that’s for sure. First of all, the signs for stops were strange to people who are used to actual names for streets and avenues, instead of numbers (3rd, 5th and so on). The grid system is a thing of wondrous sensible logic – but one has to get used to it first.

Quite apart from sussing that out, we had some serious trouble getting INTO the subway stations. The swipe-your-card thing didn’t work for us very well – at one point, the four of us were on the right side of the turnstile entry while Pete was stuck outside, desperately trying to get in. It was amusing the first time, but the experience soon palled when one or other of us was left outside trying to get in. Or inside, trying to get out. I didn’t notice any fire exits at the stations – the only way to get out was through the turnstiles, and those didn’t allow for a mass panic exodus – I couldn’t help wondering about the mayhem that would be caused if there was a bomb explosion or some other disaster and people had to get out in a hurry. All in all, I didn’t take to the NY subways. (So it’s even possible to forgive my brother for making us walk in three different – and wrong – directions before finally setting off in the fourth direction which by elimination was the right way out!) The subways in Singapore, Paris and London are much more tourist-friendly.

New York by midnight was very nice – the city that never sleeps, isn’t it called? Times Square was lit up like Christmas, with really HUGE neon signs and advertisements and bright lights everywhere. There were loads of snap happy tourists (I admit I was more snap than happy at that time of night, so I didn’t take any photos – luckily my brother did), shops were open, road-side food vendors were selling their wares and in general the streets were very much awake and populated. It certainly was nice to be there and I can only imagine the sort of buzz you’d get from being there around Christmas or New Year’s.

One really cool thing I saw in New York (and for this I do wish I’d got some photos) was a sort of 5-seater cycle. It’s a tourist gimmick and I’m not quite sure how it worked, but basically it was for 4-6 people, all pedalling away while facing in different directions. I’m not sure who would have been the main driver or how the brakes were meant to work – I mean, there were people pedalling with their back to the traffic, others were sitting sideways-on while pedalling. It had to have been legitimate or I’m sure they would not have been allowed to ride in traffic. Whatever, it looked like good fun, and it’s another of the things I’m gonna try the next time I’m in NY!

After two days in New York (I wished we’d had more time there – I wanted to check out a few restaurants and bistros recommended on various food blogs, and I also wanted to meet a couple of blogger friends… but it wasn’t to be, this time), we left for

WASHINGTON DC, which was a 4 hour drive (could have been 3 hours, but felt like 6) in a big car hired by Kumar. Big on the outside, that is. Right then I discovered another thing about American cars. They’re mostly huge on the outside but tiny on the inside and totally uncomfortable to sit in. Talk about bad design! It was meant to be a 7- or 8-seater Ford (cant remember the model) van but the floor was so high up that I was sitting cross-legged. It was either that or have my knees touching my chin. It was the single most uncomfortable car I’ve ever been in. (Kumar discovered this for himself later on in the trip – he actually lay down on the floor of the car, wedging his head by the side of the seat, against the door, in preference to sitting on the seat. He even had a nap in an “L” position! And there are photos to prove it!)

Lunch by the Inner Harbour in Baltimore was nice because of the setting (sailboats, sun shining on little flippy waves and that sort of thing). I wanted to go on the Duck Tour – an amphibious vehicle that does a land and water tour - but we didn’t have the time.

After that we set off for the hotel where we were to stay the night. I wasn’t sure what to expect because the New York hotel had been just about “okay”. But oh my, the Radisson was fantastic. Ultra modern and so comfortable that we were very nearly inclined to just stay there and never mind going out and being touristy! The beds alone were worth that inclination, believe me. The American tendency of making everything the “large economy size” was advantageous in the case of the beds – there were acres of it, soft and inviting and simply lovely. (I might be going on about this rather a lot, but good beds, wherever found, are worth going the extra mile for and worth the extra descriptive sentence or two. Please excuse the mixed metaphor. Rest assured, if I found a good bed anywhere, I would not go an extra mile from it in ANY direction!)

Reluctantly tearing ourselves away from the beds, we went to an area called Greenbelt, to meet with Kumar’s bosom buddy, his best friend from the age of 5 or thereabouts. The poor guy was recovering from a bad case of the flu (or some such debilitating attack) but was still happy to have us all drop by. He took us on a long(ish) leisurely walk around a nearby lake – a very peaceful, beautiful post with a couple of absolutely gorgeous houses on the far side. After the lovely evening and the walk, the siren song of the beds was too tempting to ignore, so off we went, back to the hotel.

The next day, we set off all gung-ho, ready for a day of museum hopping. My bright and shiny outlook had wilted a bit by the time we got out of the metro station and walked towards the museums – it was such a very hot, blindingly bright day. Exactly the wrong kind of day to be carrying a warm, furry coat.

The Air and Space Museum was nicely air-conditioned and despite the fact that there were lots of people (mainly school kids) around, it still didn’t seem crowded. We were lucky enough to get into the Imax theatre and other places of activity and fun just before the crowds got there. It was good fun. There wasn’t much time after that to look at more museums, so we decided to get on a hop-on hop-off bus tour of DC. We managed to see a few places but since I was to meet up with an old friend of mine (and, as it turned out, his new fiancée), Pete and I got off partway so that we could take the Metro nearest to his home.

After a couple of hours spent with Jason and his fiancée (now his wife, actually) Anuja, during which we incorporated a leisurely walk to his little apartment as well as the obligatory photos outside the White House, we went back to the Smithsonian to meet up with amma, Kumar and Radha. (Cant begin to describe how unimpressive the White House looks, by the way. Buckingham Palace it aint, and even that I found rather bland, actually!)

Then it was back to the hotel for our car, and thence to

ERIE, where Kumar is based. It was a long drive, about 6 hours, and Kumar did all of it. We got to his place around 1.30 in the morning. Although we were all tired and very sleepy, we couldn’t help coming rather wide awake when we saw his house. It even had its own plaque outside, as it was Erie’s oldest building (circa 1828, I think). The inside was impressive – tall ceilings, large rooms, very nice furniture (not indigenous to the house) and a very nearly cavernous cellar. On the whole, most impressive. Around 2.30 am, we finally got to bed, with Kumar dropping heavy hints about an early start so as to get to the Niagara Falls nice and early.

Early start, right! I like a leisurely start to my day, whenever and wherever possible, so we left the house only late in the morning. It was about an hour and a half’s drive to get there, and we made it without any hassle. The best part was that there were no crowds whatsoever at the Falls. We didn’t have to queue for anything!

My brother was extremely blasé about the Niagara Falls, having been there half a dozen times. Kind of understandable, because that’s how I felt about Sentosa Island & Jurong Bird Park when I was in Singapore, and how I feel about Madame Tussaud’s, the Tower and the hop-on hop-off bus tour of London. Been there, been there, been there, been there, been there…. No more! Never again!

Anyway, he was kind enough to suffer through yet another visit to the Falls. I absolutely loved it – it was such a breathtaking experience to see the volume of water that rushed over the rocks. The Maid of the Mist was a lovely experience as well. I know it’s been “done” by millions of Indians and yet it’s still something to write home about. The experience is awesome.

Better yet – because you get REALLY close to the waterfall – is the Cave of the Winds. Kind of a misnomer, because it wasn’t a cave and there were no winds. What it was, was a platform built extremely close to the roaring, rushing falls so that at its closest, you were actually standing under the water. Obviously not enough to get knocked off, but just enough to feel the exhilarating rush. The water was cold, but not freezing. There’s no way I could or would have done that in the winter – it would have been way beyond unbearable in freezing temperatures. Worse, it would not have been an enjoyable experience.

After our Niagara tour, Kumar decided that he wanted to show us the views around Lake Erie, so we headed back, trying to beat the setting sun so as get there with enough light to see by. As it turned out, it was a doddle. Plenty of sunshine, plenty of light.

Lake Erie was amazingly huge – it could well have been a sea, if I hadn’t known better. It actually had a quite substantial sandy beachfront, and were it not for the fact that the water wasn’t salty, I would not have believed it to be an inland lake at all. Even more amazing, it actually freezes right up in the winter. Completely. The entire lake! Man, what a sight THAT would be!

The next thing was deciding on how to get back to Washington the next day, to catch the 4pm flight to Seattle. I was not at all keen on 6 hours again in that vehicle of torture aka the Ford van, so Kumar kindly booked tickets on an early morning flight for me, Pete and Radha back to Baltimore. The road trip HAD to be done as the vehicle was hired and needed to be returned. Kumar and amma were to do the road trip, along with our luggage, back to Washington and to Ramaswamy’s house where the rest of their luggage awaited.

Back in Washington after a short flight, the three of us went back to the Smithsonian, this time to the Museum of American Indians which we thought might be interesting and reveal more about the ORIGINAL denizens of America. The building was beautiful inside, cool and air-conditioned. There was a live dance and music performance happening on the ground floor, but to our mystification, it was a Hawaiian hula dance. Why a hula dance, complete with fake grass skirts, in a museum dedicated to the American Indians is anybody’s guess.

The museum was unfortunately a bit disappointing. There were lots of artefacts and things, lots of arrowheads and dolls – but with rather vague descriptions as to time and history. Things that purported to be over 1000 years old were right next to a cheesy modern hard hat painted in “traditional” designs in 1993 by some guy – but why put THAT in a museum??? Is there really so little original work left from the tribes that they have to include whatever junk passes for indigenous art? Still, to be fair, there were some fantastic pieces of extremely intricate beadwork garments on display. As an amateur

Pete thought – and I agree – that it could have been a good chance for the history and culture of the indigenous peoples of America to be propagated, but instead it turned out to be somewhat less of a learning experience and more of propaganda to the tune of “We are all Americans but we still have our own culture and pride and an important role to play in modern America”.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, by the time Pete and I had had a look around (Radha sat down in one of the comfortable sofas that were scattered around and refused to budge), it was time to head to the airport. We were too bummed to bother with public transport so we took a taxi. It was a long ride, but the driver was a polite, dignified gentleman whose previous job profile was as an Afghan diplomat! I dozed pretty much all the way, but Pete had a long chat with him. They became such friends that at the airport, the taxi driver happily took less fare than he was owed (none of us had change), saying he would take it “next time”. What a nice man!

As it turned out, we very nearly missed the flight to Seattle because apparently Pete was on the FBI and CIA “no-fly” list. There was 5 minutes left for the final security check call, and Pete didn’t even have his baggage checked through! After some frantic running around (and dealing with unhelpful people), he managed to convince them that he was a different Peter Edwards, not the criminal that Interpol was on the look out for. We were literally the last persons to board the aircraft – in fact, the steps were wheeled away the moment we set foot in the plane! And then we were on our way to

SEATTLE, Radha’s chosen place of residence. The flight was uneventful enough, and we had a choice of taking the shuttle or one of the limos from the airport to her house. And in honour of our first visit to Seattle, Radha hired a long black stretch limousine. It was fun to actually be inside one of those things instead of on the outside wondering what was on the inside! J Well, there wasn’t that much inside, to be honest. But then, it was still an airport taxi sort of vehicle, not really geared OR set up for five-star luxury or celebrity occupants. Still, it was fun. It must take some getting used to, when it comes to parking a car that’s more than two cars’ length! My new ambition now is to ride in a Hummer limo. I know, I know… Hummer limos are monstrous eyesores. But I still would like to ride in one.

It was about an hour's drive from the airport to Radha's house. And a very nice house it was, too. With a very comfortable high bed in the room allotted to Pete and me. (Ok, I'm obsessive about beds.) But even better than that was her recliner chair - like the ones that Chandler and Joey have in "Friends". (Ok, I'm obsessive about Friends, too.) That to me is the last word in luxury... until something even more luxurious comes along, that is.

I have to say that we didnt do much in Seattle by way of sightseeing. I didnt get to see the Seattle Needle, and apparently Frasier had re-located to San Francisco (although I didnt meet him there either. Yes, ok, I'm obsessive about Frasier too!). What we did do there, in the couple of days available to us, was shop a lot. We spent one day, more or less, shopping for clothes. I didnt get much that I liked, but Pete spent absolutely HOURS and came out with what was an entire new wardrobe of new clothes. He's set for the year, I think.

Radha was obliging enough to drive me around to food shops where I browsed for things not available in the UK. In Uwajimaya, an oriental food store, I got a few spices and sauces and dried lotus stems and things like that. In a Mexican grocery store, I stocked up on strange dried herbs and lots of different kinds of dried chilies. I havent got around to using most of them yet, but it's only a matter of time. I also tried out what was called "guava candy" - but it wasnt really candy, it was exactly like the aam papad - dried pressed mango that you get in India. Except, of course, that it was guava papad. It was scrumptious, sweet and a bit sour at the same time. I wish I'd brought back some to the UK!

I also went to a Trader Joe's. It was sort of disappointing after all I'd read about it in various food blogs. But only because most of the items available couldnt have been transported back to the UK... Trader Joe's is best for people who live locally. Sigh.

Oops, this is my travel blog, not my food blog.

Some of the shopping we did was for the party we were having in celebration of my mother's 60th birthday. In fact, the whole trip was planned for and around that event, with Radha inviting her friends over. It was a sort of pot-luck party, with each guest bringing along one item. It was good fun, with great food, and I had a gala time with all the little kids.

Again, there wasnt enough time for sight-seeing or trying out the various eateries and restaurants for which Seattle is famous. (It's another matter that I might not have been able to find much to eat, being vegetarian.) But one place we DID go to - and long-time residents of the US might groan at this - was a Krispy Kreme outlet. Oh my god, I've never had such melt-in-the-mouth doughnuts EVER! Every one of them was a revelation of fresh sweet warm softness. Those doughnuts are to die for. I could have eaten them all day despite my distinct lack of a sweet tooth. I really WISH Krispy Kreme would open outlets in the UK, like McDonalds, Burger King & KFC. And of course Starbucks.

After that hectic weekend, we were off early Monday morning to

YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK. Of course, we had to fly to Salt Lake City first. When I looked out at the countryside, I couldnt help thinking of all the Westerns I'd read and trying to imagine what it must have been like in the times of cowboys and outlaws and shootouts in saloons. (I tried not to think about the Mormons, though it would have been kinda nice to visit the Mormon temple.)

Directly from Salt Lake City's airport, we went to the RV (Recreational Vehicle, to the uninitiated) centre, where we hired ourselves one of those large vehicles, ready for the 400-mile drive to Yellowstone Park. It was all exciting, especially as neither Radha or Kumar had ever driven anything as big as a large bus! It was a first for everybody... and we had a 400-mile drive, first-timers all.

For Pete especially, the sheer staggering size of the US was driven in yet again - I mean, in the UK, it's a 400-mile drive from Shrewsbury to the Scottish Highlands, and that covers nearly 3/4 of the country's length. And here we were, ready to cover the same distance merely to GET to the National Park from the nearest RV centre!

Staggering, I tell ya.

After a long drive, with Radha and Kumar taking turns to drive the RV, we reached the RV camp quite late at night - 11 pm or thereabouts. It was very quiet and still, but since Radha had phoned ahead to the camp manager, she was awake. Very quietly, we hooked up the RV to the electricity and water outlets and, once everything was fixed and ready, went to sleep.

We were in Yellowstone Park at exactly the right time of year - yet again, it was timed to perfection. The season hadnt quite begun yet, and the Park wasnt fully open. The weather was perfect, the hordes of tourists hadnt descended on the area and there was peace and calm all around. Apparently during high season, there are actual traffic jams on the roads inside Yellowstone - brr! I doubt we would have had as good a time with more traffic and people to contend with.

Yellowstone Park is huge and only a very small section of it has been "civilised" - I mean, laid out with roads and signs and things. The best way to see it, of course, is by hiking or climbing. But for the more comfortably-minded, driving around in a car is much the preferred method. The views are fantastic, the sheer scale of the mountains is breath-taking.

We saw lots of bison (or buffalo) - usually on the road, blocking our way. With typical bovine stupidity, they would amble across till they were in the middle of the road, then stop and just stand there. Maybe they forgot what they were gonna do, maybe they were waiting for inspiration to strike. But since you're not allowed to honk the car horn or otherwise disturb the wildlife on purpose, all we could do was wait and hope that they would move on. It IS exciting to see wild animals close up, but there's only so long that you can sustain the excitement of looking at a somnolent shaggy cow. Or bull.

Mind, we also saw lots of elk. Boring deer, really. But at least they werent on the road. We saw a coyote, too. And a wolf. Which also, strangely enough, was in the middle of the road. It actually looked like a normal Alsatian dog, because it was wearing a collar. But since nobody goes to Yellowstone Park to look at a domestic canine, we decided that it was a wolf that had been "collared" for scientific head-count purposes. The darn thing trotted along the central line on the road almost as if it was taking a sobriety test, making it impossible for cars on both sides of the road to progress along. Eventually, after we had all taken photos, it loped off to the side, and we could all carry on driving in search of MORE wildlife and wild views. You'd think the animals would have learnt to stay off the roads, considering the hundreds of miles of forest and wilderness available to them! (This is called irony.)

Oh, talking about views... Yellowstone is one of those places that you have to see to believe. Words cant describe it and photographs show only a fraction of what we saw. The waterfalls we came across were ginormous, and so fantastically placed that from every angle they were perfect for picture postcard photography. Kind of like the Taj Mahal - it was difficult to take a bad picture.

What I would have loved to see in the way of wild animals was a grizzly bear, but unfortunately those were not wandering around in herds. We DID stop by the roadside at one beautiful viewpoint, to be told in hushed tones by the other people that "there's a grizzly over there". "Over there" turned out to be at the furthest point of naked eyesight. We didnt have binoculars so we couldnt tell for sure if it was an animal, or if the vaunted grizzly was really only a distant bush masquerading as one. In any case, after straining our eyes and trying to get a closer look via our cameras' "zoom" facility to no avail, we moved on.

It was probably only a bison, anyway.

As it turned out, we didnt see any grizzlies. Nor did any grizzlies see us, I guess. Just as well.

Two of the most vivid experiences of Yellowstone were, for me, Old Faithful geyser and the enormous Yellowstone Lake. The park has lots of areas of hot springs, geysers, sulphur pools and mud pools, much like New Zealand. Old Faithful is, of course, THE most well-known geyser. We had to wait nearly an hour (which time we whiled away by dozing through two interesting documentaries in the shop-cum-office area). There seemed to be quite a lot of false starts and spurts but eventually Old Faithful lived up to her name, putting up quite a show of scalding water and steam that shot up into the air.

Not only are there volcanic pools, but bacteria that can live in the scalding, sulphurous, acid waters and are being studied by scientists to see how life developed. Nobody is allowed to step off the raised paths onto the ground for two very good reasons: One, it would compromise the bacterial mat and 2. One could end up sinking into a pool of corrosive acid.

I have to admit at this point that I DID compromise the evolution of these bacteria - but not on purpose. An extra strong gust of icy wind whipped my beautiful red leather beret (bought as a souvenir in New York) off my head on to the ground a few feet away. Alas, I couldnt retrieve it because of the two reasons stated above. So with a heavy heart, I abandoned my beret to the tender mercies of the hot sulphurous waters and the bacteria. I wonder how they will incorporate my beret into their evolution... and what the scientists will think when they come across leathery red bacteria...

The second unforgettable sight in Yellowstone was the vast frozen Yellowstone lake that we came across more or less by accident. We'd hired a car that day (thinking the RV was too big to drive around everywhere) and taken a wrong turning somewhere after a set of bubbling sulphurous mud pools. When we came across a sign for "Yellowstone Lake", it was a choice between carrying on that way or turning back the way we had come. Luckily we decided to carry on, although Kumar thought it couldnt be much of a tourist attraction. We werent sure if it was a loop road, or whether it led away, or how far, from our RV. Still, we carried on.

And what a fortunate choice that turned out to be! Once past a Ranger Station on our right (brand new buildings, and a new service station coming up as well), all we saw was a vast sheet of ice on the left - Lake Yellowstone was still frozen solid. Towards the edge, near the beach, the ice was fairly thin and translucent, but further back, it was an opaque white. The lake stretched to the horizon, with a semi-circle of snow-covered mountains at the furthest. Puffs of steam could be seen here and there on the far side, from the hot springs and mud pools. It was an amazing, awe-inspiring, completely unexpected sight.

Then Kumar had a brainwave - he suggested that we go back with the car to the RV and come back with it, hopefully in time to take photos of what would most certainly be a spectacular sunset. The reason for returning the car being, of course, that the RV was a lot more comfortable and even if got late, at least some of us could get some sleep even if the RV was moving. This seemed like a good idea, so we raced back to the caravan park, saying rude things to the few bison that dared to get in our way and slow us down.

The decision to let Pete handle the RV on the way back to Yellowstone Lake was unanimous - we had only an hour or so to get there if we wanted to catch the sunset. Although Radha and Kumar had both proved very good at driving the monstrous RV, neither of them were quite comfortable with the idea of hurling it around the fairly narrow, twisty roads. Pete was the only one of us with experience in driving large vehicles over narrow roads at unsuitable speeds. Back at home in England, he's very used to driving the Range Rover with a large trailer attached - so an RV would more or less be the same length (if not the width). It was quite awesome to be in the RV at that point, and believe me, we were all belted in as he hurtled the RV onwards at speeds somewhat in excess - like 3 times - of the maximum speed limit (If any cops are reading this - I'm lying like a rug, officer.)

As it happened, despite Pete's speediest efforts, we didnt make it back to the lake in time for the sunset. (It was another matter that the sunset was in the opposite direction.) But we went onwards regardless, because that was The Plan. Once we got there, Kumar decided that he wanted to stay overnight so as to see the sunrise the next day. There was some argument about whether it was legal to park the RV there, and if it was safe, and whether we would run the batteries down by having the heating on all night, and so on. I have to say that Kumar made the most impassioned pleas for staying on, getting all poetic ("Just imagine, you're standing there with a cup of coffee in your hand, watching the sun rise over the mountains, watching as the sky lightens to pink, as the first rays of the sun hit the frozen lake" etc ad nauseam). I know I gave in just so that he would stop babbling like an out-of-control travel agent!

My main reservation about staying there was perhaps meeting a grizzly or even a bad-tempered bison in the dark (while on the short walk to the toilet, for instance). For all that we hadnt seen any grizzly bears, I couldnt stop imagining a particularly sore-headed, hungry bear behind every bush as it got dark. It didnt help that I'd read a book about really grisly grizzly attacks, day and night, on unsuspecting people who were out walking or even in tents. I mean, just because I couldnt see or smell a grizzly didnt mean that any passing hungry bear couldnt see or smell ME! I knew for a fact that bison had been around, because of the lavishly large droppings that that had been deposited here and there. One, I might mention, rather close to the toilet cubicles. Anyway, I decided I would venture out only in broad daylight. The last of the intrepid adventurers, me.

To give Kumar his due, he really was enthusiastic about the whole thing, making up for any shortfall in the levels of enthusiasm in the rest of us. He got up at around 4am the next day (if he slept at all, that is) and was out in the cold pre-dawn darkness fiddling with his tripod and camera, getting everything just right. By about 5.30 we were all out there, shivering quietly but marvelling at how utterly eerie the lake and mountains looked. Everything was an intense blue, much like looking through a blue filter - the photos will attest to that.

The sun was quite tardy in rising, and we amused ourselves by betting on exactly which valley the sun would appear from. Eventually, extremely reluctantly, the sun made its first appearance over the mountains at around 6.30. Coincidentally, exactly at that moment, there was a huge "CRRACK" - the ice at the forefront of the lake, where it wasnt very thick, was breaking up. Even as we watched, cracks zigzagged their way almost quicker than the eye could follow. It was stunning. I dont know if it was sheer coincidence or whether the sun's warmth caused the cracking. If it was the latter, all I can say is that any change in temperature was totally imperceptible to us.

The sunrise itself was pretty - more pastels than anything else, not as spectacular as some I've seen. Perhaps because there wasnt enough pollution (dust, etc) in the atmosphere? Whatever, it definitely was worth the trouble of getting up early and I guess we have Kumar alone to thank for the experience - so, thanks, Gopes!

The rest of the travelogue will follow in the next post.

A long weekend and a short trip in Europe - Part 2

2005-09-16T23:29:00.000-07:00

I guess all the margaritas of the previous evening had taken their toll because when we got up on Sunday morning, it was nearly afternoon. We decided to have a very late breakfast at a French cafe and then go cycling. Breakfast was a plain omelette for me (and despite his lack of English, the waiter kept asking if I really wanted it plain - no fromage? no champignons? no jambon? no tomatoes? It took a few firm "NO"s and many negative head shakes before he accepted the inevitable) and two cups of their wonderful coffee.

Oh, I have to say this about the coffee in Europe (at least in the few countries I've visited) - it's FABULOUS!!! Even the motorway service area shops serve the most amazing coffee... my favourite was at "Star Mart" shops in Belgium. Not only was the coffee dispenser state-of-the-art interactive, but the coffee itself was the best I've had - possibly ever. I done drink coffee anywhere in the UK because not even the top-priced outlets - Costa Lotta... I mean, Costa Coffee, Coffee Primo, Ritazza, even Starbucks - manage anything that I find palatable. But at Star Mart I didnt even need sugar in my coffee - it was THAT good! I cant praise it enough.

And I dont need to go on about Belgian chocolates, do I? Even their "off-the-rack" ones seem classy. I found one that was utter bliss - dark chocolate with whole hazelnuts... I'm not crazy about chocolate but if I could have taken home a few hundred bars of that particular confection, I would definitely have done it!

Back to Luxembourg. I have absolutely no idea where we went (didnt have a map) - we just followed our noses, so to speak. But some things did stay in my memory... backed up, of course, with photographs. The Grand Duchesse Charlotte bridge was humongous - each of its "legs" is wider around than one of those luxury tourist buses. Ok, not the best comparison and not the best photograph either, but I couldnt fit it all into my little camera or into the little area of my brain that forms similes. You can see the building down in the valley here, which probably gives a better idea of just how big the bridge is. It felt almost like a hallucination.

We didnt go over the bridge; rather, we rode up the side to reach the Centre Europeen District, which has a lot of embassies and important European Union buildings. The street that we chose had the American Embassy in it - fortified in the extreme. We were watched all the way up by a squat, belligerent looking, fully armed guard in the embassy's guardhouse. He looked so like an escapee troll from Discworld that I mentally christened him Chrysoprase. I would have taken a photo but I was rather worried that he might consider that a security threat to the embassy, Bush and American democracy, and go into "shoot-to-kill" mode. He certainly was armed for it.

There was another bridge (name unknown to me) that we rode across just for the heck of it - and what a good idea it was, because the views of the valley from there were lovely. Like this one and this. The bridge was different enough that I wanted a photo of it - and here's Pete posing on it. And me.

We also rode down to a particularly lovely park that I think is called Plaza de la Constitution... I had read that it was built in the middle of a former bastion halfway down the Casemate wall. I dont know if that was it, but I certainly saw some solid old stone walls while riding down. (By the way, the Casemates are the massive stone walls that surround the city.)

Pete also took a photo of a bridge that he saw from the top of park (I'd gone way down the path by then, as you can see in this photo, but I've no idea what the bridge is called. There are quite a few bridges, and lack of a guidebook didnt help identify the ones we saw!

I have to confess that we didnt take our cycles all the way to the bottom of the park - the long climb back to civilisation simply didnt appeal to me, although Pete seemed game enough. So when I noticed the path branching off to a set of steep steps that led to the main road at the top, I was all for going up it. Until I tried to climb them steps while carrying my cycle. Apparently my cycle didnt approve, for it whacked my ankle with the pedal. That was painful, so I tried to adjust my grip on it to prevent it happening - and the handlebar whacked my forehead.

Pete was already halfway up but when he saw that I wasnt making much progress, he came back down, hefted up my cycle on one shoulder and his cycle on the other, and climbed up the steps all at one go. I just about managed a photo of him going up the steps. Awww... my hero!

After that we pedalled through all kinds of side streets - nobody seemed to be around and what shops and business establishments we saw were closed. Well, it was Sunday, after all. So we headed back to the city centre and the cafes. It was pretty hot, so I personally was very happy to take possession of my extra large glass of a citron margarita, complete with salted rim. Nothing that tastes better... unless it be a strawberry margarita!

I did manage to take a photo of this snoring beauty, though. I could practically see up his nose (and down his throat to his uvula) when I closed in for a macro, but an extra large snort from him kind of startled me - I thought he'd woken up! So I settled for a regular shot instead. I have to say he looked very comfortable...

One last bridge shot (again, name unknown) and we wandered back to our hotel for a reasonably early night. All that cycling was fun but tiring!

***

Here's a tip - dont bother stopping at Lille, France. That was a bad choice on my part. We had to get back to France on the Monday so that we'd be in good time to catch the ferry in Calais on Tuesday. Since most of the places I wanted to see in France were too long a drive away, Lille seemed the best choice in terms of being on the route to Calais and being a reasonably big city.

I have to say I was pretty disappointed when we got into the city... there didnt seem to be any pretty parts to it. It all looked uniformly grungy and built-up - rather like Birmingham, actually. The actual city centre square - what the Lilleians called the "Grand Place" - was the only bit that looked passable, with a few open-air cafes. The hotel we stopped at was very close to the Grand Place but the street was really grotty and dirty - enough to make me regret wanting to stop here, and certainly enough that I didnt bother with the camera.

However, dogged as ever, we set off on our cycles to explore what we could of Lille. The one abiding impression I have of the city is that of smelly drains - on the main roads, in the side roads, everywhere we got whiffs of hot stinking sewers. Very reminiscent of the Cooum in Madras, I must say! Their drainage system leaves a lot to be desired - and I suppose the heat and humidity didnt help. Eventually we found our way to a big park by the river that looked promisingly green. It wasnt bad, but as we were to discover, we werent destined to escape the smelly drains - there were pools of stagnant water well inside the wooded areas of the park, although they didnt seem to bother the dozens of joggers.

Anyway, after cycling through what seemed like miles of mushy, muddy park, we eventually reached the back end of a fair. It had some interesting rides, so we went to look at them. I have to say I wasnt tempted to ride any - mainly because I didnt want to go by myself, Pete having excused himself firmly from them all. Cant quite blame him, most of the rides looked pretty vicious! :)

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a creperie that advertised "English spoken here" - a blatant lie because nobody spoke English except Pete and me. I guess the only thing they learnt to say in English was a whopping untruth! But our waitress was a friendly, smiley little thing who looked about 14, and we were happy enough - Pete with his coffee and me with an icecream sundae which I couldnt finish because it was so huge.

***

Tuesday morning, and I was pretty happy to leave Lille. As a matter of fact I was quite surprised that the cycles were still on their rack on the car - our hotel didnt have its own parking, so we'd parked on the street... and what I'd seen of the street didnt give rise to confidence regarding security. But since the cycles were untouched, I guess I've maligned the Lilleians, for which I apologise.

En route to Calais, we made a short detour to Dunkirk where we went to see the war memorial. Didnt like to take any photos, so we wandered around the huge cemetery looking at the various gravestones and wondering about the people who were buried there - Indians, Belgians, French, Germans, English... so many people who died so young and so far away from home. It was quite sobering.

Just before we went to the port to catch our ferry, Pete decided to take advantage of the cheap prices in Calais and fill the boot with wine and assorted alcohol bought at a big wine wholesaler and retailer. He went looking for wines and I wandered around picking out exotic-sounding liqueurs. At the end of 30 minutes, we'd managed to fill a supermarket trolley with our purchases. That, for Pete, was the perfect ending to a nice short break.

And here endeth this travelogue. Until the next holiday, then.

A long weekend and a short trip in Europe - Part 1

2005-09-06T16:05:00.000-07:00

For a while now, I've been thinking that the ideal holiday would be to drive through a country (whichever one) at a leisurely pace, stopping wherever and whenever, based on a travel plan which specifies only the final destination. Vague but workable, and the long weekend of Aug 27-29 - Monday Aug 29 being the last bank holiday of the year before Christmas - seemed ideal to test my theory. Since I'd wangled Tuesday off from work, it added up to a decent 4 days for a short trip.

Ireland could have been on the cards, but I had Calais on my mind. So we headed France-wards on the ferry to Calais, with the car parked in the bowels of the ferry and our cycles (a fortunate afterthought on Pete's part) parked on the car. I was particularly thrilled about going to Calais because the ferry left from Dover - the famous white cliffs of which I had wanted to see. And now I can say that I've seen the white cliffs of Dover. They are quite white, actually, but not particularly high. That said, I wouldnt be making that comment about the height if I had been at the top of the cliffs, rather than at the bottom.

I could certainly imagine the feelings of the seamen on British ships during WW2, when they got their first glimpse of home in the white cliffs of Dover as their ships sailed into the harbour. I mean, I used to get the same "I'm home" feeling when I saw my first PTC bus after a trip away from Madras!

Anyway... back to Calais. The ferry trip from Dover to Calais was uneventful, the most remarkable thing being that it started as scheduled at 3.45 a.m. Pete managed to snatch a few winks but as ever, sleeping while sitting upright is not an option for me. So I spent my time memorising (not intentionally, no) the Formula 1 statistics and odd facts that were printed on the walls (why Formula 1 factoids on a ferry? who knows!). Interesting things like: the wear and tear on the brakes of a Formula 1 car in ONE race is the equivalent of 10 years worth on a normal car used normally; From a normal seating position, with all seat belts fastened, and whilst wearing his usual driving equipment, a driver must be able to remove the steering wheel and get out of the car within five seconds and then replace the steering wheel within a total of 10 seconds.

I have more such useless information cluttering my brain but I will refrain from doing the same to this post, out of consideration for the few readers I have - do I hear sighs of relief?

The ferry docked at Calais port bright and early at around 5.30am. I had thought we would base ourselves there and drive to nearby places, but Pete decided he wanted to drive onward. We were somewhat hampered by the fact that the car was by now running on petrol fumes, so we drove around looking rather desperately for a petrol station. Finally found a tiny one in the middle of Calais that would open at 6 a.m.

Since we had 15 minutes to kill, I took the opportunity to wander around and found the Town Hall - a colourful building that reminded me of wedding cake. Its imposing belfry looked like it was made of iron, in surprising contrast to the rest of the building.

In front of the Town Hall was the famous Six Burghers of Calais statue made (sculpted? created?) by Rodin, to commemorate the 6 brave citizens who were ready to give up their lives in return for the safety of the rest of Calais' population when they surrendered to England's Edward III after a year-long siege. (Phew. Talk about history encapsulated. Take the time for a few deep breaths before going on to the next sentence!).

The only thing I found annoying was that I couldnt take a photo of just the statue - the Town Hall building kept getting in the background. On the other hand, I managed to take a photo of a butterfly that landed on one of the statues' head - taking a rest before targeting the flowers, I suppose. Anyway, it's my one puny effort at Nature photography, haha.

The garden around the statue was beautiful - the flower arrangements were exotic (compared to what I see in Shrewsbury) and very, very colourful, a real feast for the eyes.

Even better was a traffic circle which had a bush shaped to look like a peacock's long neck - and the colourful spread of its feathers was duplicated by multicoloured flowers. I tried my best to get a photo of it as a whole, but again, trees/buildings/power lines/lamp-posts kept popping up no matter what angle I tried. It was the loveliest flower arrangement I've seen on the ground, and the photo does it no justice at all. Especially as it was taken in the early morning light (which wasnt enough).

A few dozen photos later (of which only a few were worthwhile, actually), the car replete with petrol by then, we were on our way again. Our destination was Luxembourg, that little country stuck between France, Germany and Holland. I had been there before and loved the place, although I had not seen enough of it in the short time I spent there. And since Pete had not been there at all, it seemed like a good place to (re)visit.

From Calais, it's a very short driving distance to the Belgian border (or the Dutch one, for that matter). Even if I hadnt seen the big notice that announced "Belgie", I would have known I was on Belgian roads because of the lunatic traffic. Imagine, if you will, the inconsiderate, undisciplined, discourteous Indian drivers - then imagine that sort of driving ethic at speeds in excess of 80 miles per hour (about 130kmph), and you have a pretty accurate idea of Belgian drivers.

It was nerve-wracking to see vehicles muscling in with barely enough space between our car and the one in front, without even a blink to indicate the sudden changing of lanes - and almost the very next moment, the vehicle would move back to the original lane. And I'm talking about those enormous 18-wheeler container trucks playing "tag" with each other in fast-moving traffic. My first impression of Belgian traffic as being terrible was set in reinforced concrete this time around. No wonder you hear police/ambulance sirens ALL the time in this country!

To think Brussels, with its hazardous drivers, is the seat of the EU, the place from which all rules - from traffic to work laws - are handed out to the UK and sought to be enforced. I think Brussels should look to its laws being followed by Belgians before it sets its sights elsewhere!

Whatever, it was a relief to bypass Brussels and get onto the motorway to Luxembourg. The drive is pleasant in more ways than one - for one thing, the views are spectacular... forests, mountains, valleys, rivers. It was unspoilt and beautiful, at least on the surface.

We reached Luxembourg at about midday. After a drive around the city centre, trying to find a hotel that didnt look like it would charge a year's income for a night's stay, Pete finally decided on one called Le Royal (good decision - it only charged half a year's income, hah). No complaints about the service, the room, the atmosphere - they were all luxurious almost to a fault.

We watched the car disappear into the bowels of the parking lot, escorted by a valet. Then, after a shower, we set off on our cycles. Luxembourg is a lovely city, set in the mountains, so that you get spectacular views off bridges (and there are many) that have been built over the Rivers Petrusse and Alzette.

The old town is in the bowels of the valley, and the buildings there are beautiful - especially viewed from above, they look like toy models. The modern part of the city is almost as pretty, and neater than any place I've ever been to. Although there were lots of dogs being walked (or carried), there wasnt any poo.

Our cycles really came into their own in the town centre. Had we been in the car, we would have had trouble finding a place to park. And of course, we would have had to curtail our alcohol consumption keeping in mind the driving back part. That is, Pete would have had that problem. But as things were, we cycled merrily around, following road rules and keeping to the cycle paths where possible - but more often than not, riding down footpaths on the wrong side of the road, not even worrying about one-ways.

For the first hour or so, we rode around getting familiar with the city centre, checking out the monuments and shops. A lot of the shops were shut, it being a weekend, but the cafes were all open. The Place Guillaume (I bet my spelling is wrong - bloody French words), the big square with cafes all around, and a stage in the centre, was THE place to be, so we settled there. At Chi-chi, a Mexican eatery and outdoor cafe, on my insistence. Well why not? At least they werent offering up snails for our gastronomic pleasure! And I like Mexican food.

Anyway, the cafe was a perfect choice - we had a VERY good looking waiter. Unfortunately I dont have a good photo (Pete kindly took this one because I didnt want make my admiration obvious to the waiter!) but it gives a general idea. Whatsisname didnt speak much - any - English but he had a killer smile and understood just fine when we pointed at items on the menu, so all went very well.

It was a nice relaxed evening spent in the shade of an umbrella, watching various kinds of people (some unidentifiable as to gender) walking around, surreptitiously admiring the waiter (Pete declined to join me in this), and slowly drinking a large jugful of wonderful strawberry margarita. Pete opted for sangria, but margaritas are my special joy.

At the end of the evening, after the band playing live music at the square had gone home and the cafes were closing, we wobbled around town some more on our cycles,l taking some very bad (all mine) night photographs before heading back to the hotel. I think the national library looks beautiful despite my best efforts!

All in all, it had been such a lovely relaxing day, and we'd still seen so little of the city that we decided to stay all of Sunday as well, and leave on Monday.

***

Part 2 to follow.

Back to the Highlands

2005-04-27T16:46:00.000-07:00

I always find it exciting to drive up to the Highlands for a whole lot of reasons, not the least being that Pete and I start from home at an unearthly hour of the morning. It's about the only way I'll get up at 3 a.m - willingly. (Done more than my share of early-morning rising in Singapore, waking up at 2.30 a.m to start work at 4 a.m!).

Anyhow, this trip didnt even warrant getting up early - because I didnt get to bed at all the previous night! Neither did Pete (he was working on his software, I was packing & etc), but he deals a lot better with lack of sleep than I do. So we set off at 3 a.m Friday (or very late Thursday night, to look at it another way), intending to arrive at Crubenmore by midday at the latest. Driving at ungodly hours has its advantages - there's hardly any traffic, and Pete could belt along at 120 miles per hour. We got there at 11 a.m or thereabouts, including a 2-hour halt for some much needed sleep. Some 400 miles in 6 hours... not bad going!

The Crubenbeg holiday cottages at Crubenmore, where we normally stay, are the self-catering type, really cosy, with fantastic views all around. They're run by two very nice ladies - an Irishwoman and a Swiss. The cottages are beautifully isolated in the hills, yet it's only a 5-minute drive to the main road. The nearest village (with a shop) is Newtonmore, about 8 miles away. It was a pleasure to wake up in the morning and drive down to Newtonmore to pick up fresh bread, rolls, butter, etc and go back to the cottage for a nice leisurely breakfast, looking out of the window at the towering hills and watching the odd pheasant or quail scamper across the lawn outside.

Pete spent most of the days working at the shop in Laggan (a tiny village about 11 miles away), so I had a lot of time for solo walks. Plus our cottage had loads of books to read, and I'd taken my embroidery along. The weather was gorgeous - bright and sunny, but with no real warmth from the sunshine.

Could there be anything better than taking a few snacks and an interesting book to the Truim Falls (5-minute walk down the path from our cottage), then sit on a convenient rock beneath the bridge, reading? I dont think so! It was absolutely peaceful and relaxing. The Truim Falls are supposed to be famous for salmon that make their way upstream, but I didnt see any this time - or, indeed, any of the previous times. Perhaps spring is the wrong season... or daytime the wrong time to look for leaping salmon. Who knows!

On Sunday, Pete took some time off for a short circular walk (about a mile, I guess) by the Trium Falls and, later, a drive into the woody hills. I drove for a while - and my goodness, the forest track was a bouncy jouncy ride, allright. And once we reached the really terrible ruts (made during the winter, I presume, by whatever wide-tread machinery was used to cut down the trees), the Range Rover fought me like it had a life of its own, so Pete had to take over. We would have followed the track up to Trium Woods Viewpoint, but halfway up, the path was blocked by a huge tree across the track, uprooted whole by the wind. So that was the end of that.

As always, it was a wrench when we had to leave the Highlands to come back to Shrewsbury... they mountains are so beautiful, so rugged and peaceful, there is so little pollution. It feels like life would be perfect if we could only live there permanently. But I guess I wouldnt love it quite so much in the winter months, because the scenery would be very bleak - none of the cheerful bright greenery that appears in late spring and summer... and there would be every chance of the electricity lines going down, being snowed in and cut off from civilisation, etc. Still, I can dream...

More pics here

The pond in The Dingle

2005-02-17T17:40:00.000-08:00

View of the Dingle (a pretty landscaped garden with a serene pond) set in the middle of the Quarry, which is a big open green, with River Severn running through it, in the middle of the town.

Path to nowhere, but so pretty

2005-02-17T17:37:00.001-08:00

A pretty, landscaped pathway inside the Dingle

The Dingle again

2005-02-17T17:37:00.000-08:00

A wider view of the Dingle, which is set in a depression within the Quarry grounds. The brown hedge at the top runs right around the Dingle. The paths wind around flower beds, which are wildly colourful in the summer, but right now are just green and grassy.

Dumb duck!

2005-02-17T17:36:00.000-08:00

Bah, the mallard twisted its neck around to rootle in its feathers - JUST as I clicked! Till then it was posing nicely, showing off the iridiscent green feathers that I wanted to catch on camera.

Weeping willows in winter

2005-02-17T17:35:00.000-08:00

Graceful trees, these - and beautifully green in the summer. Still pretty now, though.

Unknown beautiful flowers

2005-02-17T17:01:00.000-08:00

If only I could capture the fragrance of these flowers... they bloom only in winter and they smell heavenly! The rest of the year, they have dull green, sharp-edged leaves that scratch unwary passers-by who get too close to it. (I discovered both these facts myself - by hands-on experience, shall we say). Dunno what the plant is called.

The Riverside Pub (or some such thing)

2005-02-17T09:15:00.000-08:00

All I know is, it's picturesque

Quiet place by River Severn - watercolour

2005-02-03T21:38:00.000-08:00

I wanted to put up a few photos of places around Shrewsbury but the albums appear to be hiding... so pending the discovery of those photos, I decided to post a photo of a water-colour that I did last year (while learning the basics of water-colour painting).

Anyway, this is my favourite place by the river in the park/play area/open grounds called The Quarry, in Shrewsbury. The exercise of artistic licence has removed any traces of benches by the riverbank, and also of people sitting there! :) I like my favourite place to be peaceful and without pesky kids fooling around - if only in my imagination.

PS. Anybody at all genuinely artistic - please reserve your comments! I'm aware of my limitations as a painter!
(Princess, this goes ESPECIALLY for you, you multi-talented multi-faceted multi-personality! ;) )

COVENT GARDEN merry-go-round

2005-01-30T14:10:00.000-08:00

The lovely, beautifully lit-up, old-fashioned merry-go-round at Covent Garden square...

Romanian Church

2005-01-30T14:07:00.000-08:00

An old Romanian Church on Fleet Street, sandwiched between newer buildings

Wooden hand-painted panels inside the church

2005-01-30T14:06:00.000-08:00

This beautiful wooden structure with the hand-painted scenes took up a section of one wall inside the church... absolutely gorgeous, and what colours! My camera wasnt powerful/fundoo enough to get it right...

The Natural History museum

2005-01-30T14:04:00.000-08:00

The Natural History Museum... lovely building!

Seen through a mesh of branches

2005-01-30T14:00:00.000-08:00

Same building, different view

St.Paul's Cathedral

2005-01-30T13:53:00.000-08:00

St Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon sun, already sinking in the West. Well, it is winter, after all!

St Paul's after sunset

2005-01-30T13:52:00.000-08:00

Here, cabbie!

2005-01-30T13:51:00.000-08:00

A new "old-fashioned" London cab

The temple that the tsunami didnt hit...

2005-01-30T13:50:00.000-08:00

The miracle quotient of the Murugan temple at Tiruchendur must have gone up sky-high after the tsunami declined to ravage it as it ravaged other places up and down the coast. However, when we (me, my mother, brother and sister) went there about 10 days back, there didnt seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Except that the postcard and souvenir touts had some special photos, apparently taken when the sea had receded. (Somebody must have been mighty enterprising - not to mention ready and present with a camera!)

Unfortunately my mother has the photo, so I can only describe it - the sea-bed was clearly revealed, with pebbles and dunes and seaweed and pools of water here and there... but then again, I've not seen the sea there at low tide, so I dunno how authentic the photo was. Still, I guess the evidence of the tsunami NOT hitting the area is right there... after all, the temple is standing in all its glory!

The temple wasnt especially crowded (so my mother says) because I guess it wasnt a specially holy day. But there were enough people to make it stuffy and crowded inside, all the same. Inviting and dark though it looked, the temple wasnt cool in the least... especially considering a lot of it is below sea level. The reason why I dislike going to pilgrimage spots is all the devotees. They're supposedly religious but they behave like animals - actually, worse than animals, in their frenzy to get to the prasadam or the teertham.

The well that's near the temple was a case in point. Our priest had asked us to go there and wash our hands and feet. Seemed a simple enough task. There were two queues leading down to the well - one for men, one for women. So far so good. But both queues ended up at the same spot where people could get at the holy water with the mugs provided there.

All that was required was a splash of water... but no! There were men and women who were actually having a BATH there despite the pressing crowds of people waiting their turn. And these religious bathers would not let anybody get at the mugs, instead calling more family members and friends to join in the frenzy. The scuffling and yelling, not to mention flying elbows and stomping feet was not in the least conducive to a calm, peaceful state of mind, I can tell you. I was in a filthy temper by the time we got out of there - not exactly the best mood prior to a multiple-archanai pooja in the innards of a dark, crowded, HOT temple!

What is it about temples and festivals that turns devotees into mindless maniacs, all intent on grabbing for themselves whatever is on offer - whether it's kumkum/vibhuti, tulasi, or whatever - and never mind the others? Why do they all have to scrabble and fight for everything? I would say "I hate temples" but that isnt true... the smaller ones, which arent famous for any particular thing (other than sculpture or age) have a certain serenity that is very appealing. Put devotees in there, however, and everything is ruined.

Well, enough ranting... at least the scenery on the way from Tirunelveli to Tiruchendur was surprisingly - and very pleasingly - green. It was very refreshing to see plants that werent dusty or drought-stricken and that didnt look straggly and pathetic (what comes to mind at this point are the plants beneath the Cathedral Road flyover, and at the Alwarpet junction... pathetic doesnt begin to describe them, the poor things).

Anyway, we didnt stop anywhere on the way back from Tiruchendur, so all the photos I took were from the moving car. Pretty good, if I say so myself :) They're also in chronological order, so you can scroll through naturally from top to bottom!

Rooftop view of Tiruchendur Murugan temple

2005-01-30T12:49:00.000-08:00

Fourth-floor view from Shiva Murugan Lodge of the Tiruchendur temple.

Tiruchendur Murugan Temple entrance

2005-01-30T12:48:00.000-08:00

Main entrance to Tiruchendur Murugan temple... doesnt the dark doorway seem like an inviting respite from the sunshine? Only SEEMS, mind you. It was hot and sweaty inside!

Bright and white in the sun

2005-01-30T12:47:00.000-08:00

More of the temple on view.

Seashore temple

2005-01-30T12:46:00.000-08:00

Temple by the sea... at one point it was so bright that the sea and the horizon blended into one. This was taken before the sun became blinding!

Just the gopuram

2005-01-30T12:45:00.000-08:00

The gopuram...funny how you dont really notice electricity cables till they actually show up in the photo!

The entrance is shaped like the gopuram itself!

2005-01-30T12:44:00.000-08:00

The temple entrance, much closer-up

Yow, it was really bright in the sunshine!

2005-01-30T12:43:00.000-08:00

The covered walkway with the colourful little shops selling cheap trinkets

So much plastic on sale!

2005-01-30T12:42:00.000-08:00

Close-up of trinket shops

Phew, it's much more pleasant in the shade

2005-01-30T12:41:00.000-08:00

The walkway from the inside... and the lady with the blue bag is my amma!

Hanuman revealing all...

2005-01-30T12:40:00.000-08:00

Hanuman rending his chest to show who lives within... just HAD to take this one!

Countryside view

2005-01-30T12:39:00.000-08:00

View of a swampy sort of lake on the way to/from Tirunelveli to Tiruchendur

A bit blurred... but still green!

2005-01-30T12:38:00.000-08:00

Oh how green it is... what a refreshing sight this was!

I like this photo rather...

2005-01-30T12:37:00.000-08:00

Fenced-off greenery

Banananana plantations (forgot where to stop!) ;)

2005-01-30T12:36:00.000-08:00

Banana plantations... and more green.

My favourite photo

2005-01-30T12:35:00.000-08:00

Is this a rustic scene or what? I'm really rather proud of this photo - especially as it was taken from a moving cab on a bumpy road!

Nice scenery

2005-01-30T12:34:00.000-08:00

I liked the palm trees in the middle of the field...

Buncha trees

2005-01-30T12:33:00.000-08:00

I liked the natural composition of this group of trees, with the little hut/house hiding behind the clump.

Splash of colour

2005-01-30T12:32:00.000-08:00

Liked this for the colour, and the fence...

At Tirunelveli station

2005-01-30T12:31:00.000-08:00

The Nellai Express waiting to take us back to Chennai...

Shadow play

2005-01-30T12:30:00.000-08:00

Shadows on Tirunelveli Rly Station platform 5... from left, Gopal, Amma and Radha. :)

Cow drinking water

2005-01-30T12:29:00.000-08:00

A moo-cow drinking water that's dripping from a leaky tap... too bad you cant see the water, but take it from me, that's what the cow was doing!

Harrods doesnt have it all

2005-01-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

Let me start by telling you where NOT to go in London on the first weekday after New Year’s – Harrods, the ultra-chic, ultra-expensive, ultra-sophisticated departmental store. Why? Because that, apparently, is the first day of their “greatest sale” every January, as advertised on practically every London bus. My husband knew why not to go, but he knew equally well that we (him included) WOULD be going to Harrods all the same. It seemed to be the touristy way to start the day and a half that we had before my sis and I flew to Chennai. Kitsch and corny, I know, but it HAD to be done.

Anyway, when we got on the Underground train, it was jam-packed. At the station for Harrods, there was an exit devoted entirely to people going there. The resulting crowd, reminiscent of Singapore’s malls at lunchtime, was even MORE of a mob because every train that stopped there (every 2-3 minutes) disgorged hundreds of passengers, all headed for Harrods. In fact, we were lucky to get into Harrods when we did – by the time we came out, an hour or so later, there were long queues of people at EVERY entrance to the store, waiting to get in! Some of them had Harrods bags, which led me to conclude that they actually WANTED to go back inside into the madness. I guess it takes all kinds…

Harrods the store itself is pretty big – you can apparently get anything from a toothpick to a Hummer, as long as you have the money to pay for it. But that day, honestly, it didn’t look like anything more than the village rummage or jumble sale, although on a rather larger scale. There were signs everywhere, people milling around grabbing at shirts and trousers and throwing the wrong sizes back higgledy-piggledy. Garments were piled up on tables, hanging from temporary movable racks, all mixed up, lying on the floor. Shoes were not in their right size racks and many of them were missing partners. I wanted very much to check out the “luxury bathrooms”, but on seeing the constant lines of women waiting to go in, I decided not to. It might not have smelt luxurious by then!

On all the floors, there were plenty of store employees hanging around to provide help – but more likely to make sure that not too many light-fingered shoppers got away with their kleptomaniac instinct. I came to that conclusion because I got directed from floor to floor when I asked for information about where I could buy ponchos. None of the store employees I asked had the exact information, but all of them had plenty of directions to give. None of which, by the way, led to the poncho section.

I had to finally accept that there were NO ponchos to be had for love or money at Harrods. So much for the UK’s most famous snob-value store…
I can say it now, and with perfect honesty: I went to Harrods and they didn’t have what I was looking for! How many celebrities can say THAT?

Covent Garden, paradise of kitsch

2005-01-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

My newest favourite area in London is Covent Garden. I’ve been to London a few times, but because of circumstances (mostly visitors), I ended up seeing the same tourist spots every time – the Tower, the London Eye, Madame Tussaud’s, St Paul’s, etc. Not that these were or are boring or unimpressive even on the umpteenth viewing – far from it. I mean, listening to an organ recital at St Paul’s is wonderful. The acoustics of the great hall, the sheer volume of sound that is generated in the massive organ pipes is awesome. It sent shivers down my spine. How much more impressive it would have been a couple of hundred years ago, that clarity and strength of sound, without any of the high-tech electronics that goes into public sound systems today.

But as always, I digress. I was going to write about Covent Garden, and that is what I shall do now. A little (VERY little!) history first. The Covent Garden area is famous for theatre, the oldest one being the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane (and that about exhausts what I remember from BA Eng Lit classes oh so long ago!). The square itself used to be the country’s biggest fruit and veg market, and it (the market) was relocated only in 1973. The main building in the piazza (Italian for square, and it’s not an insulting term either! *wink*) was built in 1830 by Charles Fowler, but the high glass roof was erected in the 1870s.

My very first glimpse of the modern version of Covent Garden was electric… there are all kinds of high-street shops on the periphery of the square, all having new year’s sales at this time of year and therefore all teeming with shoppers carrying bulging multi-coloured bags. That wasn’t what took my attention, though. What attracted me like a magnet were the dozens of madly colourful little stalls selling all kinds of antiques, junk, old books and magazines, hand-made jewellery, t-shirts, scarves, and all kinds of odds and ends. And the best part was that most of the things were dirt-cheap (in UK terms, that is).

There were items from Victorian times, quite likely from the attics of old houses and homes – tiny, beautifully patterned miniature tea-sets in delicate china, little china figurines of crinolined and crimped girls and women in flowing ribboned bonnets, men with big sideburns wearing top hats and tails, adorable little dogs and foxes and hedgehogs and birds… but I must say my favourites were the little china teacups and saucers. Adorable isn’t a good enough term for them! Never have Enid Blyton’s descriptions of fairy tea parties come so close to looking like being based on reality…

There are other attractions as well – buskers, street performers, men (mostly) covered with silver paint, pretending to be statues or robots or royalty, standing absolutely still on their pedestals until someone throws them a coin. Then they suddenly come to life in a most realistic manner (considering that they’re already alive!), sometimes startling little kids. I could have watched them all day.

There was also a beautiful, wildly colourful, old-fashioned merry-go-round with horses and ponies on poles that went up and down gently to the accompaniment of old-fashioned music. Modern amusement park rides are thrilling and I mostly prefer them, but this working relic of a gentler, less speed-fixated age was definitely something to experience, allright. We didn’t have the time to go on it because of the crowds. Also, I suspect it would not have been very edifying to watch two adults elbow little kids out of the way to get onto a mechanical horse! So we stayed as admiring spectators.

And then, as the sun went down, we made our reluctant way back to the Underground, with our brains imprinted with the throbbing images of colour, life and liveliness… and with our feet imprinted with the throbbing pain of a day spent walking over relentlessly hard cobbles and tarmac. It was worth every cobble and every throb.

A weekend in Edinburgh - nowhere near enough!

2004-11-29T18:27:00.000-08:00

The first thing that got my attention as we entered Edinburgh (especially with the wind blowing in the right direction) was the lovely aroma of roasting hops... a little like roasting coffee beans, but nowhere near as strong. I dont know and didnt get to find out if there was a brewery nearby that was the source of the aroma. It is very difficult to describe the fragrance - but I found it very, very nice and welcoming... it even gave the impression of warmth!

Warm it was not, though. The weather forecast for the weekend was dire - heavy rain, cold winds, falling temperature, general misery, according to the weatherman. This nearly got me depressed, until Pete reminded me that weather forecasts arent renowned for accuracy. Too right they arent, and thank goodness for that! True, it WAS windy and cold (but it's winter, it's allowed) but it didnt rain. Not much, at any rate. The rain didnt keep away the 44,000 people who turned out to watch the rugby match. It certainly didnt stop the players - especially the South Africans. (They beat the Scotland team 44-10)!

Actually I was quite taken aback by just how MANY South Africans there were. Our hotel was full of them, the streets were full of them, the bars were full of them... at one point I began to wonder where the Scottish rugby fans had gone! Everywhere I looked, there were green-and-yellow hats and scarves and rugby shirts with the leaping springbok logo. Every pub we went to, we heard the distinctive South African accent, sounding a bit like a squashed Australian twang! They must have descended on Edinburgh in absolute droves for the match. It almost seemed like 40,000 of the official 44,000-strong audience at the stadium was South African! That said, their faith in the SA team was more than justified by the players' performance. I'm not surprised the Scots went and hid themselves...

Edinburgh is a surprisingly beautiful city. The New Town area is full of Georgian buildings, big open squares and tree-lined avenues. (It doesnt look very English... but I guess the Scots would say that it ISNT English - it's Scottish!). Edinburgh looks like it would be more at home in Europe because of the architecture in the New Town, and the shape of its castles and towers in the Old Town - spiky and Gothic.

The Royal Mile, a fantastic boulevard in the middle of the oldest part of Edinburgh, has the 7th century castle at one end and the beautiful stone Holyrood Palace at the other. All down the boulevard are buildings from the 16th and 17th centuries, townhouses that havent had their outline changed at all, so that some of them hang a bit drunkenly over the street at first-storey level. The splendidly Gothic St Giles Cathedral is about midway on the Royal Mile in the Lawnmarket area, its almost-black towers and spires looming dark and spiky over the other buildings.

It's just a shame that the buildings are mostly gloomy and black on the outside - and it's not that the stone is that colour. It's just the accumulation of what appears to be hundreds of years of dirt and pollution... if only they could be cleaned, the buildings would be right at home in Paris, THE home of beautifully buffed, biscuity-brown buildings!

Butterfingers!

2004-11-29T17:38:00.000-08:00

No wonder Scotland lost 10-44 to South Africa - they simply couldnt hold on to the ball!

A cut above the Scots...

2004-11-29T17:36:00.000-08:00

Wheeeee! Up goes the South African into the air, to snatch the ball successfully. I'm afraid the Scottish players were left standing with their mouths open!

The immovable meets the irresistible?

2004-11-29T17:35:00.000-08:00

Push! Push harder! Puuuuuuuuuussssshhhhh!

Where's the ball? Pile-up on the field!

2004-11-29T17:34:00.000-08:00

A rugby scrum, with players piling up on one another. Most of them havent noticed that the ball is out, though (that's the white blob in front of the orange-shirted referee)! Heh heh.

Mummyyyyy...! Dont let them trample over me!

2004-11-29T17:33:00.000-08:00

Cant blame that Scottish player for playing possum - the South Africans simply hammered the hapless Scots!

Section of Murrayfield Stadium

2004-11-29T17:32:00.000-08:00

It seats about 60,000 in total. Only looks empty because the crowd hadnt started filing in. The band was there before everybody!

Murrayfield Rugby Stadium, east section

2004-11-29T17:31:00.001-08:00

It's huge... there was no way to get a photo of the entire stadium, especially as I didnt have a helicopter handy for an aerial shot!

Me, wrapped up warm...

2004-11-29T17:31:00.000-08:00

Or so I thought. Boy, did I ever find out different! It was FREEZING in the stadium, not helped by a gentle wind which blew the gentle rain onto gentle me...

Edinburgh Castle

2004-11-29T17:30:00.000-08:00

This was the view from our bedroom window. The window would only open 6 inches, so this is the best I could do under the circumstances!

Old Town, Edinburgh

2004-11-29T17:29:00.001-08:00

This photo was taken from Waverley Bridge, which connects Old Town with New Town.

Bagpiper Cold...

2004-11-29T17:29:00.000-08:00

Sunshine there was, but it was also very cold! Brave man, to wear a "skirt" in that weather :) He's one of many solitary bagpipers who pipe away for king, country, and coins from tourists.

Scottish Parliament Building, ex

2004-11-29T17:28:00.001-08:00

This building on the Royal Mile used to be the Scottish Parliament, but now Parliament meets in a spanking new building closer to the Castle.

A beautiful Georgian building

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One of the many such buildings in the New Town section of Edinburgh.

My favourite photo of Old Town

2004-11-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

It might look grey, but it's still an impressively beautiful view.

Is this ambitious or what!

2004-11-22T17:22:00.000-08:00

Till a short while back, my writing muscles had almost atrophied from disuse. For the last month and a bit, they've been getting reasonably regular exercise in my first-ever blog and have been performing better than expected (Check out "Inspired to Blog" ) I wonder, though, if a second blog would stretch those flabby muscles too far... well, the only way to find out is to start another - which is what this is. My second blog. In case somebody didnt get the point. Duh.

This blog is going to have an actual theme - my travels (well, duh again). I might get around to ferreting out from various souces the emails that I wrote on previous travels (pre-blog travels, that is), and put them on here. That will take some time and effort (time on my part, effort by others!), so I guess it wont be happening any time soon. But what WILL go on here are future trips made by yours truly. Moi. Not to be confused with that extinct bird from New Zealand, the moa. Heh heh.

Anyway... next weekend, I'm off to Edinburgh to watch a rugby match. Rugby doesnt count as travel, but Edinburgh does. It will be my second trip there. It's a surprisingly nice looking city, especially the city centre, more European than English. Which, believe me, is a very good thing - especially for those who have seen Birmingham and Manchester and other big cities. The English villages have the most character. Towns are ok, kind of similar looking but not usually an eyesore.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This, ladies and gentlemen, is merely a taster of travelposts, with photos as well. Keep an eye on this space.