No escape

Most people are idiots. It is possible that the sooner I realise this the happier I will be. Or just less discontent. I want sooner. Now. It will be my nirvana against random, unnecessary stress in an otherwise super life.

I do realise this though: even a lovely warm bright sunny day is no cure for idiocy.

PS: You are free to leave me comments asking me what happened. I may or may not reply to comments. Or any email.

Mornin'

The bright sun and gentle breeze has made for a wonderful start to the week. It’s put me in such a good place that beside work, which goes by at a snails pace on good weather’s days, I can’t be bothered to do much beside lean towards the sun. Like yesterday, after work, I did some dinner prep and then lay on the day bed (bathed in the sun) and watched mindless TV (in the shade). For hours. Till V came home and hunger pangs overtook, all at once. Then we had a lovely easy baked dinner of aloo patties and paneer stuffed capsicum, both doused in Masala chilli sauce (yay, Maggie), on our lovely spider-free balcony furniture. Sipped on chilled sparkling water and apple juice. All in the evening sun.

This is what summer is made of.

Tomorrow @ Moro

I’m long overdue posting a few restaurant reviews. Laziness, loss of interest, delays in public transport, blah blah blah

The title of the post is an inside joke. You had to be there to get it. It was funny. Needless to say I will not be in Moro tomorrow. Although I sorely wish I could be.

There were (meant to be) 6. For dinner at the famed Moro. To celebrate the temporary return of a friend into our midst. V bowed out as he was already holidaying in India. I was leaving the next night and this was the perfect excuse not to cook for one on my last night in town. I should have been home, choking on a takeaway, tidying up and packing my suitcase in neat layers. But I threw caution to the wind and decided that dinner with friends was a far better idea and that 20 minutes of chucking stuff in a suitcase would just have to do. One set of baggage handlers and cargo hold later it would all in a jumble no matter how neat the layers to start with. (note to self: must do away with digressing AND neat packing fetish)

And then there were 5. And an empty suitcase. And an utterly untidy house. And un-watered plants. But OH SUCH a WISE decision. It was only a Monday but it had been a long Monday, full of meetings and work. A day bent over my desk, thinking of dinner at lunch time. As the work day came to an end and I ambled around Angel in anticipation and in waiting, I hear that one of the 5 diners has had to bow out at the very last minute. She is clearly working far harder than the rest of us. I meet up with two of the other diners and we have plenty of time before our booking beckons us to the table, to sit and gossip in a nearby Café Nero.

And then there were 4. Moro in Exmouth Market, North London. If the reviews were to be believed, this is the holy grail of Spanish food influenced by Middle Eastern cuisine. We met the final member of the dinner party and went in on time for our booked two hour slot. We were promptly seated under a skylight near the kitchen counter, where for once it would be the aroma of some amazing food seeping into our clothes instead of MSG laden Chinese as the door hits your chair each time it opens. A group of four intrepid eaters - one man, who graciously did not pull out when his partner did, and braved being the only man stuck with a gaggle of three women. I now know its mainly in part because of his deep love of Moro food and not our sparkling company!

What can I say about Moro that would do it justice? The menu changes every week and the selection of things for each course is defined by what is seasonal and what strikes the chefs fancy. We saw one of the Sam's at work, pointed out by the only regular at Moro among us. We dipped sour dough bread in olive oil while waiting for our starters and listened to the story of how sour dough is almost human and needs feeding and was even taken on camping trips while one of the girls was but a mere child. Of course the two desi’s not ready to be outdone quickly likened it to the culture for dahi/ yogurt (which its really nothing at all like!). We ate starters, trying each others choices as well. All fresh and wholesome and pretty on the plate but the only one worth mentioning in my book was the cauliflower soup (not my choice sadly) which was divine. Lamb tagine on couscous, mackerel and 2 plates of lemon sole were the choices for our main meal. I won’t go into detail (because my aging memory is failing me!) but what I remember perfectly well was how pleasing a plate of food each one was. Outstanding quality of each ingredient, spiced and salted perfectly, complimentary to its accompaniments and cooked to perfection - each morsel was a perfect delight. While eating non-stop we regaled each other with stories of what life had been like before we met (like the sour dough story), how life was now, just little anecdotes on the humdrum of life, each adding up to the picture of us as individuals and friends.

We were stuffed to the gills, on food, wine and talk. And yet when it came to ordering desert I just could not say no to the Yoghurt cake with Gaziantep pistachios. I had heard so much about this and even tried the home made version (not in my own home of course) that it made sense to resign myself to rolling home. There was to be NO sharing. But of course I wanted to try the rosewater ice cream (disappointing) and was so full that I had to beg (not very hard) other people to finish mine. The yoghurt cake was topped with pistachios and lovely pomegranate seeds. It was utterly moorish and the lemon sabayon made it light and rich all at once. The sour and sweet flavours and smells of the pistachios and pomegranates all mingled perfectly - my taste buds were clearly enjoying the party. Overall I preferred the home made version both for texture and taste but this came a very close second. I could barely lift my hand to sign my credit card slip seeing how sated I was.

And then there were 3. The man, eager to rejoin his partner and find the shortest route home went off in a different direction. Us 3 girls set off for Angel Station and soon found ourselves too full to walk even the last 500 meters. We used the blustering wind as our excuse and took a bus to the station.

And then there was 1. We parted at the tube station, each heading off in a different direction to make full use of our travel cards and get ourselves safely home, out of the blustery wind. Nearly an hour and a train change later I was home, having had to painfully walk the last few minutes home, digesting one of the finest meals of the year so far. No V in our empty home. Just me. With my suitcase yet to pack and my plants yet to water and a plane soon to catch. Full up on food and friendship – two of the most sumptuous things in life.

Needless to say I will not be in Moro tomorrow. I wish I could be. But not long after I promise I will. This time with V. And friends. And I hope I will be using my inside joke again.

You need to book:
Moro: 34 -36 Exmouth Market, London EC1R 4QE. Ph: 020 7833 8336

This walking life

You know that look on my fathers face when he opened the door and saw me standing there? The jaw dropping, quick heart beating, eye popping out of socket one. It’s a priceless look, the one where for a few nano seconds a person loses and gains comprehension of what this is and feels this surge of bottomless joy, all mixed up. Stirred not shaken. Well, in the 2.5 days I spent with my folks in saadi Dilli I gave him one more such shock. I told him I was going to do a 10Km charity walk. Believe me when I say that it wasn’t the charity bit that bagged the look, it was the 10 KILOMETERS.

You have no idea, mainly because my alter-blog-ego is so fit (!), how much and with what vehemence I DISLIKE WALKING. For a long time while I was growing up my dad-the-early-morning-walker tried to interest me in the benefits of the morning walk – fresh air, sunrise, health, blah blah blah. I tried it in spits and with many a spat. I always fought it and while my father grumbled that it was my mother’s genes to blame for this inability to rise early and run around the colony, I remember silently thanking my mum for the genes that allowed me to sleep on guilt-free till she woke up to lead the way. He tried and tried and tried again but after every few weeks of enthusiastic morning walks around the colony (every six months or so) I invariably gave in to my old ways and warm razai, much to his disappointment.

Even in adulthood and then a London existence I fought the urge to adopt walking as the way forward. I talked the talk where environmental issues are concerned but where walking to save the planet is concerned I didn't walk the talk. For work and study in India I always got someone to drop or pick me up; threw silent internal tantrums at having to walk even to the end of the road to get a bus or an auto if the occasion so warranted. In London I grew to embrace walking after a long and pointless battle with myself and this city. It was not easy and was completely a case of mind over ALL this matter. I readily admit that I taught myself to enjoy walking the bits to and in stations, office, malls, museums, supermarkets, restaurants - all under duress. I learnt to focus on the end destination and what joy buying milk or eating at somewhere fine would bring me instead of on the journey to get there. Deep down though, in the inner inner bit I hate exposing, I would have to admit that I still strongly dislike walking, even from A to B, however close or far they may be. I don’t mind waking up at 5.30 to go to the gym for a rigourous workout but I hate that 3 minute walk TO the gym. So yes, make no mistake about it, I have always been, and still am, a slug.

So at the end of April when my colleagues mentioned forming a team to attempt Cruisaid ‘s 10km Walk for Life my first instinct was to pretend I was busy. When that didn’t work it was to remind them how much I hate walking – something that amuses their strong British legs no end. Well, that didn’t work. So after thinking about how this would help me prove my working out had had some effect on stamina if not svelte-ness, I went home one day signed on and committed to raising a significant amount of money towards a few causes. I ignored the fact that I was going to have to WALK to uphold my end of the bargain. Instead I attacked the fundraising target with fervour and continued to ignore the training for it, stodgily continuing on my steady gym routine. I wrote to everyone I knew asking them to sponsor me to walk. Some of them were so stunned that I, the World Slug Champion, was attempting to walk anywhere of my own free will, that they emptied out their pockets in support of my causes. (thank you, thank you - you know who you are). Others sent their good vibes. (again, thank you). Yet others ignored me, thinking it spam. After all there was no way that I would readily subject myself to walking. How wrong I proved them. And myself.

Yesterday dawned cloudy and very unlike the 1st of June, a bit chilly. Although who is to say what the weather should be like anymore in these weird global warming/ cooling days? I’d had two solid hours at the machines at the gym in the previous week and was quite confident that I’d manage the 10 km walk without falling flat on my face. Spoke to the folks while I waited at the station and my dad wished me luck in that still disbelieving tone; like "No way Jose is my child going to be WALKING 10kms. My same I-hate-walking-child? Never!". If it weren’t me standing outside City Hall in my trainers and gym gear on a Sunday morning, dad, even I wouldn’t have believed it!

Met the team and enthusiastically registered, collected our wristbands and did a very tiring warm up with a very enthusiastic trainer. Then we walked: in waves, breaking into smaller groups, finding our own pace, catching-up with and then losing team members, marveling at the buildings/ the river, staying hydrated, looking for signs to mark the kilometers as they passed us by. And surprisingly it was no tough thing – my alter-blog-ego and self seemed to merge seamlessly into one. I really enjoyed every minute of it. Two hours and 15 minutes later, through the history laden centre of London, on a long and arduous route – along London’s pavements and cobbled streets, through traffic lights and throngs of tourists – we did the fake-outstretched-arms-running-through-a-ribbon to pass the finish line. To be given a banana and a box of juice and entertained by a very good George Michael impersonator, while we sat by Tower Bridge and revelled in our feat. Went home with aches and pains that only time will heal, but a sense of accomplishment not only for fundraising that much but for my own walking without falling ability that had me smile my way into a dreamless sleep last night.

So yeah dad, apparently I DO like walking and I CAN do it. I even have a cheesy medal to prove it.

Saadi Dilli: My Delhi

razai: Quilt

Just because

V’s taking of abandoned March holiday plan is devised: 3rd week of April

His tickets booked to see 3 cities in 10 days: End of April

Delight of my parents when they hear their one and only son-in-law was stopping by to have lunch with them: Untold

The surreptitious plan for me to go surprise my father for his birthday: 15 minutes/ 3rd of May

Rubbish at keeping it a secret from my house guest, it lasted: 2 days

Ticket purchase on internet; route, dates, timings, credit card details: 30 minutes

Call to Nik - the - brother to let him know: 2 minutes

Whoops of joy from my mother when she found out I was coming: 2 minutes

Still clueless dad: All the time

Filling in leave form and updating work calendar: 10 minutes

V takes off on bharat darshan: 15th May

V has lunch of kofta curry and best aloo subji in the world with my parents and brother: 16th May noon to 5 pm

V leaves for Kolkata to see his parents, eat, sleep, eat, sleep some more, feign heatstroke re the dentist yet go watch IPL in Eden gardens: 16th May evening onwards

I spend boring Saturday at home and rack up huge phone bill: 17th May

Time spent throwing 5 shirts, 2 trousers, a pair of shoes and all accumulated gifts in suitcase: 20 minutes

Time spent planning what to eat so as to finish all fresh ingredients in fridge: 15 minutes

Actual food eaten at home for 5 days that V is not around: Frozen chicken dumplings from Japan Centre

Weekend perks up with dinner in the burbs: 18th May

Boring day at work, thankfully forgotten with a best ever dinner @ Moro: 19th May

Can barely work as I have to leave for the airport this evening: 20th May

Cab to station: 2 minutes; £3.20 cash

Tube journey: 1 hr 10 mins; £1.80 over my travelcard

Wait in airport, including using cash machine, drinking American sized coke, reading Slam by Nick Hornby on uncomfortable seats, using hygiene suspect restrooms, wandering through duty free, buying mascara for mum, whisky for dad and chocolates for all of India: 2 hours

Walk to arse end of airport where plane is parked (along with my luck): 25 minutes

Name of Plane: Bubbles, airborne on 16th July 2006

Number of people on flight: Less than 100

Boarding time: 10 minutes & no kids in sight

Joy of finding myself sole occupant of row of 4 seats: Unbridled

Pain of finding chatty man who needs his own story told: Immense

Air miles between London and Delhi: 4164

Time to watch movies, eat, wander aisles, marvel at technological possibility of metal heavy plane soaring through clouds: 8 hours 10 minutes

Smile on mum’s face when I breeze through immigration, baggage and customs in 15 minutes: Ear to ear

Slow coach snailing home through pouring rain and traffic jam, a journey which normally only takes 15 minutes: 2 hours

Knowledge that Nik has not tidied up his/ our room AT ALL lest dad become suspicious: Hilarious

Look on my father face when he opened the door and realized it was me: Priceless

On friendship: the first

I’ve almost always taken my friendships too seriously. That has been my downfall in the past. This ‘too serious’ outlook is something that has given me, in slightly unbalanced parts, deep and meaningful friendships and heartache. Okay, greatly unbalanced, with the friendships far outweighing any dismissals.

I want to remember some of the good, deep, enduring kinds of friendships I (often we, although V will rarely admit it) have and I figure this is like my diary and when I come back in Oh 10 years, I’ll know this is what the 32 year old me thought and felt. So here is the first of many. These are the ones borne of nothing-in-common-but-everything-in-common. From way back in the day - my mid-20’s, which are seriously behind me now – when we were nothing but a gaggle of people joined together by strange strings. Even now when I think back I find it amazing that we became friends. It was a time of young love and newly grown-upness. A group of boys, of which V was one, shared a flat and lived off the omlettes cooked by a bird called Emu. Their assorted friends with girl/ boy friends practically lived there. Before we could say the words “road trip” we were on it, the journey of a lifetime, sharing food, copious amounts of alcohol and talking till all the words ran out. Girlfriends and their siblings, friends from college, school, work - everyone was accepted into the group. Except the upstairs neighbours.

We spent so much time doing nothing (but together) that my mother often yelled at me for using her house like a hotel, for laundry and the odd breakfast. We were young and indefatigable. We roamed the streets of Delhi in auto’s and shiny new cars (one of which we practically watched get stolen from outside the patio doors), ate our body weights in momo’s at Dilli Haat and drove through blinding fog to watch movies in far flung cinema halls. We played card games, took ridiculous photographs, hosted massive parties, drank like fish, kept Domino’s Pizza’s in business, spent every penny of what we earned before we actually earned it. We traveled for engagements’ or just down the Delhi-Jaipur highway for a bite to eat. We endured power cuts, empty wallets and the 4 beating seasons that Delhi has on offer. For 2 whole years our weekday evenings and weekends were, well, ‘busy’.

And then in the flash of an eye everyone was gone, scattered around the globe, all grown up and taking those career building block, studying ‘a bit more’, getting married, building families, forging new ties. For the longest time we stayed in touch only sporadically, some with some and others with others. The odd phone call, the rarity of e-mail, the short lunch when in town – bits, but nowhere near the whole. And then, as if like settling dust from all the life changes, suddenly it was back to yesteryears. Three odd years ago one called saying he’d be in town and could he spend the weekend with us. We jumped at the chance and spent our days and evenings reminiscing about Bengali fish curries and movie nights. I was told I’d ‘mellowed’ but that V was ‘just the same’. Suddenly we were all on the phone more, e-mail more. One minute V was having lunch with ‘the student’ on a different continent. Another, the kid-turned-grown-up was in London town on work. then it was lunch in a swanky Bombay high rise, sipping beer on a hot summer’s day and watching the race course teem with people and horses. And there were not one but two adorable little boys to play with. Then some of them came to stay for a few weeks. Then we were in Gurgi-yon gurgling over baby buddy boy. Then it was a wander through a warm Christmas market on a cold German day with Student and Grown-up. And most recently, while I toiled in Bolivia, V enjoyed a weekend in Paris, walking to the Eiffel Tower with four and a half holidaymakers.

It is back to back then, as if no interruptions have occurred. I don’t even remember the years we weren’t friends. It’s almost as if we were friends but such good friends that what was a few years of exploring/ trawling the world for other friends before coming back?

I can’t explain it, this odd break but not in our friendships. We recently had the ‘student’ stay with us - for two whole weeks. It’s really hard to explain how we know her. It’s a long and complicated connection, one that we laugh over as a joke too often. We never tire of reciting the chronology of something that happened over 10 years ago now, repeating random/ movie dialogues that made us roll with laughter, pulling faces or rolling our eyes at some incident remembered.

I often thought that those were the best days of our lives - the most carefree, the most personality forming. But I’ve come to realise that really it’s not them, it’s these ones, NOW. Which mean more than ever because even though we’ve all changed (some unrecognizably, what with going bald, becoming fat etc.) we are basically the same people and even 11 years on we can still laugh at the same ridiculous things and talk about the deep and meaningful, often in the same breath. Our personalities as influenced by these friendships today as by them then. We remain a gaggle of friends and when I look back at this post I want to remember this warm, fuzzy feeling. Of back then and of right now.

Some ties are so tight, they bind us free. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

La Paz & surrounds - in pictures

As many as I could fit in...

....enjoy!

Eating La Paz

From top left to right, as the eye goes (and the same pattern repeated on each line):
Line 1:
a. Saltena (the n is meant to have a little line above it , making it a 'saalt-enya') - the one at the back - a pastry baked with a pork filling (in this case, it comes in numerous types). Eating of which is an art; it needs to be shaken before eating to allow the liquid to dissipate evenly and held like a glass and eaten from the top end. The one in front is a chicken empanada. Flatter and the mixture inside very much like a chicken patty - dry. This is street food, and something that we snacked on all the time. Cost is less than US$1. For both.
b. Seafood soup: spicy and Peruvian in origin. The eater was enthralled.
c. Calamari with spicy rice: crispy Calamari (and lots of it) with a pile of risotto like spiced rice - which seemed to have everything but the kitchen sink chucked in for flavour.
Line 2:
a. Massive Lobster on the same 'everything' rice.
b. Cerviche - marinated raw fish in lemon and herbs - utterly delightful, fresh ingredients - this was king fish, wholesome and tasty.
c. Smoked Trout - which is the beloved fish of this landlocked country coming as it does from one of the big lakes. Served with capers, boiled eggs, chopped onions and a lemon slice. Quite addictive.
Line 3:
a. Scallops: Flash baked with a sauce. Once again the recipient loved the dish and shucked them down in minutes!
b. Humita: Cornbread steamed in the leaf next to it. With a centre of local cheese. I liked the cheese but didn't care much for the bread itself. Also street food, incredibly cheap.
c. Tenderloin in pepper sauce: Decidedly non-Bolivian except for the fact that they love meat and potatoes. At a very fancy restaurant, topped with the very best pepper sauce I have ever tasted, the tenderloin was cooked to perfection and melted in the mouth.

The food was excellent, both in quality and quantity and value for money. I ate trout in various forms one of the best being stuffed into baked cannelloni with spinach and mushrooms. They eat a fantastic condiment called Yahua (pronounced Ya-khoo-aa) which is some serious chillies, blended with tomato and a local parsley like herb on a stone mortar and pestle type instrument. It's on the table when you sit down and they eat it with bread and butter or just dolloped onto whatever they are eating. We also ate at a local 'chicharron' place - which serves pork that is deep fried in special herbs and served with large corn kernels and lots of Yahua. I didn't much care for it but everyone around me wiped their plates clean!

The only food I really missed was rice which is replaced by potatoes as the base for everything in Bolivia. Being the place where potatoes originated they take their potatoes seriously and eat 4 or 5 different types (of many hundreds I believe) depending on what the meal is. I didn't take to their potato's either as they use them in a completely different way to what I am used to. But I tried everything - different textures, tastes, spices, methods of cooking. What I really missed was rice and Indian grub. Something I have been studiously making up for since I got back and over the jet-lag.

Grey is back

I'm back. After two long weeks away from everything familiar, desperately lonely without my boy. It was a super trip except for the constant 24x7 headache and copious nosebleeds, thanks to the killer altitude. And except for the fact that my boy was one million miles away.

Bolivia is a fabulous country, its people warm and kind, its food just up my street, its winter weather cool and inviting. I met some fantastically inspiring people and bought back some trinkets to remind me of this opportunity of a lifetime. Especially after the hideous 24 hour journey to come home. It's taken multiple hot baths and hours of deep sleep to untangle my limbs and pull the exhaustion from my bones. But I'm finally here. In good old grey London. At work. Reminiscing about my adventure and sheer luck at having had a chance to visit life at 3500m above sea level.

Pictures are coming soon.

Cinco

Although I studied Spanish for a year at some point in life it has almost all escaped me and I am dependent on my wonderful interpreter S to get me through days of meetings. The people are, without exception, friendly and patient. I'll try every few days for the next week to put down 5 new things (at a time) I learn about this magical place and its people, culture, food. Here go today's 5:

1. La Paz sits near the bottom of a cauldron of jagged slopes that are the Altiplano. The city is at 3500m above sea but the airport is in El Alto which at 500m higher, precariously perched on the rim of the Altiplano, is the highest International Airport in the world. Driving distance between the airport and the La Paz is only about 10km but the descent of 500m makes all the difference in how you breathe.

2. The airport is very basic and small but spotlessly clean. It's one conveyor belt delivered our suitcases and its two immigration officials smiled broadly while stamping our passports, no questions asked. Apparently flights need double the runway distance to land or take off from and specially re-inforced tires due to the altitude.

3. Everybody, and I mean everybody, from concierge to shopkeeper, will greet you with a broad smile and a Hola, Buenos dias, buenas tardes, bunas noches, hasta luego - depending on the time of day. When you meet someone and are introduced you will be kissed on one cheek by them. Invariably this is on the right cheek. And they will come round to kiss you goodbye as well. So when our day starts we have a good 15minutes of meet and greet and then the same in the evening to say goodbye. I have learnt to budget this into my busy run run run days. Its a skill.

4. The air is very thin. I cannot emphasise this enough. The first few days we drank coca tea to help with the nausea and headaches, supplemented by brufin as I am allergic to the ingredients in the prescribed altitude sickness meds. I'm not having any problems breathing although all breathing felt a little strained the first few days. I've had only two nosebleeds so far and have given up trying to use the small treadmill which I only managed for 30 minutes before I could breathe no more. The gods of the gym will understand.

5. The view is fantastic. Everywhere you look you see the plains of the Altiplano rising up, jutting into the Andes behind it. El Alto is a new-ish city built into the higher reaches of the Altiplano, which make the sides of the cauldron in which La Paz is the floor, look alternately scraggy and heavily covered with houses. At night it just looks like a wall of lights, each illuminated house a little twinkle in the blanket. I also absolutely have to mention the Illimani which is the highest peak in Andes that is visible from La Paz. The highest overall peak of the Andes is in Peru I am told. The Illimani is impressive to the say the least. Its snow covered peak rises magnificantly behind the Altiplano and my eye is drawn to it each time I am outside. More than one Bolivian has told me it is the symbol of La Paz. I can see why. I got a great view from the flight as we were landed but it was too early in the morning and I was too groggy to do anything but marvel open jawed at the scenery below. I promise you a picture.

I am more than a little in love with La Paz. I hope someday V and I will come here together. Buenos dias!

Hola from La Paz

I'm beyond exhaustion. I have been trying to get myself to sleep after the two seemingly endless flights (8hr20 to Miami and 6hr20 to La Paz) and 6 hour transit to get here. No luck whatsoever and so after doing my accounts I am blogging and watching the new season of Grey's Anatomy. The sheer height has meant that the air is thinner and I feel like I've been doing deep breathing exercises since I got here. Some herbal tea and a light lunch of soup seems to have helped. Wonder how I'll manage once I am out of the comfort zone of this place and in the real world, at work? How long does the body take to acclimitise? Answers that seem minor in comparison to the deeper life affirming questions that the fantastic view of the mountains from every room of our apartment beg us to ask.

More than 24 hours since I left the comfort of my home in London here I am in La Paz, Bolivia, on weeks of exciting work and play. The first view of the amazing Altoplano was as we landed and the sun was rising a gleaming deep orange hue around us. The whisps of clouds and the sheer expanse just took my breath away. I'm hoping I can take and post loads of pictures once I am back. But don't count on it as I haven't even downloaded my fab (?) pictures from India as yet. Will try and post my observations of life in La Paz and the surrounds as and when time and the internet connection permit. Till then suffer my horrid broken spanish accent - Buenos Noches! (pronounced Boo-e-nos No-chez). G'nite people....

Walks Into The Room, Feels Like She Owns It

I’m not going to argue with this. Although I said at dinner in Chinatown on this very wet and windy Friday night that I would. But I’ve decided not to, because having had a whole weekend to think about it I really and truly believe that people's point of views are in the context of their lives and that sitting where I sit I don’t know where they are coming from and how their mind works. And that one shoe does not ever fit all. If it did we’d all have these bright pink sketchers and where would that get us, hunh?

Instead I’m going to encourage my gorgeous friend to rethink her position by telling my own story of weightloss yo-yo-ing. It was not until the summer that I turned 13 that my hormones and the rice I had suddenly began eating met, started dating and in that first flash of love decided to live together in my midriff. I spent all of my teen years watching my weight increase, the togetherness of the rice and hormones multiply over and over till they were all bred out like a pair of rabbits by the time I hit my twenties. It seemed like forever love, that no matter how hard I rebelled against was here to stay. All those years I was never really concerned about the weight because I could still walk, jump rope, enjoy games of volleyball, baseball and badminton, swim like a fish, dance like crazy. My parents often cautioned against the weight gain sighting medical reasons but all those attempts were half hearted compared to how much they told me how beautiful my face was and how being a good, kind, honest person far outweighed how I looked. And I know that because they believed what they said when they said it, that I too grew up in that knowledge, secure I was loved no matter what I weighed.

It was mainly because I managed everything my classmates managed that I never really ever found my weight a stumbling block enough to tackle with a punch in the tum. Although I was always conscious of my weight being greater than other people’s I usually chose to focus my attention on things that brought my interests to the fore, like reading, painting, writing, listening to music – all things that fuelled my holier than thou teen image. It was also incredibly easy to eat copious amounts of food that my mother slaved over: lasagna, kofta curry, shepards pie, goulash and fresh soups just a smattering of a diverse range adorning our dinner table nightly.

In my twenties I was all curves, the politer term for rolls of fat. I still rarely thought of myself as fat even though the scales and visual inspection of old photographs would confirm that I was. I felt the curves gave me weight (not only literally) in my pursuits and had not in any way hampered the life I sought for myself. I took what I had and worked with it instead of letting it work against me. It was not a small molehill, this keeping up my spirits while everyone around me dieted and primped themselves into model-like thin-ness. But I made peace with my weight quite young and enjoyed the liberating feeling not having to watch every morsel I put in my mouth. I had managed to make and keep friends over the years, each of whom saw beyond the fuller figure and loved me for who I was. I tried to lose a few kilos to look lovely at my wedding but that was all I lost, very few kilos. And in my wedding pictures, that day stored on film forever more, there is no svelte me, but there is certainly a happy me.

It’s after I came to London, more than 6 years ago now, that the weight really began to pile on. A combination of various things led to bigger heavier meals that no amount of walking to the tube was enough to suppress or undo. For the first time ever I felt unattractive and like a lump of lard. Slower and uneasy with my body – something that took me completely by surprise. My years of being in a good mental place were gone in what felt like an instant. It was with a heavy heart, and the realization that it would be tougher to lose it and get fitter now that I was in my 30’s, that I began to cloak myself in darker looser clothes. It took all V’s motivational power to get me to the gym but it was always with the idea of getting fit again. I joined knowing full well that I would never be thin but knowing that at my weight being unhealthy was a deadly downward spiral. I spent the first few months working on my stamina and then as I began to lose the weight I began to obsess. There were a few months in between last year where I was fretting about the actual kilos I lost on a daily basis, weighing myself to the point to obsession, eating ridiculously to change my weight by grams before my next self-imposed weigh in. A few months into this unhealthy obsession I just stopped. Like an a-ha moment, one morning as I climbed the locker room scales it hit me: it’s not the weight I wanted to lose, gram by slow gram. It’s the feeling I wanted to gain, of good health and robust-ness. Of feeling beautiful no matter what I weighed. My efforts at the gym in the past year and a half have not resulted in any major weight loss. I nearly weigh what I did when I got married but I am a hundredfold healthier. I can do the elliptical machine for 45 minutes, swim 45 laps, do an hour and half long indoor cycle class. Each without dropping dead in a faint. Or having a heart attack.

I won’t lie – I am thrilled that I did manage to lose some small iota of weight. I am more thrilled that I managed to stay motivated enough to see it through. I am thrilled that I have changed my life to be more conscious of what I eat and how much exercise I get. I am more thrilled that I have found will power that nobody imagined I had. But most of all I am thrilled that my body image is connected not only to what I weigh but to what I think of myself. I no longer cloak myself in black. I wear more make-up, bother with my hair, stand-up taller, walk with a confidence not built on how much I weigh but how I feel about myself as a person in this world. I know that even at this weight (which is by the way still much more than a normal person my height ways) I am a happy person and that being thinner would not make me happier. It would make me healthier but not happier.

And I guess what I am trying to say is this. No matter how hard you try and motivate yourself to lose that last 13 kilos, it’s not the 13 kilos you are trying to lose. It’s the perfect image of yourself that you are trying to seek. Unless you make peace with how you look for yourself no matter what the weight, it’ll be something else about yourself that you’ll want to change once those 13 kilos are off. If its inspiration you feel you need, the power to stay on the path then yes I do hope that your readers keep you motivated. But I hope you don’t obsess about every ounce on the scales. I hope you see what we all see. That beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder and that really, the most important beholder is you.

My every instinct

Arrived in Kolkata on Friday night, a flight delay made unecessarily irritating by an airlines lack of organisation or compassion. It was a past 9 pm drive home on empty roads, emptier than normal because of a Good Friday/ Holi holiday. Saturday was the same. Excellent chinese lunch at Bar-b-Que on Park Street and our car was one of a very few on the street. It was such a pleasant drive, even in 30+ degree weather, few people and empty roads, a rarity in Kolkata. It was a good day of chatting and bonding and catching up. The holiday ended too soon and I, stuffed with homemade dal-baadaam halwa, rasagulla's from Chitteranjan and kaju barfi from Gangaur was not in any way, shape or form ready to get on that plane and come home.

The flight home took everything out of me. Like every long flight I can remember its as if some god of aviation is watching down over me and saying' Aaaah putz on the radar'. Before Bloody Airlines (BA) could get it's act messed up there was the inefficient Kolkata pairport to contend with. Checked-in with surprising ease, my 25 kg suitcase trundled along the conveyor belt to its secret hold. That ease was the false security that should have tipped me off. Because then it was a half hour wait in line before the one Immigration official comes to his desk and begins the laborious process of checking 300+ people's passport/ visa details. Then it's another forty minute wait till Security gets its act together and begins to let us through. Unecessary waits, in lines of irate and sleepy passengers, between things, where there seems to be no good reason to make people wait other than the fact that it's so much more part of your job to TEXT AND USE YOUR MOBILE WHILE A PLANE LOAD OF PEOPLE HANG ABOUT IN A LINE. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLEEDING NIGHT. IDIOTS. Finally, we are sitting in the lounge, reading, listening to ipods, munching on biscuits (mainly the myriad Bengali's in the room, all of whom seem to bring out a packet of bis-coot from knapsack on the dot at 3.30am) and trying to stay awake at this unearthly hour.

Bloody Airline tries to board us in an orderly row number fashion. But at 4.30am we are having none of it. Oversized hand baggage stuffed into overhead lockers, we are settling down to slumber as we take off and they are soon pushing a breakfast of chicken sausage or vegetarian (nobody knows what) on us. It's just gone 5am, it's pitch dark and I cannot belive anyone wants to eat. Yet they do. I don't, so I slip off my shoes and step into sleep.

Ony to be woken about 10 minutes later with loud wailing. A small child 4 rows ahead of me has taken it upon himself to entertain us all by crying. Loudly. For 3 straight hours. I kid you not. 3 hours later his lungs give in and he whimpers into sobbing silence. The sigh of relief in this airborne prison is audible. Every passenger shifts slightly preparing for another try at the sleeping-in-uncomfortable-positions game. We needn't have bothered. In 5 minutes flat a child 6 rows behind has begun his protest. Again with wails loud enough to shatter eardrums. For nearly 3 hours. After this it all became a blur. Another kid a bit further back picked up on the crying and joined in the part-EY. Original kid didn't want to be left out and awoke from his slumber to lend his powerful voice. So for the entire remainder of the trip it was a chorus that my ears are still ringing from. With no break whatsoever. LOUD and I mean LOUD crying from 3 small children is the way to travel 11odd hours. NOT.

Bloody Airlines tried to tempt us with some soggy cold sanwich and then with a hot meal of dry rice and smelly curry. The sound on my personal entertainment unit did not work and they had no seat/ advice or help to give me so in desperation to get away from the noise I wore the headphones and watched Chak De by reading the subtitles.

Landed in a small snow flake dance show. Very very very glad to see my boy V at the barriers. Hushed conversation in the car on the way home gave my ears some recovery time.

Don't get me wrong, I love kids, more specifically other people's kids, who can be returned with poopy diapers and crocodile tears. But what with the incessent wailing and slightly older kids 5 hour running around the aisles parties that made this 10+ hour flight seem like 100+ hours I think I have confirmed that when push comes to shove I lack the deep down maternal instinct. All I could could think was how much I wanted to get up and smack those kids and their parents. Thank god for the restraint that a seat belt provides.

Name-dropping Delhi

We all do it here in Delhi. The minute the cop at the traffic lights stops someone they are on their mobile phones, using connections, dropping names - anything to get out of this and any other minor tight spot. Sometimes its vanity, it sounds nice, like at a party - to see who knows who and how important it can make one sound. I have plenty to tell but this is not the time. Instead here is a funny titbit.

This is Tuesday morning. Nobody seems to be at work. They are either in their cars stopping traffic or in Khan Market spending their magic money. SilverLine is new to Khan Market. The original was the floor of someone's house near Bengali market where I have spent more of my youth than I care to admit or even really remember rifling through bags of lovely jewels. This is a far more sophisticated dive, drawers and showcases, all matched by higher prices. I am enticed by this chain of hollow silver beads and can't decide how many I should buy.

Two women are looking at the same drawer as me now. Silver rings of every shape and design.

Woman 1: This is nice nah?! (She has 2 rings on, one a hideous monstrosity, the other a delicate band)

Woman 2: I can't find anything yaar! (High pitched wail to accompany impatient tapping of her very high heels)

W1 adds 3 more rings to the same hand and admiringly says: What do you think if I get all of these? How nice it looks no if I wear all of these at once? (She can barely lift her hand with the weight of all that silver and stone). Gauri wears it like this.

W2: Your friend Gauri? From your colony? Akshat ki mom?

W1: Not that one yaar. My other friend Gauri, Gauri Khan, Shahrukh ki wife.

I bought a big ring with 4 turquoise stones in it. My mother thinks this is a passing phase in my new found taste for big bulky rings and that by the time I reach London I will be over it and never wear it again. It covers half my hand and weighs my finger down as I type this. I think I love it. I hope Gauri approves.

Flyover Delhi

It's 7pm. After two days of traversing busy, dusty roads I am convinced that most delhi-ites have no real regard for their life my life. The traffic has terrified me all day, every day. Overtaking from everyside, leaving not nearly an inch on any side of our car at all times. It's all I can do to not sit in the centre of the back seat with my eyes shut and hands drawn into tight fists, listening to something calming on my ipod. Instead I am taking the high road (literally) and am sitting by the windows, eyes wide open, enjoying every minute of being here, even in the madness of the traffic.

Everyone seems to have a car, if not multiple cars. Such a change from when we first moved to this colony in a different decade and our family was one of the few ones with a car. The colony chowki-dar used to come on his nightly rounds with a stick and whistle, the two familiar sounds guaranteed in their loudness to show who was boss and assure even it's littlest residents that all was well and that he was guarding us and our property. He'd blow his whistle and tap the stick standing by our car a few extra times. Maybe he was only letting his friends, the thieves, know exactly where we had parked? Our car never got stolen so I guess he wasn't - it's just fun to re-live childhood conspiracy theories. Now life in this middle class colony is all gated and secured far more fastidiously. And the choice of car is mind boggling, even for a thief, with each family owning mutliple cars, each trying to outdo their neighbour with fancier bigger better. The sidewalks to my childhood bus stops are all covered in cars now and little kids seemingly get dropped to their school bus or even school in their cars. How the world has changed.

Delhi is covered in flyovers. They are everywhere. Like a well spread concrete maze. Almost all completed on time and changing the landscape of the city. And it's not just simple up-down flyovers but complicated clover leaf like permutations where each arm leads to a different place. Large multi-lane flyovers that have eased the journey out of congestion and into rash-ness. Cars flying across the hot tarmac, defying gravity, ignoring the signs, mileage limits and generally being lawless. Yet today I sat in gridlock at the top of a flyovers, proving that even these giants will not hold this surging economy in line.

I'm tired from the fullness of the day and the battles on the road. I need a shower to deal with the dust. But I think a plate of aloo tikki (with everything on it) will rejuvenate me a lot quicker.

Chowki-dar: Watch-man/ guard

Aloo tikki: Indian yummy snack made of potatoes and covered a in variety of sauces/ yogurt

Delhi the first

For once it was a relatively uneventful flight. The only points of drama were whether V's flight back from NYC would land on time and make the connection to our holiday flight smooth. It all went to plan thankfully. On the flight the only points of friction were the cardboard masquerading as food and the fact that they ran out of disembarkation cards after row 2. Which is understandable considering they clearly had no idea how many seats they (evil airline) have on the plane and what with ticket prices being so low they (still even airline) really don't care.

Sleep and some tired entertainment 8pointsomehours later we are on the ground at Delhi's International Airport. There is some serious refurbishment going on, masked only by flimsy tarpaulin that yells what a wonderful new airport it is going to be. The luggage takes an aeon to arrive, mine first and nearly 40 minutes and a hall full of irritable later V's.

Outside, there are my wonderful parents, arms open and smiles mixed with tears of joy. All the knee squashing, inedible food and irritable service is so worth it. I'm here.

Super Saturday

One of the many gifts that London gives its natives and visitors are its numerous markets. This past Saturday I and two friends took shelter from the grey and brimming skies at Borough market. We chakkar-ed around the market once, the reconnaissance allowing us to prioritise what to eat and what to buy before committing ourselves to quickly.

The market has changed ever so slightly in the past few years going from downright farmer-like to upmarket tourist attraction in small increments. It remains an impressive market by any standards with fresh produce, meat, eggs and mountains of baked goods sitting proudly under the railway arches, oft alongside fresh eels, divine coffee, wheels of cheese and beers of the world. All food groups are available and the fair-trade, organic, paper & cloth bag toting public mill around amidst the picture snapping tourists.

We shared bratwurst in a bun from the German Deli, replete with sauerkraut and mustard and then a haddock fillet with chips from the takeaway Fish! counter. Armed with a pod of strawberries and some wholesome brownies I tagged myself into their plan and traversed the city to spend an afternoon with yet more friends. All impromptu muscling in – into which I was warmly welcomed. I suspect the brownies had something to do with it.

V joined in the festivities rather late in the day, after a Saturday at work. But just in time for a bit of that scrumptuous brownie and some ice cream. Out dinner plans changed and so we stuck around and after some debate we all decided to go to the famed Khan’s of Bayswater. This is a place V and I have talked about in awe-hushed tones ever since our first days in the UK, having been assured of its greatness by many an Indian friend in that first year of home-missing-ness. Somehow we never quite made it there having once abandoned a journey there for something else.

Khan’s is large and its light blue cloud infused walls and ceiling are propped up with fake palm tree columns. This delightful interior is spacious and bright and cheerful. We were seated quickly amidst the chattering crowds and with guidance from the regulars ordered quickly and magnanimously. It's Pakistani food in origin but the food crosses over into Indian a lot. Things of note on our table included a melt-in-the-mouth paneer kofta, a creamy butter chicken, well done keema matter and naans. The sheekh kebab (overcooked), aloo paratha (without aloo) and channa (judged against my own) left something to be desired but over all it was a super meal that completely lived up to our expectations.

Then V and I legged it to the home of other friends and ended up sitting and chatting and laughing till about 1.30am before heading home. The news and Law & Order to unwind and then a few pages of my book before blessed sleep. It was a super day. Nothing besides a few hours at Borough market was planned. Just goes to show that a day unplanned is often best.

And that brownies are one true gift.

Chakkar: to go around
Paneer kofta, butter chicken, keem matter, naans, sheekh kebab, aloo paratha, channa: All Indian dishes. Loosely: fried cottage cheese balls in gravy, chicken in tomato and cream sauce, mince meat and peas, bread baked in a tandoor, skewers of spiced mince, Indian bread stuffed with potatoes and chickpeas.

Borough market: 8 Southwark Street, London SE1 1TL (London Bridge tube station)
Khan’s: 13-15 Westbourne Grove, Bayswater, London W2 4UA

Friday funnies

On the train this morning, for no very good reason, I was thinking about the advent of the world wide web and how that irrevocably changed our lives in how we communicate. So much so that when I, a child of the 70’s, went to work in my first office in the 90’s, there was no such thing as e-mail available to me. It was a while before it arrived and even more time before the speed of it became important in the workplace. Before, there was always time for coffee and samosas between sending faxes or typing out letters or making expensive calls to other offices. After, its been a rollercoster go go Go, faster, Faster, NOW.

But this post is not to whinge/ jump for joy about the advent of technology. It’s to relate a memory that made me smile this morning. It’s not my memory, it’s V’s, but the carriage from one person to another has only made it funnier.

The year was 1997 or 1998. E-mail had been around a couple of years. Everyone was an expert on everything to do with the Internet. All everyone talked about was the booming IT industry. Vuruld-vyd-vehb and its children were everywhere.

At work, a very young V and his equally young colleague are discussing how with their few years of work experience they could very easily get internet jobs.

Eavesdropping colleague immediately butts in: Does Internet have an office in Delhi?

Middle Age Mexican Wave

First, lets get the laughter out of the way. I may not look or sound it but in my youth (as it were) I was greatly taken by the Boy Bands - from the more respected Bee Gees to the more frivolous Wham, Aha, New Kids on the Block, Boyz II Men, Boyzone, Take That - you name it and I listened to it. I didn't do groupie things like tattoo their names on my butt but I did get the odd poster to adorn my walls and I always listened to their music - on tapes, the radio, TV, CD's. I didn't join fan clubs and I mostly couldn't name every member or any of their details but if I heard a tune I could probably tell you the name of the band and possibly sing along with it, stumbling on no more than a few words.

As I grew older I was exposed to a greater range of tunes and genres of music than ever before, introduced to by friends, family and the movies. At the surface I liked to think that my ear became more discerning and my time more precious and therefore my devotion to boy bands matured into something more meaningful and age appropriate.

Clearly deep down I am still a ditzy teenager/ twenty something chick. Equally clearly my devotion has not waned in the very least. V-boy bought us tickets to watch Westlife perform live at the O2 arena last night, Saturday evening. It's his belated anniversary gift to me and even though he is not a fan AT ALL he came with me (and carried his FT just in case) and was as enthusiastic as I was excited - and that is a LOT. To think that all I got him were New York subway coin cufflinks.

I won't bore you with details as I guess this might be the time to say goodbye to those of you who feel we can no longer be friends because *gasp* "she likes boybands". Just to say that the arena was packed to the gills and that unlike popular lore about boy bands that states "they are appealing to young pubescent girls for emphasizing marketing and packaging over quality of music" it was full of middle aged women and men like ourselves swaying to every cutesy number one that Westlife have produced in this past 10 years. The O2 is undoubtedly a fantastic venue - neat, clean, well organised and arranged - a wonderful use of the white elephant that has hung around the Labour party's neck since the turn of the millenium. The sound sytem and acoustics were excellent, drowning out the cacofony of 25,000 tuneless fans in favour of one marvellous male vocal group. I had a stellar time; enjoyed the live band, the singing/ dancing extra's, the stage-lights-effects, the choreographed nature of boyband-ed-ness. I swayed and jumped with the crowds, clapped my hands raw, danced and sang till my feet ached and my voice turned hoarse. Our stand of middled age aunties and uncles mexican waved with as much enthusiasm as our flailing bodies and old knees allowed. I had an absolute ball. There is nothing quite like live performances and the enthusiasm that a crowd of fans brings.

I think it is OK to like Beethovan and the Beetles and Roxette and Ravi Shanker and boy bands galore and not be betraying anybody. I must admit that over the years and with many genres of music/ bands/ singers I've often joined the band wagon of acceptable/ esoteric/grown-up/ serious music more to be accepted into discussions/ friend circles than because I really liked something. Trance music and heavy metal being two case in points. Well no more. I am determined to stop being pretentious about my taste in music and will never again think of BOY BAND as two dirty words.

It's about 4am now and I am still so buzzed with the evening that I am sitting here and posting this while V watches India vs. Aus cricket. It's the very least I can do after I tortured him with my ear drum shattering singing.

Aliens do go to school

Where pictures meet words.

This is Tirana's vast central square. On one side is a horseshoe-shaped ensemble of government buildings in yellow and red built by Mussolini in the 30s when Italy lorded it over its little neighbour. As you exit the horseshoe and come into the main square the Central Bank of Albania is next and sits squarely behind a little garden, its brown facade an odd contrast to its colourful neighbours. Next is the massive National History Museum adorned with an enormous mosaic of Alanian liberators throughout the centuries.

Then there is the National Opera House, which was quite confusing because its where the big exhibition of Mother Teresa depicted by various artists was being held. Between these is a wide road leading off into the suburbs with the big electricity poll from a Soviet era standing firm in the middle of it. Then is the little Et'Hem Mosque, delicate and petite in structure as compared to the solidity of the other Square buildings. It is one of the only religious buildings to have survived the 1967 cultural revolution. In the centre of the square is an equestrian statue of Albania's greatest hero, Gjergj Kastrioti, colloquially called Skanderberg and after whom the square is named. It's huge and my pictures and words can't adequately describe it. But hey, a girl can try.

Next. This is a random set of pictures from the trip. Poster of Mother Teresa. Cable car on lush green hills. Famous Canal. View of the burbs. Chillies and bananas at market. Pink scooty for sale. And two random signs. One of which I think Tommy would take offence to!

So did you figure out where aliens go to school?