One go Paris

What do I say about my weekend in Paris that would do it justice?

I’ve been to Paris only once before. Exactly 7 years ago to the month, with V, even then on a train, although it was nothing like the Eurostar. It was an overnight train journey in a train exactly the 3 tier Indian railways, with their rexine berths. We shared our compartment with a gaggle of Japanese people, small and precise in their movements and speech. In Paris we stayed at a friends empty Bastille flat, were joined by V’s eldest brother and wandered around in cabs and the rare metro, ticking off the most basic sights in our 3 short days: mona lisa and venus de milo at the Louvre, Champs Elysee with it’s Arc de Triomphe, a boat ride down the Seine with view of the Notre Dame and climbing to the very top of the Eiffel Tower to have our picture taken by a very friendly Bengali man. We bought our way into a packed Moulin Rouge where I got very drunk on a bottle of Champagne while watching the can-can. I remember the cab ride home way past midnight with a Sri Lankan cabbie who insisted on showing us ‘Diana’s tunnel’ and the beautifully lit up Eiffel. We stood in wonder watching as its lights went off for the night. I remember nothing till nearly midday next day when I got up and wandered around the markets of Bastille with my head threatening to explode all over the pretty stalls of artisan food.

As we prepared for this weekend I pulled out my scrapbook/ album (which has not been updated since Madrid in 2005 {I better get to it!}) and looked back at our pictures from that trip. We look so different, younger of course but that’s not what I mean. We look more unsure, not quite certain how we got there together, our smiles broad as can be as we realise that this IS OUR WONDERFUL LIFE. LOOK AT HOW LUCKY WE ARE? WE ARE IN PARIS! You can see it in our eyes. That melded joy and innocence. After years of traveling/ living alone on work abroad here was the sudden broadening of our lives together. We had had a few magic days in Florence before, just V & I, but this was more. Wandering with V’s brother, in my mind an acceptance of me into their tight-knit hilarious ranks. It was a memorable trip, it still makes me smile.

Now I feel more jaded, older and in more comfortable skin. Well traveled by my own standards. But I never went back to Paris. Not once in all these years of living in London. Not once in the many many times that V has gone on work. When V suggested it last month, it suddenly felt like the right time.

So on Saturday, after a rather early morning nearly empty tube ride to central London, we were quickly checked-in and security checked and walking to our coach under the St.Pancras domes. Two&abit hours on the Eurostar later we were at the fabulous Gare du Nord, buying a carnet of tickets to navigate the metro. We checked into our room with high ceilings, its tall windows flooded by sunlight in a quiet street just off the glitzy shops of the Place Vendome. We walked a few minutes away to a lovely buzzy square (recommended by real people on Trip Advisor) with loads of little café’s to eat in for our first Parisian meal. We had a big spread which in its many forms was all bread and cold meats and coffee and milk which suited us fine. Then we walked from our hotel up toward the Arc de Triomphe, sitting on a bench by the Avenue des Champs-Élysées for a break. And then back along the river towards the Eiffel Tower. We wandered below the looming tower and then ice cream in (his) hand we found ourselves a quiet bench to sit on. A wander through a local supermarket for some water and then we headed back for an afternoon nap – a luxury not to be found even on a slow London afternoon.

Refreshed for a night out we legged it to see where Nicholas Sarkozy and his bride live (impressive) and then on to our dinner reservation at La Cantine du Fauberg. We had a long and splendid dinner in this beautiful basement restaurant, surrounded by tables of glamourous people, listening to French music. Then we wandered back towards the Eiffel to see it lit up at night. The Champs-Élysées was jam-packed with tourists whom we left behind as we turned onto a side road and wandered to the river to Eiffel watch. It was blue. Nice but not fabulous. A cup of coffee at a nearby café rounded off a long evening of our long first day.

On Sunday we took the train to the suburb of Bercy, which is home to the relatively new Frank Gehry designed building for La Cinémathèque Française, which in a cinephile’s dream city like Paris ought to be a grand building. To be honest I was more than a bit disappointed by it. I’ll put up pics later and you can make your own choice. We wandered around the Palais Omnisports and the Bercy park. Watching dogs run after balls, a group of young adults play football and a purpose built ramp park being skated and cycled on. We wandered over the up-down bridge across the Seine towards the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Then it began to drizzle so we retreated to the safety of a hot coffee in a café. When the swift drizzle abated (and V had finished reading his all important article about 3 sailors drowning – macabre material for a pleasant weekend), we walked to Cour St-Emilion which is host to Bercy Village. Cour St-Emilion and Bercy are lovely, with wide streets lined by stone houses and modern flats. Bercy Village is a set of old wine warehouses that has been converted into a shopping village with swanky shops lining two sides of a short gated cobbled street. We wandered in and out of shops including the divine O&Co where I had to get V to physically restrain me from buying my weight in olive oil and related products. Found an Alsacien place and proceeded to devour an overly chees-y flammenkuche. V pronounced it ‘OK, but not as good as in Alsace or even as good as the Heidelberg one’.

A bit more of a wander and then we took the metro to Absesses, from where we climbed the 225 stairs up to Basilique du Sacré-Cœur instead of taking the funicular. Relished the view for a few moments and then walked down the terrace steps amidst the swarming tourists and souvenier sellers of Montermarte. Walked down through Pigalle and Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, the tourists thinning till we were once again on abandoned, quiet streets. And then just as suddenly we were in tourist centric Opera again.

That evening we went to Cite for a meal. We ignored a recommendation and chose a small middle-age knights themed restaurant. Not a great choice for either food or ambiance. A bite from V’s chocolate crepe while walking to Notre Dame was worth it though. Notre Dame was gorgeous, lit up against the fading light, each of its facades more beautiful and ugly than the next. It’s a strange building, impressive in its scale and minute in intricate design, and both beautiful and ugly in equal measure. We sat in the square in front for a while, enjoying each others company while watching the camera flashes punctuate the falling darkness. Then we walked through the busy Latin Quarter for which I did not much care. We got stuck in the rain on our journey back and got soaked in the 2 minute run from station to hotel, hand in hand.

On Sunday we drank coffee and had a croissant at the Partie de Campagne near us, whom I love all the more for their cute bee theme (when I put up my birthday gift post you’ll see why). Then we wandered to the Opera (which was swarming with tourist buses of Indian people) and then on to the Galleries Lafayette. The Galleries Lafayette is like Selfridges, brand after brand strutting around for attention and money. We did not pass go, or collect $200, instead we went straight to the food hall and bought cheese, mustard, wine and almond biscuits. Then we were off with our bags to a friends’ light and airy flat in Republique. Lunch with her at a delicious Tapas place (yes I know that's Spanish food - its just made for a refreshing change!) close by and a walk along the Canal St. Martin to a local coffee place before it was time to head back to London.

We had a packed weekend of doing nothing but wandering and taking in everything without any of the fuss of tickets, queues or waiting times. With its lovely (if unprouncable) French accent and beautiful shuttered window buildings Paris is a feast for both ears and eyes. We walked a lot, hand in hand, grinning and talking like teenagers again, taking random pictures and indulging myself in self portaiture. We lingered on park benches and in café’s - reading, listening to music and talking animatedly about life and our plans for the future. We smiled a lot, our innocent youths seemingly given back for this short interlude.

No matter what I write I can’t describe how much fun this trip was. I want to come back and read this post when I feel low or old. But really, no words can do it justice, and so I hope instead that when I do come back to read it I can manage to conjure up this feeling.

That blog, this blog

There are genres of blog writing I cannot bear and then there is just narrow minded, self-centred, bad writing that spews forth from trawling through the blogosphere. I try and avoid both but often my eyes are drawn to these. I then torture V with a lot of ranting about what other people write that bends everything I think or believe out of shape. He nods wisely, agrees because he loves me but really has no clue because he barely has the time to read the Economist and watch his quota of TV let alone trawl the blogworld for mind fodder. He patiently tells me I should stop reading things that irritate me so. Or take in and even enjoy the other world view. I try. Mostly I succeed and stop reading the ones that most irritate me most. But some things are like an addiction. I find myself going back to read the next set of self-obsessed precocious nonsense. I am definitely an addict. I know they drive my blood pressure up but I cannot help myself from going back to read the sanctimonious crap. I am searching for a permanent cure.

I choose my blogroll with care, and there is no one on it whose writing does not rank highly in my opinion for interest, imagination, viewpoint, clarity or humour. Some or all of those. I leave bloggers on it WHO I WANT to read daily. Of course none of them writes daily. I really wish they would though. Some have become friends, virtual and real. Many provide an interesting blip to the day, a view point that makes me think in a different way. That allows me to appreciate alternate opinions, different contexts and incisive minds. I used to be oft petty and refuse to include anyone who didn’t have me on their blogroll. I realized the futility of this quickly so now it’s a list I want to read rather than a list that reads me.

I love the new bloglist thing that updates the blogroll continuously. I had to put everyone into the new thing and I fear some whom I read regularly have been left off. I do know most url’s by heart but I’m only human (CeeKay, I know you have been missed out – promise to rectify asap!). If you read me and think I should be reading you or if you have been relegated to the ‘Once in a while’ heap but promise to be good and write (YOU know who YOU are) or if you used to be but are not on there now and should be - please please please put your hand up now.

Of my own writing I am deeply tired. Some days I have nothing to say. Others I have too much to say but no time to. And yet others I spend toying with ‘what if’s’. What if this person reads this and feels bad? What if I say something I regret? Aren’t words like arrows, once they leave the bow there is no changing their course? Sometimes I feel I should say things when the thought comes to me – isn’t that the point of my blog – to be spontaneous. Then I get side-tracked by other. Or I think about all the other blog stirring up their own hornets nest and I shrink back in cowardice. I don’t take harsh-ness kindly and I don’t know how I’d react – maybe my vicious self will emerge. She is not nice. You would not be friends with her.

So I write blah blah mundane blah. Or ignore this place. Neither is fulfilling.

And mostly the evil thoughts pass but really I am going to hell for even thinking them.

Preacher man

This morning I woke up late and happy. I decided to avoid the sardine can tube and took the bus to work. So ipod in ears, taking in the views of peak hour London, I am enjoying the bus ride snaking its way to the City. All is well with the world as I know it.

Quarter way into the journey, amidst a gaggle of eager beaver office goers, a well dressed man with a black rucksack gets on the bus. He stands in the area reserved for wheelchairs and pushchairs as needed. He takes a sign out of his bag and hangs it around his neck. It’s bold lettering clashes against the small check of his shirt and proclaims: REPENT YOUR SINS! REDEEM YOURSELF IN THE EYES OF THE LORD!

And then he starts on a sermon about how we must all become Christian, go to church, repent our sins, find peace. About how we could all die this very minute, or at the next crossing, or maybe tomorrow and would go straight to hell if we hadn’t found our path by then. I have to say I could only make out snatches of what he said over the music from my ipod but it was engaging to watch most of the passengers pay attention and listen with interest. Bus folk are so unlike Tube folk. For Tube folk acknowledging that anyone else exists is taboo. I suspect the summer air has gone to the heads of the Bus folk.

Then I pressed pause on the ipod to scroll through the playlist looking for some inspiration and I heard this:

Preacher man extolling the virtues of repenting our sins: This morning how do you think you woke up? You only woke up because God himself made you wake up. Did you hear me? It’s God that made you wake up.

Very white collar worker with mid-row view: No way MY-TE (that’s mate to you and me), it was my alarm clock!

Round of laughter and applause. Almost everyone got off at Aldgate East.

The way to celebrate

I think it’s blatantly unfair to wait for 364 days (365 in this leap year) and then get just one day to celebrate the day of ones birth. With this in mind I declared birthday plus week. It began on my 33rd birthday on Tuesday, 15th of July 2008 and ended on Tuesday night the following week, 22nd of July 2008. I know it’s a day over a week but remember this is birthday PLUS week, not birthday week - which would have been a whole day shorter).

The day was simply marvelous. The short and long of it:
1. We fell asleep well before midnight. And anyway my mum had declared my birthday begun at midnight in India, 7.30pm in the UK.
2. Woke up to a madly beeping mobile at 5.10.
3. Tried going back to sleep. Couldn’t manage it.
4. Waited till 5.30 and managed to wake a groggy V up instead.
5. A singing boy by my side is what this girl needed. And got.
6. He went back to sleep. I went to the gym.
7. Felt like a martyr throughout my workout. Convinced myself that I deserved to eat ice cream all day. Straight from the tub.
8. Reached work at 8 to find two gifts and one gifting colleague singing at the top of her lungs.
9. Spent all morning juggling calls, answering texts and emails, facebook-ing it and trying valiantly to work.
10. Home baked cake (not from my home; again one of my lovely colleagues), tea, repetition of the birthday song and a hilarious card at 11am.
11. Went for a quick lunch to Pizza Express and treated myself to a yum pepperoni and jalapeno pizza. No dessert though.
12. Came back into meetings punctured by yet more calls and texts. Ignored colleagues with new superpowers gained as result of being ‘Birthday woman’ – she who blanks out all irritation/ irritants.
13. Changed out of my stodgy office garb and dressed to the nines in a fab new bright orange and pink top (totally not me usually), cut off black trouser, fashionable jacket, make-up, pointy heels and delicate pearls. Teetered out of work with the broadest smile.
14. An early evening glass of forbidden cold coffee and a quarter of a divine chocolate slice at Apostrophe with a friend.
15. Then gabbed with her all the way into town on the bus, bathed in the sunshine and the glow of being 33.
16. Met V at Tottenham Court Road for a divine meal at the heavily booked Hakkasan. Believe me when I say Hakkasan needs a post all its own.
17. And then the joys of a black cab ride all the way home, no tube and walk to stagger through, rolling on the weight of our stuffed stomachs, on my high heels.
18. Then the tiniest pot of chocolate mousse with a tea light perched atop it, and yet another rendition of happy birthday. Just half the pot of mousse though!
19. In the fading light of the day we took some random pictures to mark the day. Self-portraits if you will. I think we both look happy and our joy at life and each other shine clearly through. I hope they sustain me through the year. And that many years later I can look at them and remember how happy we felt.
20. I went to sleep tired but deliriously full of food and utterly happy. It was such a busy yet full birthday. I think I like things this way.

The week continued on and the celebrations never stopped. With everything I did all week I told myself it was part and parcel of my birthday celebrations.
21. Big fat meal with a friend at Tayyabs on Wednesday.
22. Repenting in the gym on Thursday.
23. Taking stock of all my birthday presents on Friday.
24. Watching the hilarious Henning Wehn at a comedy evening with friends at the Betsey Trotter on Saturday
25. Helping my friend organize and pack on her last Sunday in London
26. Cooking a big old meal for V and I to enjoy on Monday.
27. Spending a relaxed laughing evening with two girls, eating Chinese food and discussing all matters including death and ambition.

So it has indeed been birthday + week. The weather has mostly co-operated. There are things to note about this week though, things that should remain the same or change for next year:

28. I had no ice cream. Although I ate to my hearts content there was just no opportunity. Not even for a single bite. Next year I will be having an entire tub.
29. Taking self portraits on ones birthday is an excellent idea. I will do it again.
30. Some people take the day off on their birthdays. I have never given in to the idea. In spite of having to detour a lot during the day I managed to get everything on my plan done. Also everyone at work got to help me celebrate my birthday with me. And my day went by in a flash of sunny-ness.
31. Choosing a place to dine well researched well in advance meant that V had it booked ahead and that both of us lived in anticipation and hope for all that time. It was well worth it. It’s important that I remember this but also the flipside that it could all go horribly wrong.
32. I got just the best gifts. No bookshelf like last year though. Next week I shall put up the whole list. Accompanied by pictures – taken by me, not stolen off the web. I promise.
33. The sun shone all day. My bones felt nice and warm. I hope it is as benevolent every year.

All 33 points (curiously in tandem with my age!) point to the fact that one day to celebrate is just too short. I’m glad I decided to think of it and do it differently. I hereby declare that everyone should have birthday + week. Think about it.

Predictions

I happen to like my birthday. No matter that it mainly brings full circle the fact and knowledge that I am an entire year older than the previous one. I like the idea of having a day to celebrate my age. To celebrate all the days gone by in the previous year. To take stock of where life sits at this minute in time. And of course a chance to be pampered silly by V, friends and family.

Turning 33 was way scarier than turning 32. At the 32 mark all I could think was ‘Ooh, early 30’s. It’s the new 20’s. I love my life. Yay!’. It was when the conversations in my head walked past the half year mark that I started to panic a little. 33 sounded like a wayward island – past the early 30s, not quite mid 30’s yet, an inbteween floating bit of land on which to stand stranded till arescue boat came by for those mid-thirties. 33 just did not bring the same feelings up as turning 32 at all. In the run up to July the fifteenth I had a month of angst. And this was beside the contemplation of how the year had gone by. These are two completely separate things. Reflection I can do. Its angst about turning 33 I cannot. I’m too old (haha!). And I’m too young to have a mid-life crisis just yet.

After much thought I came to the conclusion that for me 33 is a bit of a no woman’s land, a straddling between being legitimately early 30’s and mid-30’s. I think it’s the unique year in which there is the chance to evaluate how the start of the 30’s has gone and whether there are some changes I should be making or plans I should still stick to for when I go into the mid-levels at 34. 33 sounds busy.

It’s abundantly clear in my mind that when asked my age I can no longer say early thirties. Or even mid-thirties. I think this year if I am asked my age I’ll have to just face up to it and declare I’m 33. I think declaring my precise age out loud is the stone amidst the basket of rice.

Reflections of 32 were mixed. It’s been a year of halves if ever there was one. I’m not going to rehash what I wrote at the turn of the year. But I can declare that the second half of 32 outweighed the first by more than a few miles. At base I have a strong awareness that I have a good solid life, filled with so many blessings that I wake up most days thinking how lucky I am and praying it will last forever. Of course there are days when things look slightly less shiny, things one continues to want, unreasonable demands from the universe etc., but fewer and further between. I think the greatest gift the second half of being 32 brought me was the realisation that I had the ability, willpower and head space to reach a zen place and stop trying to change things which I had no real ability to control or address. And this in itself has taken all the less shiny things and made them inconsequential.

As for turning 33, I think, all said and done, the ambiguity of being in no-womans-land-33 will soon dissipate. I predict sunshine at 33.

Technology-warped birthdays

15th birthday:

Awesome cake: 1. Baked by my mother – the chocolatiest chocolate devils food cake. I not only got to lick the bowl and spoon clean, I also ate about half that cake. Nik ate the other half. The guests and parents merely gaped.

Phone calls: 6. Mainly family making expensive long distance calls. That is how much they love me.

Texts: 0. No mobile phone.

E-mails: 0. Little awareness of computers let alone what e-mail was.

Facebook massages: 0. Facebook? What Facebook? My face was always in a book. Just not of the electronic kind.

E-cards: 0. See 2 points above.

Real world cards: 102 (I beseeched every person I knew to give me a card instead of a gift. I was trying to beat some random record I had seen on a TV show. My mum gave me 15 and got Dad and Nik to sign some of them but also give me a card each on their own. My friends agreed and rejoiced at having got out of having to buy me a gift. Many got me multiple cards – Archies gallery did some great business in the week before my birthday. Everyone thought I was weird. I beat that TV record that no one else had seen or ever heard of. I was such a foolish foolish child)

33rd birthday:

Awesome cake: 1. Chocolate and vanilla marble, of which I ate only 1 very slice. Self- control is my hyphenated middle name in my 30’s. Then V bought me a tiny pot of divine chocolate mousse and put a tea light on the cover and sang to me. I've changed my middle name to uncontrolled.

Phone calls: 24. I would say half and half friends and family. From 7.30 the previous evening when my mother declared that I was born in India and therefore midnight in India was when my birthday starts, till 36 hours later when friends were still calling to ask how much we were partying. And not to be missed in between was a wonderful rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ by two delightful friends, bang slap in the middle of a Very Important Meeting I was meant to be paying attention at. And meant to have turned my phone off at. I don’t care. I’m 33. My superpowers include smiling sweetly at team after said call and them forgetting all about the interruption because, well, I’m 33.

Texts: 12. From 5am till nearly midnight, the beeps would not stop till I looked at the phone. I am not a fan of Sony Ericson.

Blog wishes: 25. What can I say, you guys are the awesome-est!!!!!!!!

E-mails: 7. Because everyone is now on evil evil Facebook (note: including me) and can no longer even be bothered with e-mail.

Facebook wall and messages: 30. Of which friends who would have remembered without Facebook calender to remind them: 4

E-cards: 1

Real world cards: 0

See what the internet, without any offices in Delhi, did?

33 steps between there and here

I'm 33 today. I decided to follow my intuition and birthday gift myself the balance of the vote in favour of what I would like to do. So here are all 33 bits about me me and me.

1. If I needed only one word to describe myself while growing up I would definitely not use the word lucky. I have crap luck, especially of the lottery winning kind, so clearly that person is not me. I have never ever won anything. Not drawing competitions, not tambola, not even scrabble. Now I don’t waste my time or money trying.

2. I believe that in our family luck can only belong to one person. In our family it belongs to my brother. Passed on genetically from my mum who is also fantastically lucky but less so than the Nik. He is going to hit some sort of jackpot and then I’ll have to wrangle half of him. Strangely, this makes me happy and not even an iota envious. I think my word my might be lazy.

3. I never ever cried in front of anyone all through my teens. I reserved any tears (very very rare) for the bathroom. But it was in my teens that I came to accept that I was much more sensitive than I came across.

4. I cry more often and more openly now. Mainly it’s a reaction to a sentimental movie (like Dumbo, which has made me cry many a time since I was 8 years old) or homesickness on festivals. I would say I average about twice a year.

5. As a teenager I used to get bugged by small yet seemingly significant things. Then I made up a process to deal with everything. First I learnt to quickly disguise it. Then I’d forget about it. And then suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. Water off a ducks back is my universal rule.

6. As time went on I got better, quicker, sharper at it. To the point where if it did not concern V or my family members with some level of gravity, I could go through the process in about 25 seconds. This method has so far stood me in good stead.

7. I don’t make friends easily. I would say that 90% of people I know are acquaintances. But once you are a friend you will never ever doubt my loyalty. I have learnt to sieve the important from the unimportant. Very very quickly.

8. I think my own best character trait is loyalty. I strive for it to be kindness.

9. It therefore takes a lot to rile me. But if you rile me once too often you’ll find yourself being cut out from my existence in every way. There is no forgiveness. And there is no forgetting.

10. When I was a kid I wanted to be a different thing every week. Burning choices were librarian, art historian and archeologist. I’m not sure where all these choices went.

11. But for one entire teen summer month I was a librarian, seeing off mine and my co-conspirators books to various neighbourhood homes with love and hoping they’d come back in good condition. I think we made Rs.120 in total, between 4 of us. And most of the books did come back safe and sound. But it left me with a fear of ever lending books. So don't ask.

12. I hold a degree that people look at suspiciously. Like, “Loser, you didn’t get into anything else did you?”. Actually I did get into one very prestigious college. I chose not to go for two reasons, one of which (I am ashamed to say) was the tidings of an astrologer I call Elsie brown cow. The other is too foolish to ever mention.

13. It is not something I regret though. I don’t care what people think of my degree because it was such fun to get and I made some amazing enduring friendships there. It also means that I am a fairly good cook. Both V and I have waistlines to prove this.

14. My favorite color has always been purple. Any shade of it - from the palest lavender to the brightest neon purple.

15. As a child I implored my mother to wear this one particular chiffon sari a lot – bright purple and pink with silver work – for weddings, dinner parties etc. She only caved in to the request some of the times. It was a gift from my grandfather for Diwali one year (if memory serves me right) and my mother looked gorgeous in it. I, on the other hand, owned a pair of lavender coloured jeans that I wore till they could be worn no more. Did not look nearly as gorgeous but I was like an addict.

16. I have always lived in awe of my mother. She is not only one of the most beautiful woman I know (beaten in that only by my utterly gorgeous and graceful nani) but most certainly the most vivacious and positive person. She can meet anyone and be their friend in no time - from the dhobi to my colleagues, from the subji walla to my school friends, from the driver to random neighbours. It’s a gift.

17. She can take anything and make it better. She always tried to inculcate the optimistic viewpoint of the world. If you do good, you will get good, believe in the goodness of people etc. As a teen I was not having any of it and was a fairly surly pessimist just to test her every nerve. She has the patience of a saint, of this there is no doubt.

18. I think I aim everyday to be a little more like my mother - a bit more positive and lot more hopeful. Somewhere along the line my viewpoint changed. I think it was in my mid-twenties. But I can’t be sure. I now think I am a realist/ pragmatist. My glass has gone from half empty to half full between my teens and this adult me. I like the adult me a lot more.

19. In primary school, I wore glasses with a very low power. But I was so vain that for a Sanskrit recitation exam at age 6 I refused to wear them. I remember memorising that passage and the shlokas like my life depended on it.

20. I went for squint correction exercises to Dr. Wadhwa 3 days a week after school. With my mum, in an auto, dragging along a tiny Nik. I remember the journeys and the exercises so clearly that I could be 7 again, not 33.

21. I’m meant to wear some very low power specs even now to read, watch TV and work on the computer. I never do. In fact I think I threw away my only pair for no reason other than vanity. This is strange because I don’t think I am a vain person. I think with specs I have just always had some mental block. I plan to rectify this while I am 33.

22. As squabbling siblings in an 80’s childhood, with a 7 year gap between us, the Nik and I fought like the average Indian household. All trivial. A lot of petty “you touched my side of the desk” type nonsense. From what I remember my dad took my side and my mother took the Niks - almost always. I saw this as unfair then. I now see the logic. My parents were always on the same side and since someone had to take each of our sides to understand/reason/cajole I guess this was the way to even out the adult influence between us. Divide and rule.

23. In the end we turned out A-ok. Adoring siblings. He calls me fatty and I call him mote. It works. My parents are proud I think.

24. I like to think I genetically inherited my father’s wanderlust. Nobody but I listens patiently to his “When I was in London on a foggy day in 1970....” type stories. I love each and every one of them. I hope to chronicle some of the best ones either in my blog or a notebook in the next year. He is well traveled, well read and wise and I hope I can grow old with the same grace, intelligence and minimal regrets as he has.

25. Both my parents smoke - my mum cigarettes and my dad cigarettes plus a pipe. Growing up I hated this because none of my friends had cigarette smoking mothers and pipe smoking fathers. Beside the repercussions for their health I no longer care because it clearly makes them happy.

26. Growing up the Nik and I had only one rule. We wouldn’t buy matches or cigarettes from the corner shop, central market or anywhere. In fact we wouldn’t even fetch their cigarettes or lighters from the next room. It’s a rule we both follow to this day. My parents have learnt to live with it.

27. To my mind the only positive to my parents smoking habits were that Nik and I never smoked or were even ever tempted to try. This makes us sound like boring teenage nerds. We’ve never cared really. It’s a fact that makes me strangely proud.

28. My father and mother had a love marriage – he a malayali and she a UP kayastha – in a time when these cross-country alliances were frowned upon. One of my favourite bits about their love story is how my mother used to say she would never marry a dark man who wore glasses. She married a dark man with glasses. Lesson it left me with: never say never.

29. From my mother’s side I got the softness of my palms (exactly like my nana’s – never done a day’s work is how they are regularly described). From my father’s I got the trademark curly hair (anybody who knows anything about India can tell in a nano second that I am at least part Malayali). The hands are getting less soft what with age, the hair is ever spring and frizzy. Oh well.

30. I think I can count all my regrets on one hand. The top 2 are: I regret I never learnt Malayalam. And that I never learnt an instrument. I think I would have liked to learn the guitar and play like my father could. Speaking Malayalam would have made me feel like less of a fraud.

31. I like to think of myself not as half malayali and half UP-ite but as a wonderful lucky cocktail. I think I have convincing ancestry.

32. My favourite bit of ‘Friends’ is the one where Pheobe talks about how lobsters mate for life. V and I are lobsters. I cannot imagine my life without him. He makes all other things in my life pale in comparison. He is top of my short list of non-negotiables.

33. I think I am leading the most interesting life I could lead. I’m not sure I would change much with either a magic wand or a winning lottery ticket. If I had one word to describe it, it just might be lucky.

This is as much as you’ll get out of me at one time. Ever. So soak it in.

The long or short of it

In order to commemorate my birthday I am planning to share more of myself on this blog. It won’t last, just for the next week or so, while I celebrate the advent of another year of joyous/ grumpy life. I want to mark 33 with something a bit more specific rather than yet more flowery-ness about growing old(er) and accepting it, (often less than) gracefully. Been there, done that. Now that I’m creeping firmly towards the mid 30’s I need to be clearer about what this decade is going be all about and what steps I need to take to make 33 outstanding. It's a process. Have no doubt that a long and boring post will follow in about a month.

But at this time I have in my draft folder something that I wrote in one sitting yesterday evening that I wanted to publish on my birthday. It’s a long diatribe of things about me – a list of random stuff about me that most of you virtual readers do not know. But more importantly the first 33 things that came to me when I decided to make a list. It goes on forever, and I mean forever, each point verbose and elaborate. I know no other way. I am trying to decide if I should post the entire lot together or in 3 parts of 11 each over the week.

My initial inclination is together, in one long marathon post. Even though I can guarantee that most people will lose the will to live in about 1 minute. On the other hand I am tempted to declare the whole of next week as my birthday week. Apart from a yet un-taken picture of one of my many beautiful birthday gifts and this post I have nothing to write. Therefore, breaking it into 3 bits of 11 points each will give me something to do and you something new to read at least 4 out of 7 days. And you complain I never blog?!

Do I care what the virtual world thinks? Yes. Vaguely. So vote now.

1. If you think I should put the whole list up at once (even if it means you will read it and never ever venture here again) – leave me a random comment which uses the number ‘33’ in it.

2. If you think 3 parts would be gentler on your eyeballs and sensibilities, leave me a random comment which uses ‘3 by 11’ in it.

The more random and unconnected the comment is to the question in hand, the more weight your vote carries.

Voting closes midnight (UK time) on Monday night/ Tuesday morning. I shall awaken on Tuesday, 33 years old and ready to post.

I might not heed the vote. But then again I just might.

Gymania

The funniness of gym town is enough to keep me going to the gym, lack of inch/weight loss notwithstanding.

At a certain time in the morning it’s only the usual suspects who rock up to the gym. It’s too early/ cold/ hot/ cuddly for the rest of the unfit world. So by the time we were crossing the year and a half mark of gym adventures each morning I pretty much knew what to expect from each shiny new day. I’d do the cross-trainer or stationary cycle, V would do either of those or the treadmill for 30 minutes. Then we’d do weights. Or not. Then we’d stretch. Or not. All dependent on how long it took us to get out of bed that particular morning. And what time's train we need to catch to get in to work on time.

The bank of people working out on the cardio machines is pretty standard. So when there is a new uncle ski-ing on the cross trainer, jamming to the beat on his i-pod, I can’t help but make note. This uncle is new and very, very amusing. He wears only Lotto Apparel, T-shirt, shorts, shoes, socks and headband. He has an elaborate warm up routine. Right in front of the remaining 5 machines, our eyeballs protected only by the mini-tv screens in front of each. Lotto uncle does a small routine which includes, among many others, 15 jumping jacks and loads of arm twirling, like batons. Why he cannot do this routine on the matted floor space just below, or in the big gymnasium is beyond me. 10 minutes later, all warmed up, he climbs on the cross trainer and ski’s like his life and the life of a lot of invisible people tied with rope behind him depends on it. For 4 entire minutes. I kid you not. Then he gets off and does a whole cool down routine. From behind my curtain of sweat this looks like a slugs workout, slow and short and inactive. I feel drunkenly powerful at my own achievements.

The weights floor is Testosterone Central. If you are not a loudly grunting man you could feel wildly out of place. Or discriminated against. But I am not intimidated, just tired. From out-cross-training Lotto uncle by 41 minutes. I attempt some light weights. The heavily muscled strutting men are doing ‘sets’ on various machines. I stay out of the way but not far enough to avoid being the recipient of some scornful gazes towards the lightness of the weights. I ignore them and continue proudly on.

It’s my last exercise and I need 2 kg weights for each hand so I move to the racks where these are neatly arranged. Right in front a huge (6ft something) muscled man is beginning some serious looking weightlifting while lunging. He too has free weights, but as he holds them sideways I cannot see how heavy they are. They don’t look much bulkier than the ones I have. I retreat to a corner where I exercise as I watch him lift and lunge, doing a full set, accompanied by these loud exertion grunts. Set done he throws the weights to the matted floor. Then he grunts once. Loudly, for the kingdom loud. And clearly unnecessary now that said weights have been discarded. Every single person on the floor looks in his direction, startled and judgemental all at once. He turns to go without putting his weights back on the rack. Since I’m putting mine back I walk past his discarded weights to the racks. I can see the sides of his weights now. They are only 4 kgs each. I lift one in each hand and deposit them back on the rack, pleased with the symmetry I have reinstated. It takes not much more effort than the weights I had myself. For that giant grunting man.

Then as I go down the stairs I see him chatting in the foyer with an attractive young women dressed in designer gym gear who is fluttering her eyelashes at his every loud word. Turns out that the louder you grunt at the gym, the more eyeballs you can attract. Or rather certain eyeballs you attract. Unlike some you may or may not be grunting because you are actually doing a serious workout. That, apparently, is well beside the point.

Down, not Out

It’s official. I am the first person to fail gym. And it’s taken me nearly 2 years to come round to this. V & I, we joined in early August 2006, shortly after starting our new life in our new home and after a few funnies we got into the routine. Of packing our bags the night before, waking up pre-dawn, egging the slumber-er (usually me) to get up and go. And by that I mean go quite religiously – we charted it and we’ve been at least 3-4 times a week over this period of time. There were holidays and off days where we just rolled back into the warmth of a duvet but mostly we got up and legged it.

It is in a vaguely disheartening mood that I write this post. And that is because it is slightly disheartening to keep trying and yet LOSE NOTHING. OK, no, I am lying. I lost some weight in the first year. Not enough for anyone but me and the man who appreciates my love handles to notice. Certainly not enough to merit tossing out my tired old wardrobe to get a snazzy new one. So besides having the strongest heart and oft amazing stamina I have nothing to show for it. The hilarious people in the gym make going a bit easier but there is only so much laughing at specimens in an exercise zoo that I can manage that early in the morning. I was never fixated on the actual kilos but aimed to at least become more toned or shapely. I have lost nothing, not an ounce in the second year, not a love handle a.ka. michelin tyre. There is not a bit of more toned me to be found anywhere. I might as well have stayed home and saved some money, sweat and breath.

If you met me for the very first time today you could easily assume I was clinically obese, never ever exercised and ate double BigMac’s with a bucket of diet coke each night. Nothing could be further from the truth (ie. I am clinically obese but I do exercise and never ever go near a BigMac). We eat sensibly, mostly. I cook fresh food at home 5 times a week. All our eating out is socially or to alleviate boredom (often one and the same thing) or because we are dying to let out the foodsters within or just because we can. I think the problem lies mostly in exercising and then thinking it’s OK to eat anything and in any quantity. Although the quantities I can manage have gone down as I have aged they are a clear stumbling block if I am to ever get to a healthy weight/ shape.

But I am nothing if not determined. With a little help from an unexpected quarter I am now in my 4th week of changing my lifestyle, exercise and diet patterns. So far so good, even though not an ounce has yet been shed. I am surprised sometimes by my own tenacity and willpower.

As I turn the corner and see 33 written on the wall (still over a week down the road) I still have to rely on something I taught myself as a youngster: A healthy self is far preferable to a beautiful self. And that, for me, will never ever change. That is official.

Sounds like

It was a free Friday night. A colleague suggested an eatery in Soho for us to try out. After much time to-ing and fro-ing on the email all day – where? Why? What’s to eat? Really? What time? Who else? Should we save some money by going home to leftovers? ha ha at that last one - finally I agreed.

We met at windswept Piccadilly Circus, where we always do, between always-on-sale-Lilywhites and the statue with the steps of tourists. We elbowed our way through the teeming crowds and into the beating heart of Soho. It’s been a while since we did this. The buzz emanating from large crowds hopped up on alcohol and out to enjoy an evening of camaraderie is divine. It makes your heart beat a little quicker as you walk in the middle of the street, holding hands so you don’t get separated or lost, dodging only the odd cycle rickshaws and pedestrians trying to find their ideal evening.

The suggested café was packed to the gills. In fact beyond the gills with tables and people practically sitting on each others laps on the very cramped pavement side seating. In a wonderful case of reverse bias it was a Gay & Lesbian night only and since we are neither we had to leave. There was no chance of finding anything remotely comfortable or edible in the jam-packedness in any case. It looked prettier, shinier and quieter on the internet, as most pictures tend to do. I had clearly lost my youngness eager-to-use-elbows on the overheated tube. So vowing to return another time we continued down the street looking for somewhere slightly less full to rest our feet and fill our tummies.

We decided on Bincho (not the most promising of names – yes we too kept thinking of and giggling aloud at THAT other word it sounds suspiciously like) which merely stated Yakitori under its name, on a random whim. Anything Japanese is appealing to this foodster and as he always always indulges me (even when he doesn’t have the deep love of all food oriental that I do) V and I went in. We got a table at the wooden grill counter behind which skewers of meat, fish and vegetables were gently sizzling. The menu suggested that we order skewers of different kinds, seasoned and grilled and then slathered with generic yakitori sauce – called Yakitori for anything to do with chicken parts and Kushiyaki for any skewered stuff besides. We ordered a wide selection – sea bream, salmon, tuna, squid, tiger prawns, shitake mushrooms and spring onion. We skipped the rice in favour of multiple portions of skewered foods. The gym gods would be so proud.

And as we ate that rare meal with just each other (read: no TV) for company we talked - about life, work and our plans for the next few months, holidays we intend to take, people we need to meet, activities that will keep us busy and happy till at least Christmas. At which point we may have to go out for dinner again (just kidding!). It was rare to not be watching sports while chucking food down our throats at top speed – an every week day occurrence unless we were eating with company. Bincho’s service was attentive if a beat slow – the young Japanese ladies grasp on Endlish made for some awkward moments of repeating.things.slowly. The décor was calm and sparse, with great big Japanese characters adoring the light walls and empty giant Japanese beer bottles lining a few focal point shelves and lots of wood furniture and . It was a lovely evening, lingering and watching the sun set late on a London people’s landscape, eating perfectly cooked fresh ingredients with this delightful tang of sweet and salty yakitori sauce, each served on different individual Japanese ceramic plates. I don’t know if I’d go back in a hurry seeing as it was about £25 per head and there are hundreds of places in Soho and the wider London area for us to try out. But it was a good evening and I shouldn’t knock it.

After all, at Bincho we had found ours. The ideal evening that is.

Bincho: 16 Old Compton Street, London W10 4TL. Tel: 0207 207 9111

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.