Ze city

New York, New York

I spent a week toodling around the sweltering city while V worked all hours of day and night. I cannot accurately describe how I feel about NYC without wading through the various emotions it inspires in me and also probably hurting someone’s feelings. Let’s just say that in the woolly cloud of emotions, for me, it is a wonderful holiday city and just a block away from gastronomic heaven. But if push came to shove and I had to live there I don't know how I would deal with it. The week went by with alarming speed and although every minute of it was chock full of something, many of them were just blank-mind enjoyment moments, like strolling down 5th Avenue with nothing in my head but the thought ‘Ooh, what an ugly bag – who in their right minds would pay THAT kind of money for it?’.

I met 4 school classmates, 3 of them after a gap of 14 years. Technology has a lot to answer for. In the days of snail mail and old fashioned land lines it was very easy to lose touch. You swore in slam books, year books, autograph books, that you would be friends eternally. Then you all went to college in a hundred different towns dotted around the country with just a poor mans stamp to fix to a letter. After a few exchanges the letter would start to get lost, be misdirected, forgotten and then dropped off the agenda. Long distance phone calls were exhorbitant and college way too exciting and grown-up to be hankering after school friends. The ones who wrote/ called and to whom you wrote back/ called stayed your friends over the years while the bulk dropped like flies. Everyone, except the postal service, thanked the Lord when e-mail made its entry, boldly saving trees and friendships.

The 3 I met after the huge gap had been good if not close school friends of mine. We never got back in touch even when e-mail appeared and the only reason we met now was because of an alumni group email where I was arranging to meet the 4th schoolmate – someone I had maintained irregular touch with, whose email ID I had lost and whom I was keen to meet again. Two tea’s and a lunch later I knew why we hadn’t stayed in touch – it was because we were essentially very different people with very little in common other that the nostalgic memories of school days and because we were geographically and mentally at different places in our lives (and had probably always been). It was fun in some ways to meet and talk about school, exchange gossip and find out how the intervening 14 years had shaped lives. But other than that there were just the same existential questions – living abroad as a desi, children and why none of us have them yet, holidays, spouses, weight, thinning hair, parents blah blah blah. Conversations I seem to be continually embroiled in, nothing new or more or better. I will do it again in 14 years.

Needless to say I shopped although not nearly as much as I hoped to. In my minds eye I was dreamed up this huge pile of clothes and shoes and jewelry and make-up that, when I got back, would mostly have to live on the guest bed because my cupboard would be already be overflowing with my stylish New York get-up. Sadly I and my overactive imagination are like estranged twins. There I was in Bloomingdales, then Saks and then Macy’s – each time confused by the sheer volume and varied choice – overwhelmed and outnumbered, I spent too much time browsing and not enough flashing V’s credit card. When I finally got down to it I shopped but kept checking my impulse to purchases using all kinds of inane parameters (spending money/ world poverty/ children in hunger/ whom to blame for greed genes/ guilt at spending all the money/ deserving as I work hard/ generally charitable, so OK then – and then again in a loop). So I bought fewer clothes and shoes than the plan. And of course since it’s already Autumn/ Winter in the United Kingdom I’ve had to put them all away in the hope that someday summer will return to this Queendom.

Talking of weather, did I already mention it was sweltering? Let me say that again – Sweltering – ah! That feels better. The warmth of your glares, my English roses, is brighter than the sun. It was in the ‘high nineties’ which translates to ‘very hot’ in my vocabulary. One night there was a huge storm, a veritable thunder and lightening show with pounding sheets of rain adding to the music – simply beautiful and reminiscent of storms the monsoons bring in India. The concrete didn’t have the mitti smell but the sheer beauty and power of it was a welcome change from the never ending drip from the sky that invades the UK and can only be described as damp. The clapping thunder and shockwaves of light were mesmerizing and the big drops of rain left everything undeniably soaked. The heat was unbearable only on one day, when all I craved was Air-conditioning and iced water. But other than that I loved the heat, proving undeniably, much to the amusement of my brother, that I have indeed become ‘firangi’.

Walked everywhere and thoroughly enjoyed the sun beating down upon my back. Mid-town Manhattan is a walking tourists semi-paradise. Its all in a grid with Avenues and Streets cutting across each other so there is no chance of getting lost. The ‘semi’ portion refers to the inane traffic and honking of horns and the dirt on the sidewalks. London is a much cleaner city that way and traffic is very civilized in comparison. I walked to and through Central Park, up and down Riverside Drive, Park Avenue. Visited the Met and MoMA and bought myself a cute Travel card holder (could not bear my London Transport one any longer). Met cousins, an aunt and ex-work friends. Spent an afternoon hurtling through New Jersey, to the fantastic home of friends for an evening of barbeque and talk. Followed the instruction of many a New York blogger on where to eat and what to do. Filled my days with laid back busy-ness, eating sumptuous meals and meeting people, watching American TV and gaping at the confidence of Noo Yaawkers.

Before I go and begin to think/ drool about the inevitable Nu Yark food post that follows, let me just say that I am in love. With the Container Store and Anthropologie - absolute opposites of each other. The first because as the name indicates, its all to do with organising stuff and that fits right in with my main OCD of everything in its place etc. The second because the entire store is a hodgepodge of pretty clothes and house wares, all feminine and exacting and plain heart-breaking-ly pretty. I am torn.

Ze flights

When I write my memoirs they will not be much more than a collection of short and funny and sometimes bizarre stories about airplane journeys.

On the way there:

On a day journey from London to New York two Friday’s ago I sat squashed in my beaten leather-from-the-80s-seat and tried to ignore the milling crowds stuffing their life’s belongings in the overhead bins. Three families, each with two adults and two kids, were traveling together, on holiday from the ugly British weather and school, onward to New Orleans from New York. The mothers spent the entire flight attempting to paint their nails and foist some discipline on their children while doing so. Dribs drabs and wisdom:

Ashley, sit down. SIT DOWN. I said, SIT DOWN ASHLEY. NOW Ashley. Don’t get mummy angry Ashley.

Pete, do not touch that, what did mummy say Pete, do NOT touch that.

No, he will not eat Pasta, give him the chicken. He doesn’t know what he wants, he’s only 6.

New York, we are going to New York. And then in another plane to New Orleans. Yes, New York is in America. ANOTHER plane (mild notes of high pitched-panic at the thought - for the mothers, relief for me as I was NOT going to be on that flight)

Yes we are on holiday darling. No, you can’t have coke till we reach America because that’s when the holiday starts darling. Yes, I did say we are on holiday darling. Ok you can have ONE coke. Only ONE.

No you can’t change seats. You chose to sit with Ashley and now you will have to sit with Ashley. (And then similar string with all 5 other children)

Yes, she will also have the chicken. Don’t ask them, please just give them the chicken.

AJ, don’t hit your sister. SIT DOWN and do NOT hit your sister. I said NO.

Tia, sit down and put on that seat belt. No you can’t walk up and down. No they are not going to show Shrek 3 and no you can’t change seats with mummy.

Do NOT make me say it again. SIT DOWN NOW.

Tara, if I see you pinch him one more time you will be in deep trouble yourself. One MORE TIME.

What part of No did you not understand?

I’ll count to 3. wuuuun, wuuunnnn anna half. Ta-wooooo. Ta-woooo anna haaaalf. NOW. Thuuuuurrrrreeeee. That’s it. You young man, are getting off this plane.

Yes, New Orleans is also in America.

And so on and so forth. For 6 straight hours. In the 7th hour, stuffed with chicken, a variety of snacks and clearly over the hyper-ness caused by the forbidden coke, they slept. Mothers completed the nail painting job and gossiped loudly about their wonderful angelic (read asleep) children.

What did the three fathers do, I hear you ask? They sat together in another row, baseball caps pulled down low over brows, earphones stuck over ears and ignored said wives and children by watching Fracture with Anthony Hopkins and Ryan Gosling and holding intense conversations about golf and the increasing cost of life in the English countryside. Typical!

On the way back:

The flight boarded at 7.30pm just 10 minutes before our scheduled time of departure. Not a minute too soon as I had had to shuffle my baggage along the floor in a disorganised winding line in a hot humid terminal full of irate passengers - 1.5 hours just to check in. And of course I was then ‘specially selected’ for a ‘special security check’. With every bit of me and my hand baggage x-rayed, patted down, checked for spurious substance and declared fit about 10 minutes before boarding time I was exhausted, worried about missing my flight, missed out on last minute cheer-me-up duty free retail therapy and ready to fall asleep standing up.

The flight leaves the gate at 8.10pm, taxi-ing along slowly. At 8.50pm, yes a whole 40 minutes later, we are still taxi-ing along the runway. I think we are going around in circles or squares or rectangles. I don’t really care. All I want is something to drink and the security cartoon to stop playing on a loop. In the seats behind mine is a Gujju uncle traveling with a very well behaved 5andabit year old son. The seat adjacent to mine is empty and I dream of pleasant sleep once we are airborne.

My phone is off in anticipation of leaving (on a jet plane, humming that for no apparent reason) so I stop one of the stewards and ask the time. Its 9.05pm he says. Amidst the dead silence of the exhausted slumbering passengers the little boy behind me asks, “Papa, are we driving to London?”

We take off at 9.30, only an hour and 50 minutes late. Two families flight about one small child kicking the other older family’s seats from behind. The words ‘slander’ and ‘sue me’ are used loosely and repeatedly till the older family is moved to another section of the plane. The child begins to wail and is repeatedly slinking off her seat onto the floor shedding bucket-loads of tears. The mother and father fight, move to separate rows and the child toddles between them for the first half of the flight. The mother insists her child be allowed to sleep on the floor in the aisle and the stewards vehemently disallow. Drama of the Bollywood kind ensues with mother and father uniting to rubbish the airline and claim the rights.

About 3 hours into the flight (ie. 4 hours and 50 minutes after being trapped in the lunatic flight from hell) we all get some peace and quiet. The mother and father have decided after a loud whispering fighting match that separate rows are best. The little girl has cried herself to sleep near her father. I’m so sleepy I’m beyond sleep. Thank god for my Ipod and the History of Love.

My expectations are so low they sometimes frighten me.

Be an Onion

What is with this d*rn weather?

When I first came to England I could not fathom why the British continuously talked about the weather and drank so much tea. The tea bit made sense almost instantly as just having my hands around a cup of tea (that I didn't drink) made me feel warm and loved in the dark depths of that first winter. But the weather? Really? Where I come from the weather goes 4 ways, - extreme sweaty heat, thundering rain, foggy cold and a few spring-like weeks. Over here however there seemed to be a perpetual state of shades of cold and grey.

I learnt the British obsession with weather much like a game of russian roulette. A game at which my luck sucks big time. I’d look out the window on a purportedly spring day, see a sparkling blue sky, walk out in a t-shirt and thin jacket and whooosh, like a slap in the face I'd have to turn back and put on more appropriate outerwear. Or I'd wander out in the dead of winter in multiple heavy layers and promptly melt into a puddle on the overheated tube floor, leaving nothing behind but a soggy pile of overcoats, multiple pairs of socks and a bewildered compartment of tube passengers. Or better yet I would lug my heavy overcoats (yes, more than one) all over the countryside during the hottest summer days, murmurring like a mad woman, "Oooh, but the weather could change any time".

You see British people have got it down to a pat. They can smell the weather and dress appropriately. And more than anything they can layer. If I have learnt anything in my 5and1/2 years here, it is this: Layering is the art and purview of thin people. It's an undiscovered sport in my opinion, who can be the best onion, whose layers will be most most ingenious, accurate for any weather emergency and yet look as effortless/ fashionable as possible. The possible permutation combinations seem to stem from a range of gear, from the inside outwards: a warm layer, a nice-on-the-eyes-formal/casual-layer (often mutliple layers of nice), another warm layer (like a jumper/pullover/ sweater), a summer jacket or winter overcoat or a rain proof layer, a summer scarf, a wooley winter scarf, stockings or matching socks, a windcheater, an umbrella and of course the the obligatory watch, jewellery, handbag beside appropriate shoes. My entire wardrobe is smaller than this list.

I am a loser at this sport. I tried it in my first few years at it, more to cope with the weather than fashion trends. All I achieved was the now patented image of a waddling potato. I gave up pretty quickly and decided that I would brave the elements and adopt a two layer policy, one layer casual/formal layer and a coat/shawl of some kind. I suffer for my art.

This years brilliant weather (I say, dripping sarcasm) has meant that on any given day the temperature will fluctuate wildly, going from being warm-ish and sunny to being gale like in minutes. The rain pours down in bursts and then chinese-torture-drips till the cloud passes by. The sun sparkles against puffball clouds for a few minutes while the brisk wind whips around creating mini-tornadoes of discarded newspaper and sandwich wrappers. It's not pleasant. My plants seem to be the only happy recipients of the incessent rain. No matter how closely I follow the weather forecast and on how many channels and sites I turn for advice there is no escaping the madness of British weather. It is unpredictable beyond belief and I am consistently unprepared yet strangely beyond caring. There is no summer to speak of this year and I now completely understand the obsession with weather. I don't have the wardrobe for it, but I do understand it.

Sadly I am still more potato than onion.

P.S. No rude comments about onions being purple-red and smelly please. I happen to like onions, majestic in their royal skin, pleasant in their plumpness. And if I managed to dress in layers I'd use perfume.

Cut it out

So the birthday was spent mainly in quiet contemplation. Really it was nothing more than the exhaustion and loneliness of a house used to having parents and a sibling suddenly emptying out. Yes, we have been sans any form of parent in our home since the end of last week and all the tiredness of being on the trot 24/7 with entertaining, cleaning, cooking and good behaviour, mostly, had taken its toll.

In the months running up to this birthday I have been giving serious thought to what I want this next year to look like. I am a great believer in resolutions and make then for New Years and once in a while on birthdays. The New Year ones are invariably to do with ‘don’t eat this, don’t eat that’. The birthday ones are a tad more soul searching and happiness seeking. This year I have made three large ones:

1. Last August, 48 weeks ago, a week after moving house, V and I joined the gym. Against my better judgement, I must add, as I have never ever stuck to any programme of exercise or diet for long. Somehow it has stuck. And we are here in week 49 with me weighing 10-12 kgs less than I did (depending on day and number of chocolate eaten) at start point. The gym going has dipped over the last two months with visitors and erratic schedules but we have kept at it fleetingly (read twice a week) and the grams seem to be creeping back on. Well, resolution no.1 is to cut out the flab. I am going to take this to a higher notch and am aiming to lose 15 kilos in the next 6 months. Yes, I am THAT fat.

2. In my youth I harboured misguided dreams of being a world class chef. Thankfully I came to my senses as I had neither the temperament nor talent for it. I also discovered I have the ambition of an overfull slug on a cauliflower. I do however enjoy cooking very much and feeding other people the leftovers of whatever I wolf down (see pt.1 for where this has got me). This interest in cooking led me to set up a failed blog with just one introductory post on it. And I am that lazy that I have not yet bothered to even delete said sad blog. Coming back to the point I have lost my cooking mojo. I am bored with everything we eat at home, even though we try and eat a different cuisine nearly everyday. I'm at the point where I never want to see another meal cooked by me as long as I live. That is how staid my repertoire has become. So this birthday I resolve to cut out the slackness and bringing back to life my interest in good food. So I shall buy one new cookbook a month and try and put that zing back into our meals and stomachs. And I will delete that horrid-haunting-me blog.

3. This third one is the biggie. I have come to the unhappy realization that pretty much my entire life it’s been all give give give and no take take take. My life is filled with people whom I think are my friends but who clearly view me as nothing but an acquaintance or a friend when in need.

What started this one was a memory of a conversation with a school classmate where she convinced me to come to her house to spend an afternoon as my house was too far away. I was an uncomfortable teenager and eager to please and be included in the hallowed circle of ‘friends’ and gave into silly requests like this not ever once questioning how the distance between our houses would change whether she came to mine or I to hers. I still remember my dad always uncomplainingly driving to pick me up from far flung corners of Delhi when no one would agree to come to where we lived in the sticks. Perhaps I was not a nice teenager and needed to make the extra effort to make any friends, but I highly doubt that. As I grew older and more confident the wheat fell away from the chaff and I found friends that didn’t care where I lived and seemed to like me for me. An adulthood of living in different cities has been blessed by technological advances like text and email. Life is all fast paced and yet nowadays I feel like a slow-fast motion film where I am standing on a train platform, quite still, and around me figures are blurred by the speed at which they move. Of course the sign around my neck says ‘Please like me’.

The move to this city five years ago left me all anxious about friendships – those left behind and the need for new ones in this city. Here I was, newly wed and now trying to forge friendships with a new world of people that had to like me. We slotted into various vapid social circles but I still needed proper friends, like fresh air, to breathe and help me find my place in this continuum. It is hard work, this making friends business and it’s not a skill that comes easily to me. I have worked at it with diligence. And hand on my heart I can say I have always been the better of two friends, loyal and trusting to a fault. I have carried pregnant women’s shopping, hosted dinners, lunches, brunches, teas, baked cakes, remembered birthdays, anniversaries, bought thoughtful gifts, called, texted, enquired and appropriately reacted to births and sickness, let my house be used like a dharamshala, lent my ears and shoulders to others woes, given asked advice on where to get groceries, where to live, how to find help etc. Well, I have been used one time too many. Probably because I try too hard and attempt to turn every person I meet from acquaintance to friend in 25 minutes. That is my downfall. And now I am rectifying it.

So this is my resolution. And you will not like it. But really I do not care. I am 32 and for once in my life I see clearly. I am done trying to be the good one and have everyone like me. This year it is all about me. I am cutting out the crap – people whom I have taken as friends over the years but clearly are not in it for anything other than selfish reasons. I am distinguishing between friends and acquaintances (page out of V’s book of life) and although for me this is a painfully hard task I am sure I will be the richer for it. I will not send you long emails telling you about my life and then smile at a one line reply. I will not stand somewhere and wait in pouring rain/ sweeping winds because you think its OK to be late. It is not. It is just plain simple disrespectful. I will not listen to lame excuses of why we cannot meet up. Or why my house is too far for you to come but yours is that tad closer. I will not invite you to my house again for a meal after having you round to mine a hundred times and not once being invited to yours. I will not remember birthdays/ anniversaries. Or rather I will remember but will not call/ email/ txt. More than anything I will no longer listen to your lame ass excuses. My life is as busy as yours - even if I do not have a child (which is just everyones excuse these days) - don't assume I have the time to fit you into my schedule - I too have a life. I will be ruthless and horrid and make you work to be my friend. Because, I agree with the darn ad, I am worth it.

I am in my 30’s for crying out loud and have discovered that there are friends to be had out there. Real people. Good people. Who want me for their friend as much as I them. The rest of the lot will slowly but surely be cut away. I say slowly because they won’t notice till they need something and turn to me. I won’t be there. And I won't feel guilty.

PS. Pt. 3 also counts for hundreds of thankless relatives. I will NOT call/ email because I have to. I will not buy you gifts you can then give away. I will not go out of my way to come see you. I’ve done it enough already. Now it’s your turn. Or not.

PPS. What I really did last birthday: Long overdue cleaning all day Saturday followed by trek across town for dinner of Indian-Chinese grub at my ever favourite Dalchini. Was woken by the endless texts and different sung versions of Happy Birthday of people not realizing it was 7.30am and that I was not quite awake. Did not get act together till way past mid-day and was being infuriatingly indecisive on picking lunch place. Finally chose Tayabs. And followed that up with going to buy part of fabulous birthday gift from V. More on that later.

32morrow

Somewhere in the world it's already my birthday.

I suspect that at 7.30 London time my parents and Nik will call to wish me and sing loudly because it will turn to midnight in India and since that is where I was born it will rightly be my birthday.

Of course living here I will have to wait till midnight to release my inner child and celebrate wildly. Ha Bl**dy Ha. I will be asleep by 10. You see I am now THAT old....

Good night!

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

If you say the words ‘Julie Andrews’ to anyone in V’s family you will get instant breaking into song, undoubtedly one from either Mary Poppins or the Sound of Music. The DVD’s of both movies have been well worn out in every pod household within his family. And if you need any proof you have only to ask R, the youngest member of the family and our very adorable niece and she will gladly sing you a few bars of the song ‘Let’s go fly a kite’. Including, very clearly, with no stumbles or stutters, the line ‘Up through the atmosphere’, in very clear diction. She first sang it to me at age 3. And she has not a clue what ‘atmosphere’ is. That is how in love with Julie Andrews they are.

Armed with discounted mid-week tickets we took the in-laws to watch ‘Mary Poppins: the musical’ at the Prince Edwards Theatre in Soho. And for a weekday show beginning at 7.30 and expected to finish at 10.15, it was surprisingly full of children, almost 50% and all under the age of 8.

The show was spectacular and I would recommend it not only to visiting tourists but even adult Londoners, with not a moment of hesitation. The sets are truly spectacular and the singing/ acting super – the kids who played Jane and Michael especially. It closes in Jan 2008 and I suspect they will do a live televised audition on BBC for a new production of it in some future year like the hugely successful ones for the new ‘Sound of Music’ and ‘Joseph and his Technicolor Dream coat’.

The sets are intricate and fluid and with dramatic lighting perfectly depict the goings-on in the lives of the Banks household. The costumes and live orchestra add to the drama and much choreographed dancing, acrobatic flying across the stage and walking upside down with invisible-strings-suspending-Bert-from-falling-into-the-crowd contributed to the gasps and endless clapping. It was an excellent evening.

The best bit though was right at the end. When Mary Poppins is leaving because her work is done (an aside: ha ha blo**dy ha – is a women’s work ever done? – I love the fantasy land of musicals where everything is curable and done). Anyway, she says goodbye to Bert and then she kisses him, on the lips, a big old full on smackeroo. Just then, in the silence of the theatre, from just across the aisle from us, the voice of a child, “Eeeeeeewwwwwwww”.

From the mouths of babes eh!

Mary Poppins: Prince Edward Theatre, Old Compton Street, London W1D 4HS. Tel: 08708509191

A not so sunny day

Went and tortured ourselves with the Deol family show ‘Apne’ over the weekend. What can I say, I am a sucker for cheap tickets and they were practically giving them away to entice people to the grand opening of the Vue cinema in the revamped Millennium Dome. I have to say I like weekends like this, busy and somewhat interesting, food for the brain and the blog. So many things to talk about – my views on the ugly-duckling-turned-swan-millennium-dome, the worst movie of the year and a restaurant turned good.

I’ll start with the worst, which was undoubtedly the movie. First glance of the movie appeared on that most Indian of channels that I relentlessly watch to keep me up to date on Hindi cinema – B4U. I ignored the song clip, flipping channels whenever it appeared, mainly because it had irritating Bobby Deol, flicking his irritating curly hair ponytail combined with the nauseatingly nasal voice of Himesh Reshammiya. Then Dharamender was given an award at the IIFA in UK’s own Oscar venue – Yorkshire. Sat and watched flashbacks of said awards on one of the Star channels with MIL - mainly for laughs and to feel smug about how OTT they could all get in, for crying out loud, Yorkshire. Anyway, Dharamender comes to collect award from Amitabh (a Sholay moment for the oldies). Dharamender begins on a long speech which segues into something long and boring – plugging his sons and forthcoming film. Brings out his sons, Sunny and Bobby, who hug him a few times, touch feet, make soppy speeches thanking their papaji and even cry crocodile tears. Then, cherry on icing on cake, they bring out the film’s director and make another speech about how this movie this is the perfect for his whole family to come together (note to self:where was Esha Deol?). More hugging, tears and about 4 hours later they get off the stage. About 5 hours too late.

Decided not to watch the movie under circumstances. Promptly ate my own words by booking tickets for movie thinking how smartly we would avoid the thunder showers all day Sunday. (Note to self: when will you learn girl, never to trust the weather forecast). The weather was alright, bright and breezy. The movie was awful, trite and ghastly. So ghastly in fact that the projector dude decided not to come back after the intermission. He had to be called back by enthusiastic members of crowd (certainly not V & me) to put on second half of movie. For 25 minutes of the intermission there was blessed relief, the ability to leave and get popcorn and fight the strong temptation to leave and never come back. Only V’s mum was all nostalgic about Dharam paaji and quite enjoying herself, so popcorn laden we came back. I played games on V’s phone the entire second half. I won’t even inflict the story on you lest you decide never to come back (although just the decision of going might have triggered that response). Let’s just say it’s a non-story about a father, his sons, the-not-so-sporting-sport of boxing, unnecessary angst, lots of crying, way too much hugging and god awful music. Enough, Sunny paaji, enough.

The Millennium Dome has bceome 'The O2'. It's within its many walls that the new Vue cinema is situated. The revamp is a revelation, one that made the searing pain from the movie dissipate quite quickly. In five years of London living my opinion on the Dome has never much fluctuated. It has always been a sitting duck, the butt of jokes in both political and public spheres. It’s nothing but a big circular low sitting tent that looks impaled into the ground by large yellow metal spokes. It was one of three things constructed to mark the turn of the millennium, the other two being the Ferris wheel London Eye and the no-longer-shaking Millennium Bridge across the Thames. It has never been used. Basically it has sat there right next to the North Greenwich station and collected dirt and nasty quips for lunch. Until now, 7andsome years later, when it has been redeveloped into something a bit more useful by moolah rich people. The central (literal and physical) space of the Dome is the O2 Arena, a high tech concert hosting space the likes of which South East London has never before had. To make it more exciting and appeal to a wider crowd they have created a boardwalk semi-circling the arena, all weather-proof under the Dome, hosting the Vue multiplex and string of restaurants. With its fake palm trees, wrought iron benches, quirky do-not-touch-guitars-on-museum-display and interactive games it’s all very shiny and new. I can already tell I’m going to be a regular. I’m magpie like that.

Exhausted from a morning of wandering around Greenwich village, alternately cringing at/ ignoring the movie and taking in all that shiny-ness we schlepped it to the TiffinBites in Canary Wharf’s Jubilee Place mall. I’m not a big fan of TiffinBites as the food the first few times we went there has always fallen below my fairly average expectations. As a result we stopped going completely and it’s been over 2 years since we upped our noses and walked off to the neighbouring winning Wagamama. This time too it was not our first choice but to be gentle on popcorn filled stomachs and for lack of another option we decided to consume something light. The fare on offer has increased dramatically and now includes loads of snack-type foods, chaat featuring prominently. So we had a dinner of chaat; aloo papdi, bhel puri and aloo tikki. All tasty though smothered in bilious green chutney and over-sweetened imli chutney. It was good but not great. I wish the green had been more real, less neon.

Minus the Deol debacle it was an average weekend. Whatever happened to summer?

TiffinBites: 22-23 Jubilee Place, Canary Wharf E14 5NY

Delicious

Some evenings are so delicious that they need to be cut into slices wrapped in fine French linen and stored in a hat box, to take out and savour a sliver at a time. I collect evenings like philatelists’ collect rare stamps – discerningly picked and then stored with care. After Friday evening with a wonderfully vibrant gang of girls let’s just say my hat box is full.

Seeing as we are both at work during the week and barely have the energy to come home, load laundry/ dishwasher and throw a meal together, it is left to visiting relatives/ friends to entertain themselves during the week. V’s folks are our current visiting guests and being repeat London visitors they do an admirable job of wandering around the city and relaxing at home on their own in equal measure during the week. The key to a joyful holiday is then devoting our weekends to finding interesting and simple things to do together.

On Saturday we took the train to Brighton, just an hour from London and yet a place V and I have not bothered to visit in all our time here. It had been recommended by so many of my colleagues that I was half wondering when to go. Of course my other half was wondering how nice it would be stay in bed and snooze a bit more. But dutiful child of my mother that I am, I got us a hand-drawn-by-colleague-that grew-up-there and knows-everything-about Brighton-map, found out about group saver tickets to be bought with annual gold card, packed water, carried umbrella’s and shawls and shepard-ed us to Brighton. From the moment we stepped off the train and into the big old beautiful roof station I could tell that it was going to be a special day.

Legged it downhill, toward the mesmerizing blue sea in the distance, past the clock tower, stopping only to get some awesome iced latte from a friendly Aussie at Taylor St Baristas. Once at the seafront we sat down and ate softy ice-creams and watched the wind whip kids and adults and dogs into peals of laughter as they frolicked in the short waves. On our right was the old Pier burnt down and partially fallen into the sea, looking forlorn and devastated. On our left the newer, whiter and brighter Brighton Pier, the amusement park at its tip balanced over the sea, looking precarious and cheese-ily inviting. We walked left along the pebble beach, scrunching along tourists and locals alike, admiring the grey-blue sea, stopping to watch merry-go-round and examine wood souveniers and colourful paintings of boats and huts galore.

After the obligatory photo call at Brighton pier we turned up into the Lanes and looked at the little souvenier and clothes shops before stopping for lunch. We had lunch at Indian Summer, choosing it because it was closest and Indian, both qualities that appealed to my in-laws. As with all Indian restaurants in this country I usually have very low expectations and continuously tell people that the lower their expectations the more pleasantly surprised they are likely to be. We ordered off the very limited day time vegetarian menu and when the food arrived we found the portions were tiny and seemed to be starters rather than mains. But when we told their very helpful staff we wanted something more substantial and vegetarian he checked with his chef who produced a wonderful vegetable curry, some tandoori stuff and the tastiest roti’s and laccha paratha’s we have had a long time. Accompanied by some lovely dal tarka we polished off our meal in no time. For a change we could tell it was food cooked by an Indian chef, someone with an understanding of aromatic spices and the delicate handling of them and an equal aversion to food colour and oil. An absolutely stunningly simple wholesome meal. Sea breeze makes one so hungry – although in my case I doubt sea breeze has anything to do with hunger!

A wander down the little shops and Brighton Pavilion later we traveled back to London. And we never encountered any rain. NOT. A. SINGLE. DROP. So much for forecasts.

It rained all day Sunday and we sat inside our flat looking out from behind the waterfall (huge glass walls have this effect). It was a relaxed, sloth-like day and I behaved a bit like a brooding slug, sloping around the house with a look to reflect the weather. By 4.30pm the weather had really got to me. I opened the hat box to find nothing but fine linen, the delicious evenings having escaped, washed away with the raindrops. I made banana cake instead.

Indian Summer: 69 East Street, Brighton BN1 1HQ. Tel: 01273 711001

Long time no see

Here is why.

After 5 years of living in London my parents and brother finally made the trip over from Delhi to see us. My mum had been before, one fleeting summer 3 years ago. My brother had come to see us our first summer here and then again every few weekends while on a 6 month work stint. But despite traipsing all over the world and having come to England numerous times since he was about 10, my dad had somehow not been to visit since we got here. And of course it was the first time they had all come here together.

A very simple-complex plan was hatched to help celebrate his 60th birthday this May. The first bit was a quick trip to Madras to be with my grandfather, aunts, uncle to celebrate his star birthday. Efficient aunt organised an intimate gathering of family and a sumptuous sadya to mark his shashtpoorthi with some help from the Nik. Then all three of them boarded the plane to be here for his date birthday.

And for a week and a half we celebrated every day. Just being a family and having this time and place in our lives to be together and be happy. Here are thee best bits:

1. Why my mum is the best
Just before mum came to visit there was fierce arguments in office about how she could take so much leave (she was planning to stay for two and a half weeks). She gave in and agreed to come here for just a week and a half. When she told me this on the phone there was stark silence. It was a sob threatening to escape – so far, after so long and for so little time. And then these words “Don’t worry Darling, mama is coming”, that shook my tears away and made me smile. The moment in which I knew that it was not quantity but supreme quality that 1.5 weeks with her would contain.

I always get a huge suitcase full of stuff my mum thinks I need but don’t know I need and she is usually right - I do need it even though I have no space for it! For months before she has been squirreling away stuff to bring me. Bits and bobs, all infused with a style and pizzazz that I did not inherit. And like every visit, whether I go there or she comes here, it’s like all my Christmases come at once. Ever since I got married my body reacts to seeing my mum by falling ill – not life-threateningly, just mildly, with a cold or a fever. It knows that I need her hand to soothe my brow and her hugs to feel better. And connected. This time was no different. No sooner were all my goodies unpacked and put in their place that I developed a cold. This is how I know for sure that I love my mum. Her cool hand on my forehead is how I know she loves me back.

2. Why the Nik is so cool
When we were kids I was usually the Niks side-kick, and on rare occasions his co-conspirator. With that twinkle in his eye His Naughtiness came and kicked my seven year old straight laced ass straight into the dust. We argued a lot, but it was mostly just a precursor to me ignoring his surely-the-Devil-will-come-get-me plan and then loving him when he came out the other side of it. Like when he decided on speed dervish whirling till a forehead was split open by a stabilizer corner. Like when he thought standing on a tricycle AND going down the stairs simultaneously was a good idea. Like sticking his fingers into live electric sockets “just to see”. Like cutting up his T-shirt (whilst still wearing it) to check out the prowess of a new Swiss army knife. Like swallowing marbles and coins, more than once. How the times have changed. Each time I see him now I marvel that he is a grown up and utterly responsible adult and not just my silly baby brother who embarresed the hell out of me when I was a teenager. I marvel at what he has grown into: a great son, adoring brother, loyal friend to millions (I exaggerate but that’s what his 60 odd ‘short-list’ of friends felt like at MY wedding), loving boyfriend, and above all a responsible, gentle and kind human being. He also loads up my i-pod with ‘young’ music and listens patiently to me over-think everything and anyone that can do ALL that without batting an eye-lid is cool in my book.

3. Why I adore my dad
To make up for mum going back early dad decides to stay on for an extra week. After mum and Nik leave dad and I decide to go watch a Sunday matinee show in Leicester Square. Full of lunch this will be the best way to be entertained and snooze on a hot London afternoon. We are standing in the lobby of VUE cinema having been reliably informed that the concessions stand now sells tickets alongside its traditional fare of popcorn and Coke. Talk about multi-tasking (for concessionaires) and cost-cutting redundancy (ticket booth dudes). Young Pimple-y Boy (henceforth called Pimple) of indeterminate teenage years is our server.

Me: Can we have two tickets for X at Y please?

Pimple (looking up briefly): So is that one adult and one senior citizen? It’s half price on Senior citizens today.

Dad (recovering quickly from shell-shocked look and bellowing): I AM NOT A SENIOR CITIZEN! I’M ONLY 60! SENIOR CITIZEN BEGINS AT 65 IN INDIA.

Pimple looks stunned beyond belief. Here he is offering this white haired & bearded man 50% (I mean FIFTY PERCENT!!!!!) off a £12 ticket and he is refusing it on the grounds that he WON’T be called a senior citizen. And that in someplace called India senior citizenships starts at 65. He doesn’t know what to do and breaks into a nervous laughter aggravating dad a bit more. Dad's beard is smokin’.

Bright red Pimple: Are you sure (looking at me brandishing my credit card)? I think here it’s 60, sir.

Suddenly-young-Dad: YES, WE ARE SURE. PAY THE MAN. And then let’s get some popcorn.

And so we pay £24 to watch a Hollywood Blockbuster. I wonder if this is how Hollywood makes a chunk of its money – off dignified elders unable to accept their age. My dad is too cute.

The Best of Barbados

This picture is one of my favourites from the entire trip. A lone person sitting on a beach side wall, caught on camera as we stopped to admire the colours of the sunset. While this could have been taken at any beach in the world (including the one behind a certain blogger informs me is right in her folks backyard) I will always know that it is the Barbados of my 2007 holiday. This picture brings a smile to my face and lifts my soul just that extra inch, every time.

Barba-dude-ians

Rockley Beach

Centre of Bridgetown

Random dockside cafe

Speeding across the ocean

Jumping ship

I have posted 5 sets of photographs and when I checked them online last night they looked fine. This morning it would seem that 2 sets have jumped ship to join the submarine adventure.

I shall have to go home and fish them out, so please be patient, and enjoy the 3 sets that still appear.

P.S. I need a tutorial that will enable me to put 15 pictures in one post. Is it Blogger or Picasa or just thick-with-age ol' me? Anyone?

Blue Barbadian

Watch out for creatures from under the sea.....

...and wrecks.....

....and fish on their way to school

Barbadian Buildings

Precise

Colourful

Neat

Endearing

The Match

The players

The over-enthusiastic Indian fans - at the wrong match!

Big screen head

Garfield Sobers Pavillion @ Kensington Oval, Bridgetown, Barbados

I heart Barbados

Sated on mounds of good New York food and music we flew into the sun-lined sky towards our beach holiday. There is something about beach holidays that appeals to the land/ city girl in me, something to do with water being so calming and clear after the bustle of living among a sea of people. The fact that we’d have to tear ourselves away from the beach to watch cricket was indeed a small price to pay for a week on this beautiful island. We got lucky in the ticket draws and had tickets to two matches that according to all planning and mounds of sponsorship and the heart of a nation should have been India-England and India-Pakistan. Of course they weren’t and despite his broken heart and dejected “let’s not go” statements, I managed to convince V that a week by the sea would be just the ticket to mend the cricket fracture, sun and sand will be the miracle bandage.

So here we are in Barbados, our New York shopping stuffed into our suitcase, forgotten for the moment and our young (!?) and eager minds ready to give this holiday a go for its money. I won’t bore you with the long version travelogue on Barbados. But for the sake of memory, to read back in months when there is no sun and relive it, I’m going to list down what I remember in the most orderly fashion possible.

1. I’ll start with the words that describe this country aptly - sandy beaches. I emphasize the sandy bit because Britain, though an island, is home to pebble beaches. Pebbles of the kind that aren’t kind to the delicate soles of feet. Barbados is the extreme opposite; white-light brown sand adorns the entire coast, its pristine-ness highlighted by the bluest blue sea. We promptly took residence on a beach lounger outside our room, the spectacular view of which you’ve already seen, and rooted ourselves to the spot for as many waking hours as possible. Short steps to the edge of the water, feet treading soft granules, to feel the ocean lapping at my feet was bliss. I love the ant-like feeling that being on a near empty beach gives. The one where I feel the worry of the world lifted, if only temporarily, and replaced by existential answers like “I’m so insignificant in the grand scheme of things that worry about everything is just shortening this life and so I should just stop, if only for these moment”. Of course this also leads me to think of more philosophical stuff but I am quick to brush those aside and just let my mind drift and admire the awesome-ness of nature, it’s absolute power and reign over anything manmade. In other words I am an addict of the nothingness that beach holidays allow. I long ago mastered the ability to lie in one spot under the shade of a drooping baby palm or leafy coconut tree and completely disconnect in 5 seconds. Now, now. I hear you Tsk Tsk-ing out there, telling me how wrong it is to be so blissful and happy while the world is at war, children are dying, poverty reigns. Thankfully I can’t hear you over the roar of those waves.

2. Being the wife of said sports fan I am compelled to take my holidays where there is sporting action. Thankfully the World Cup cricket allowed us to marry our two interests very well – his intention to watch cricket and mine to laze, read and swim in the sun, each of us enlightening our minds. There was no escaping the fact that Barbados was all geared to turn this sports venture into a lucrative one. From well rolled roads to welcoming messages and inflated prices, everything screamed ‘Want to watch cricket, give me your money’. Our hotel was bursting at the gills with cricket crazies, often accompanies by their bored families looking for a bit of R&R. Even though India crashed out there was no way we were going to waste our tickets. So off to the wonderfully refurbished and utterly well organised Kensington Oval it was, to enjoy a day of England vs. Bangladesh. While the entire Gujarati population of the United States tried to sell of the extra tickets they had bought in the hope of Indian fans flocking to watch a great clash, we traipsed through a well planned and executed security cordon to the stadium. Attendant in the stands were the entire England brigade, the breathless-with-wonder-at-having-come-so-far, utterly optimistic Bangladeshis, the West Indian organizers with trumpets and drums to stir up the crowd and of course, half the population of India, disappointed but determined to show off their fan-status-skills by wearing the blue India shirt. So sitting between English fans and trying to decide whom I am supporting (England because that’s where I live, or Bangladesh because that’s neigbourly) I glance over to some serious chanting in the adjacent stand. Who is it? A horde of India fans dancing and shouting slogans like “Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega”. You know the ones. Victory cries. And there were others parading around them, encouraging the mob as it were, with banners lettered “Fans are here TEAM INDIA, where are you?” and “India fans want a refund”. Nice calligraphy though sadly droopy boards and SO OUT OF PLACE. I mean, its one thing to be a fan or even a super-fan but really guys, cheering for a team that got knocked out, in front of two teams who are playing, one of whom probably could do with support, NOT COOL. Good dancing though – I have a picture somewhere.

3. To break the obvious monotony, V’s not mine, of lying supine on a beach towel for 7 straight days we decided to venture out to sea one day. Quite literally we ventured. We took a Submarine trip into the deep down ocean on an Atlantis submarine. Before I came here and heard of this I didn’t think it was a commercial proposition, this having a submarine ride, UNDER THE OCEAN, WITH ALL THAT WATER ABOVE YOU. I mean its not like diving where its just you and the oxygen tank. It's a bus of people under the water and though it may not seem like a lot I'm sure it's pretty darn heavy. Lucky for us it is commercially viable. It’s a costly experience but well worth the trouble to go the 150 ft below sea level in the chilled interior of a capsule, clicking away at teeming ocean life. Beside the reef and artificially sunken wrecks there are wonderful anemone like creatures and schools of curious fish who come right up to the round porthole windows as if on an outing to discover who we are. The highlight for me were the turtles, swimming gently while nibbling away on ferns, and the sheer beauty of the sea bed, a delicate and rugged ecosystem all at once. The colours go all fascinatingly skewed at that depth: the blue of the water more pronounced, anything red or orange turning to purple-black and the whiteness of teeth becoming a comic fluorescent (like a signpost to the face). We had a lovely chatty submarine driver Peter and a conductor Stephanie, who cracked bad fish jokes while explaining the surroundings to us. Although only an hour or so under water it was an experience that will stay with me for a while.

4. What can I say about the food but that it was expensive and although by and large tasty, not outstanding value for money. Even before we arrived we got the sense from guidebooks and traveler opinion that food was expensive. I guess it is the prerogative of a country whose main business is tourism, to charge its customers high rates for walking all over their land. While restaurant meals were costly they usually consisted of fresh well cooked fish dishes in the local Bajun (pronounced bay-shun) style. Accompanied by french-fries. We especially fell in love with the WI hot pepper sauce, a dire looking yellow substance, that splashed too eagerly on meals could turn ones insides into yelling enemies. Too lazy to venture far for mid-day meals we ate by the poolside nearly everyday, absolutely gorging on the local beer called Banks (which tastes like an Indian beer) and baskets of crisp french-fries. Some evenings we deserted the hotel in favour of walks along St. Lawrence Gap which is the main tourist vein. It’s nothing but a road with pricey restaurants, information booths and souvenier stalls on either side. Sorta like the Lan Kwai Fong of Barbados only not as nice or buzzing. We ate in open air grill places and ranch-style restaurants. Some good, some average, none ugly.

5. Barbados is a quintessentially boond barabar desh, a drop in the ocean, blessed by its weather and friendly people. We shunned the grossly overpriced Mercedes-style taxis for rides in van taxis where we flag down the van on the side of the road and the conductor shuffles us into a tin-like van, stuffed between local people getting to work/ home (like sardines in a tin) before signaling the driver to carry on. The driver does so, careening at break neck speed down very thin winding roads, blaring music cutting out any honking and giving our throats a fair bit of exercise while trying to convey our destination and chat with our neighbours. All 23 of them. All simultaneously. All for just BBD$1.50 each. We also did a fair bit of walking up and down the centre of Bridgetown, the elegant capital. The architecture is a pleasing mix of old English (remnants of Colonialism) and vibrant fun West Indian style. It’s all well maintained and colour is used liberally giving the place a healthy, bright feel. The centre of the island could be described as mildly hilly, with winding roads to flamboyant housing and an overpriced tourist trap called Earthworks which sells pottery and is strictly to be avoided. Where it’s not coastal sandy beach it’s brilliant lush green vegetation. The sun shone everyday and mostly gleaned off the neat bright habitation. You need only one day to do any real sightseeing although touristy things like safari's are on offer and we avoided them all, hitting them away with the swish of a beach towel. We bought guava jelly jam ( my most favourite) and some delicious smelling ground coffee, both native to Barbados, as our souvenier. When finished we shall have nothing left to show of our trip but memories.

On reflection I can say with certainty that Barbados is indeed one of the gems that make up the West Indies. In spite of it being quite touristy, pricey and busy I’m glad we went all that way. There is nothing like a holiday on a quiet beach to remind one of the pleasures of life, the joy of knowing that however ant-like the ocean can make me feel, at least I have my fellow ant by my side. We took long walks on the beach, spent quiet moments on our loungers gazing out into oblivion, dozing under the spell of the sun, reading stacks of books and ever so often glancing up to check all was right with our world, and smiling, ever so slightly. Those moments were priceless.

Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega: slogan roughly meaning 'India will win'

Boond barabar desh: Drop sized (small) country

Balm for the soul

The view that soothed our cricket-hurt hearts and made us forget about the real world.

Nice eh?!

Food Music

As with all breaks and holidays food was focal point this time as well. Whom am I kidding? It’s the focal point of my very existence. 2&aBit days was not enough by a long way to enjoy all the food that New York has to offer but since it was all we had we made the most of it by eating nearly constantly. Coffee at Pax Organic shops, bacon-maple syrup – pancakes at all American diners and random ice creams and snackie things to keep up going.

However, two meals deserve special mention.

The first meal, or rather part of, is pictured here. This is a traditional bar-b-que at Wonjo on 32nd Street, the heart of Koreatown or K-Town as it is colloquially known. K-Town is easily likened to a Chinatown or Southall in that it is a vibrant mini-township within a city, a magnet for migrants and curious visitors alike. I love how whole migrant populations are drawn to each other for the familiarity of their own peoples and will build whole communities around each other. It’s all a bit like a long flow-y, manifold, swirly skirt, gathering itself up and then settling itself down and gathering its people into its folds. Among these folds there are shops with imported delicacies, favourite strange drinks and unimaginable ingredients. There are restaurants designed to make the heart ache for a homeland but reassure with comfort cooking so familiar yet so far away. K-town is all this and more. As we walked along the streets that call themselves K-Town (just after an unsuccessful trip to the Empire State Building) we saw vegetables and meat being unloaded into the basement kitchens of rows of restaurants by a chattering few men. When we came back for our meal the chatter was a fair few decibels louder as the bustling pavements threatened to spill out into the fast moving traffic and people hunted for the location of their next meal.

Wonjo is one of many many that advertise itself as the BEST KOREAN BAR-B-Q. Of course they each spell barbeque differently (B, BE, BI and Q, QUE, QU, even KYU) and for a fleeting moment I wondered if each is the best at their particular spelling. V originally came to Wonjo with and on the recommendation of a colleague. He raved about it so that we decided to meet friends there, to catch up over dinner. It was a brilliant choice. They are one of the few (or the only, I forget) that bring live wood charcoal to put under the centre grill in the middle of the table. We had a lovely hot shallot pancake to get us going, followed by the barbeque. All the small dishes you see in the picture are accompaniments to the meat which is cooked on the hot grill plate built into the table. They include kimchi (best known) and a variety of chillies and sauces and marinated tofu and unidentified fantastic objects. The meal is a sort of quick encounter as the grill man puts in the coal, arranges the dishes, leaves the meat to sizzle, comes back to turn it occasionally and finally signals when its ready to consume, all in the space of a few minutes. Then it turns into a do-it-yourself affair as each person manipulates their chopsticks to place some meat is in a large lettuce leaf and add in a condiment accompaniment from the pretty selection. Wrapped up tight and popped in the mouth this is one of the most wonderful explosions of taste, hot and cold, spicy and piquant, all at once. We jabbered away between mouthfuls, talking about random things, common friends, the differences between the American way of life and a Londoners existence. Talking over a tasty hot meal at the tail end of cold windy New York day was the perfect ending to an evening.

Our other mentionable meal, not pictured here, was at Keen’s Chophouse. The inside of Keen’s is quaint and very old American English, if you know what I mean. Dark wood Gentlemen’s Club, if you don’t. They claim to have the largest collection of pipes (the smoking kind, not the draining ones) and while some of the older, rare specimens are framed to adorn walls the entire ceiling is taken up by rows of clay pipes hung closely together. It makes the headspace lower and the setting more intimate. The name is vaguely reminiscent of a Chinatown take-away but this restaurant is as far away from it as the Earth is from the other one.

I won’t meander on explaining what we ate, only say that it’s the best steakery in the known universe and although a bit steep well, well worth the time, effort and money. V and I spent a long chatty evening, beginning the unwinding process that is key to a break’s success. The steak portion was larger than my head and cooked to perfection, which helped immeasurably.

What is food without music I hear you say? Well on that count we weren’t disappointed in the least bit. We got ourselves matinee tickets for Mama Mia and wandered up and down Broadway in anticipation for hours before the show wearing away at the road and taking cheesy shots of Times Square. The show did not disappoint and we got more than the value of our heavily-discounted-but-still-expensive-as-hell tickets. Divine voices and 22 ABBA songs all woven into a brilliantly made-up age old story involving romantic island, triangular love twist, a wedding, trial & tribulations of growing up, identity etc. Hindi masala movie with suspense and all. And more than the voices it was the energy and choreography that drew the eyes to the stage. Thank goodness for CD’s as I am now listening to it over and over again in a loop. So catchy!

We did so much without doing very much beside eating, walking, talking and shopping that our 2&aBit days seemed longer and utterly filled in. So when it was time to head off to our actual holiday by the beach it seemed too good to be true. I’m all for this new format of short break & then long holiday, all in one go.

Wonjo: 23 West 32nd Street, New York, NY 10001. Tel: (212) 695-5815
Keen's Chop House: 72 West 36th Street, New York, NY 10018. Tel: (212)847 3636

Now Then

When I first went to the US of A in 1998 I was a relative newbie to the business of travelling alone and a definte newbie to the country. As things transpired I had 12 hours as I landed in New York to catch a connecting flight to Chicago to begin a long cross country working tour. I had that one day only to get my glimpse of New York.

My dad's first job was in an office in Battery Park, just across from the Staten Island ferry. His company then became one of the first shift of tenants to move into the World Trade Centre when it was completed in 1971. When I sought his advice on what to do in that one day he said that ideally I should get myself from the airport to the World Trade Centre and then sit in it's shadow with a Pastrami-on-Rye sandwich from any of the many deli's in its vicinity for company and contemplate the world sitting the shadow of the towers. And then I could go and do the touristy sightseeing. Of course he was being sentimental. As it turned out his conviction that this would be a good introduction to a city was spot on. They were magnificant buildings, like nothing I had ever seen before. After a quick sandwich hunting walk around the area I sat on a bench and stared at their looming dominance whilst chomping on the tastiest sandwich ever. I'm ever so glad I took my dad's advice all those years ago.

I was going back after 9 years and it was not without trepidation. So much has changed, the world itself was such a different place. It is quite something to go back to that place and not see the towers but instead a building site for the Freedom Tower. V never had the opportunity to see the original buildings but he could see how much I wanted to go back to have a look, so after lunch that the very first day in New York, we went along to have a look. The area is buzzing with people and a palpable energy but there is an unmistakable silence that resonates from the spot where the towers stood. Ground Zero as it is now known is encircled with a wire-metal fence and these wonderful large format photographs adorn it in memory of the people who lost their lives there. As we stood there I reflected on how lucky I was to have seen the original buildings. Old photographs do not do them justice.

I should listen to my father more often.

Big Small

This was not meant to be my first New York post. The pictures and bit I wanted to post first are sitting as a draft on the dashboard but when I tried to edit/ post them just now they seem to have jumped blog. Maybe because I used Picasa (thank you for the tutorial wise blogger-ji) at home to upload them into blogger and then didn’t try to post till I came into work today. Or maybe not, as this post seems to have all 3 pictures intact. I don’t know. It’s all still a mystery to me.

Anyway.

This dude lives outside the Rockerfeller Centre in midtown Manhattan. The building behind him is pretty drab although its massive girth and height more than make up for beauty.

All of V’s sightseeing in his many work trips to NYC has been the view from a taxi window. This was our first time in the city together and with no work agenda for V we decided we would stick to the take it easy plan. That’s the one with no fixed agenda other than to obey our regular cravings for food. So instead of pushing ourselves to squeeze in culture by racing around the museums on a very crowded long weekend we decided to take it all in with just walking around imbibing the air and energy. We’ll be culture vultures next time I promise

We stuck to midtown Manhattan in our two&abit short days. One of the things that appealed to me most about Midtown is the way it is set out. How the Avenues that run from north to south intersect perpendicularly with the numbered streets running from east to west thereby forming blocks. And how Broadway defies this order by running diagonally across, as if to prove its better than the others and doesn't need the same order to be just as successful. But in the main it’s all based on lovely logic and that with me is always a winner. The great wide avenues are busy busy places with madcap traffic traversing the oneway system with a great deal of honking. Everyone is in a hurry ALL THE TIME. We strolled among the rushing public, taking in Park, Madison, Fifth, 6th and 7th Avenue, up and then down, admiring the scale of it, jumping over potholes with steam escaping from the city's hot belly.

Manhattan is big and its buildings take that word and stretch it to its full meaning. If I had only two words to describe it I would use large and looming. The architecture is not pretty or ornate like in London but the sheer size is an overpowering fact. All of these tall towers are built quite snuggled together and the word concrete jungle is utterly apt. It seems to be a city that takes the business of using space quite seriously and the scale is blaringly immense. (I can't help use the word scale again and again - stop me please). They word skyscraper is literal and we spent a lot of time with our heads turned unnaturally upwardly, necks straining open mouths to their widest to catch glimpses of the tops of buildings. Every inch is used carefully with these gigantic buildings dominating the landscape and people and cars filling in the gaps. It looks busy and really it is busy as just one trip to Macy’s (which has a whole block of its own) brought home.

After a while all the big buildings began to meld into one in my blurry eyes. An unsuccessful journey to the Empire state building (seriously, the 3 hour waiting to get to the top has put me off permanently) made me crave the ornate short beauty of the square mile that is London City. The hidden gems of Manhattan architecture are the churches that dot the landscape every few blocks. These are utterly short in comparison to their neighbours but sit squarely and resolutely gleaming with purpose, daring their taller neighbours to cast shadows on them. Their stark difference from the concrete and glass scapers and obvious care of appearance was utterly endearing. The two pictured here are the two I loved most: the grey one is St. Patrick’s Cathedral on East 50th & Madison and the other is on Park avenue but it’s name now escapes me. I loved midtown for its buzz and theatre district and shopping but its buildings were overpowering, more awe inspiring by size than design.

I asked 6 genu-ine New Yorkers this question and although each thought there was definitely a cogent explanation, none of them knew what it was: Why is 6th Avenue called the Avenue of the Americas?

Anybody?