Thursday, April 05, 2018

My husband’s wife


Once in a while, I see a glimpse of human nature that broadens my horizon about the endless possibilities of human relationships. As I read a very interesting book, I am beginning to understand why concepts such as "one and only" and "happily forever after," concepts mostly in the human imagination have been persistently fed over generations. The idea of a husband and wife and two happy children playing on the lawn with the pets to make a perfect family. More on that book later.

I asked a colleague if she has plans for the weekend. She smiled happily and told me that she is organizing a birthday party for her husband's first wife and both are spending the weekend together with all the kids. I don't know why I heard husband but thought father, my social programming perhaps, but I embarrassed myself by asking, "Your step-mom?"

She was amused. She corrected me, "My husband's first wife, not my father's."

Wow. It takes a certain mindset and maturity, a certain degree of evolution and acceptance to be friends with your husband's ex-wife and plan her birthday. Most people I know in this awkward triangle would be ready to kill each other, and understandably so. I imagined a hypothetical situation of hanging out with my husband's wife (I don't know if I would want to be the second one or the first one if it came to that). Honestly, I don't know.  

I applaud people who can willingly be friends in complex relationships that might have involved anger, jealousy, hatred, and tears at some point. Especially because the husband, the binding agent in this case passed last year. So this birthday planning was obviously not coming from a place of compulsion.

sunshine

Monday, April 02, 2018

Week 8: Traveling when not traveling

Lake Bled in Slovenia


Read other posts with the label: 52 small changes

I did not start traveling either seriously or solo until I was in my late twenties. But once I did, it opened up a whole new world of learning for me. It boosted my confidence immensely and taught me how to pursue things independently, without waiting on people whose travel frequency does not match mine. In a span of six years, I had ended up traveling more than thirty countries, and many of them, alone.

However, I had to recently factor in the reality of my new position- being pre-tenure at a research university, which is not for the faint-hearted. It requires years of immersion in research, being very active and productive in terms of publishing and bringing in grant money. Therefore, I do not get to travel as much these days.

Scratch that. I do get to travel, but it is a different kind of travel. I travel mostly for work and conferences, and these are mostly to urban cities within the US. Baltimore. Atlanta. Boston. San Francisco. Such travel would have thrilled me many years ago, and I once used to spend my own money to visit these places during national holidays, but no more. After a point, all US cities look and feel the same. Sometimes, I do not even get to step out of the conference venue and explore the city.

When I think of my happy travel experiences, I think of hiking and driving around the Grand Canyon. I think of those beautiful sunsets and good food in Puerto Rico. I think of the blueness of the ocean in Hawaii. I think of the geysers of Yellowstone and the glaciers of Montana. I think of eating fried crickets in Mexico and Cambodia. I think of flying over Mount Everest in Nepal. I remember the flavorful stew in Dubrovnik (Croatia) and the church I hiked in Montenegro. I think of the cruise ship I took to Norway and the largest ice caves in the world I hiked in Werfen (Austria). I think of Mount Etna in Sicily (Italy) and the goosebumps I got visiting a concentration camp in Auschwitz (Poland). From the forts of Malta to the oceans of Portugal, from the mountains in Sikkim to the cobbled streets of Estonia, wonderful travel experiences have filled my life. Naturally, after visiting most US cities, the lure of Washington DC, Miami or San Diego is not much.

So how does one travel without traveling?

Once a week (during the weekend), I routinely spend a few hours watching travel documentaries on YouTube. I was amazed at the wealth of resources travel blogs and YouTube provide. It gives me a vicarious sense of travel pleasure. I randomly pick a country on the map and go find everything I can about the country. This is how I learnt about the Pamir Highway connecting Tajikistan to Kyrgyzstan, the amazing bhortas and the biryanis one can eat while visiting Bangladesh, the mountains of the Himalayan range, some of the higher motorable roads in the world in Leh and Ladakh, the different seasons in a country as small as Sri Lanka, the fanciest trains in the world and what they offer, the history of Burkina Faso that was formerly called the Republic of Upper Volta, the monasteries of Bhutan, the island of Bali, and so much more. Although I would much rather visit these places in-person, this experience gives me a travel high and enriches my knowledge about the history and the geography of a place when I am cooped up working for months and do not even get to visit the downtown nearby. I find it to be a much better use of time than following the hyped shows and sitcoms.

If you want to see the beautiful, awe-inspiring, rugged mountains of Pakistan, watch the movie Dukhtar. And if you have fascinating travel experiences and itineraries to share, I would love to hear from you.

sunshine

Monday, March 26, 2018

While you were sleeping


The advent of winter brings with it the early morning chills and my need to sleep in a little late, hugging the comforter a little tighter. It was one of those chilly mornings, plus I had worked late last night and I was also on vacation. All I had hoped was to sleep in a little late without waking up to the shrill cries of the alarm clock. 

However, my slumber was prematurely cut short by a sudden shriek, "Devammmm! Devadhi Devammmmm! Where are you?" 

It was the kind of shriek whose frequency could tear through any medium, shake the ground and cause tsunamis. The shriek that would wake Akbar from his grave, no matter how deeply buried (in the ground, not in sleep) he was. Buried I was too, under layers of winter bedding, comfortably sleeping. But that shriek got my eyes wide open. 

Where was I? In whose home? And why was someone shouting the name they had for me? My memory had gone out of focus for a few seconds. It must be a nightmare, I thought. I keep getting nightmares all the time, bad dreams where my teeth are falling off or I am losing my voice. I tried in vain to go back to sleep.

Within less than a minute, the shriek came again. "Devammmm!" Like contractions during labor increase both in their intensity and frequency with time, the shriek only kept getting louder, more intense and out of hand. Feebly, I tried croaking, "Yes, I am up!" However, my vocal cords, just like me, had been abruptly woken up and their power was no match for the voice that was calling out my name. I could dig my head deeper into the pillow and say, screw you! But the (radio)active power of her voice could penetrate any lead chamber. My feeble voice was no match for these vocal cords that have been practicing Carnatic music for many decades now. There was some latent power in its timbre, it could bring back the dead to life.

Maybe she slipped on the bathroom floor and needed help. Maybe she was hanging from the pillars and could not get down. Reluctantly, I extracted myself from the comfort of the bed, my joints creaking unceremoniously, the warm and tousled comforter still luring me to spend fifteen or more minutes napping. I wondered if this voice had a snooze button. I hurriedly groped for my glasses and put them on, unwillingly crossing the narrow corridor and making my way downstairs, to the source where this baritone voice was coming from. Maybe the owner of this voice swallowed a set of Bose speakers for breakfast by mistake that morning.

"Coming! Coming!" I tried to find my voice before the call "Devammmm! Devadhi Devammm!" traumatized me again. There I find her in the kitchen, all fresh and bathed, vibhuti smeared on her forehead, slathering dosa batter on a cast-iron skillet. 

"What happened?" I asked, groggy and irritated. "Why are you bringing the roof down?"

"Nothing much," Gundamma says in her most calm, casual and charming voice. "Just checking if you are awake or still sleeping. You can go back to bed."

So she screamed her vocal cords out just to see if I am awake or asleep? I will not be able to sleep without getting nightmares for several months now.

sunshine

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Week 7: A clean sink and a made bed

Read other posts with the label: 52 small changes

Waking up to a clean kitchen sink really makes me happy, and so does coming home to a clean, made bed. So I make sure I do both every day. 

Long back, I came across this talk about the value of making your bed and really liked it. It is the joy of accomplishing at least one task every day. I know that throughout the day, I will have many triggers, things that will stress me out but I cannot control. There will be multiple rejections coming my way- papers and proposals rejected, decisions that do not go in my favor. I do not have control over those things. However, I do have control over the little things that I can do for myself.

For example, waking up to a sink with dirty dishes puts me off. Cleaning dishes is not my most favorite activity, and that is not what I want to start my day with. So no matter how tired I am, I try to finish off the dishes before I go to sleep. For this, I have to portion out the cooked food into little containers and store them in the fridge. I have to pack my lunch for the next day. I have to clean the kitchen counter. Once I have done all that, I try to finish the dishes, leaving them to dry overnight. That way, the next morning, I can start my day finding a clean, dry cup waiting for me to make myself coffee of milk. It saves myself useful morning minutes too. 

Similarly, at the end of a long day, it feels calming to come back to a made bed. It makes me feel grateful for having a home and being able to stay warm and comfortable. After a long day at work, I'd want to be nowhere else but home. So every morning before I leave home, I make sure to leave it in a condition that I would long to come back to it.

As a kid, I used to do other chores every night to prep for school the next day. I used to clean and polish my black leather shoes. And I used to organize my school bag. I especially miss polishing my shoes every night. 

When the bigger things are going wrong, I find comfort in these little things going right. Waking up to find the dishes clean and dry, coming home to a clean bed, and packing my lunch with me every day instead of eating outside. 

sunshine

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Week 6: Visible-eaty


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I was craving ruti for lunch that day. So I opened the fridge, stooped, and retrieved the open but sealed packet of uncooked phulkas that Gundamma had packed me the last time I visited her. I had already cooked 5 or 6 out of that packet a while ago.

As I opened the sealed, plastic bag of phulkas and carefully took out an uncooked one, my heart sank when I saw a patch of green growing on the surface of the first one. Carefully, I peeled each phulka to see the patch of green on every single piece but the last, the patch increasingly getting smaller. I knew I could do nothing to salvage this, the green was a patch of mold growing on the uncooked phulka. With a heavy heart, I tossed all of them in the trash.

I felt horrible that day. Wasting food makes me feel like I have attained a new low in life. I had spent money on those, and since I am not familiar with the desi stores here, I got them all the way from Seattle. Since I had already consumed more than half the packet, I wondered what made me leave the rest uneaten. I knew that I was traveling, and before that, I was off solids for a while after my dental surgery. But I knew the main reason why I did not finish all of them.

The reason was because I had stored the packet inside the vegetable tray in the fridge, a spot that was out of my line of sight. Hence I had conveniently forgotten about it.

An empty vegetable tray 

So now, I try to store all my food in the fridge in my line of sight. I try not to store anything in the vegetable tray (see picture).

I try to do this with dry food too. Instead of storing them in some obscure nook in the pantry, I keep them all at eye level so that I do not forget about them. It often happens that I go to the desi store and cannot remember if I already have something. As a result, I have often bought multiple jars of pickle or ghee, multiple packs of spices or flattened rice or chaatu, and then they sit there and go stale. I am still learning to get better at letting things sit and go waste. When you do not see something regularly or do not have ready access to it (where you have to bend or struggle to find something), you tend to forget about it.

This is not only for food in the fridge or spices in the kitchen. I have often forgotten about clothes and accessories, the pair of jeans, a pair of gloves, and bought the same thing twice because things were tucked in an obscure corner of the wardrobe. Now, I try to put everything I have in front of me so that it is easier to remember how much I already have.

sunshine

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Across the Atlanta(ic)



I am in Atlanta, GA right now. I have a MARTA metro card and take the metro to the conference every morning. I am really enjoying the perks of temporarily living in a big city where the metro runs well past midnight. I can hear the metro from where I am staying, and sometimes when I am up and working past midnight, I feel like I have company. In some ways, the little metro card that I purchased for some $20 and carry in my wallet everyday is my temporary connection to this city. 

When I am not busy at the conference, I have taken it upon myself to visit every Bangladeshi restaurant in town. It has something to do with food, but it has a lot more to do with the language. It feels comforting to be chatting with the restaurant people in Bangla while eating rui maach and telapia maach. It is comforting to read the menu card, with the names of the dishes printed in English font in Bangla. I did not even know that there is a dessert called Laal Mohon. And there is something about Poneer Tondoori that Paneer Tandoori does not have.

At Panahar today, there was Robindro Shongeet playing in the background. And at Purnima the other day, the television was playing Bangladeshi news channels showing Sheikh Haseena, looking graceful in a shaari. I am so used to seeing either Trump or Modi on television that this feels like novelty. The hegemonic influence of Bollywood is not lost on me. I have met so many people who think that Bollywood is Indian cinema. Bollywood is only a small subset of Indian cinema.

When I declined bottled water at Purnima and asked for a glass of tap water instead, the owner told me, “নীতিগত ভাবে আপনার সাথে আছি।” (I support you in principle). People here do not say “Goodbye,” “See ya,” or “Take it easy”- they say, “Bhalo thakben.” And it thrills me. People from Bangladesh are way more aware and proud of their linguistic heritage than the yuppie, cosmopolitan crowd of Indian Bengalis (including those living in the US) whom I meet. And I am/was among one of them. I know what Feb 14 is, but I did not know for a long time what Feb 21 is, and the contribution of Bengal to Feb 21. I only came to know of it when I met a few Bengalis in Virginia, originally from Bangladesh, who were celebrating Bhasha Dibosh or International Mother Language Day. One would think that Feb 21 is more significant in my life than Christmas, Thanksgiving or Halloween.

I continue to think of these things on my three-stop metro ride every day. I know that I am tipping way more generously than I do, justifying, “বাঙালি করে খাচ্ছে, খেটে খাচ্ছে, গর্বের ব্যাপার।” I keep meeting people from Dhaka and Sylhet in a different, far corner of the world. And I think of my need to belong to a city, albeit temporarily. Yes, I gave a few research talks in fluent English. But nothing makes me happier than a stranger making small, inconsequential talk, telling me a few lines in my mother tongue, Bangla.

On an unrelated note, I absolutely loved the Parsi food at Botiwaala too. I love food, and since there are only so many breakfasts, lunches and dinners one can eat in a lifetime, I want to eat all that I can eat from my land. This includes the filter coffee and the coconut rava dosai I had yesterday at Madras Mantra.

Life should be all about eating well, giving research talks, and building new experiences in new cities and countries.

sunshine

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Week 5: Minimizing plasticity


Also read other posts with the label 52 small changes.

In my effort to reduce plastic consumption, I have been doing the following for some time now.

·       I don’t use plastic grocery bags. I carry my own reusable bag. If I forget my reusable bags, I just do not go grocery shopping that day. I don’t even go for paper bags most of the time.

·       When I am at the checkout counter of a grocery store and they ask me if I want plastic or paper, I make sure I say it aloud that I prefer to use my own reusable bags for a better environment. People behind me may not care, but I still do my bit.

·       I do not drink soda/pop/cold drinks. They are unhealthy anyway.

·       I don’t buy food that has a lot of plastic wrapping. I buy vegetables in ones and twos and wash them at home instead of plastic wrapping them.

·       I don’t use single-use straws. I don’t use straws to begin with.

·       I avoid drinking at a coffee shop, unless they serve food in proper china, which is not a practice culturally common in the US. That to-go cup and its lid are plastic. Coffee in the US is unnecessarily pricey anyway. I make my own coffee at home. [I just heard that there is an app that simulates café noise, for those who miss working at a café].

·       I don’t even take free food that is covered in plastic. The pretzels they give you during domestic flights are a good example.

·       I have a plate, bowl, fork and spoon at work. I also carry a stainless steel spoon in my backpack.

·       I don’t buy things on Amazon unless absolutely necessary. They use a lot of plastic and bubble wrap for packaging.

·       I really judge and look down on people who invite me home, cook up a grand meal and serve food in disposable cups and plates.

·       I pack my lunch in glass containers instead of plastic containers.

·       I buy fewer things, especially single-use things to begin with.

·       I am mindful of what I throw in the trash and ask myself if I could have not generated that trash in the first place.

·       I light a scented candle instead of using air fresheners.

·       I don’t use Ziplock bags. I store my vegetables in a bowl or container.

·       I use cloth instead of paper towels to clean surfaces.

·       I use online billing to avoid trash.


If there are other things you do to reduce waste (plastic waste in particular), I would love to hear from you.

sunshine

Tuesday, March 06, 2018

Dispoo(p)ted territory


"Will she? Won't she? Will she? Won't she?"
.
.
.
.
"Back from work. Cooking kosha mangsho for dinner. What are you up to?" I excitedly texted Gundamma.

"Wait, Baby D is on the throne," she texted back.

Oh. Knowing how things work when Baby D is on the throne but not delivering, I know that this is not a good time to ping Gundamma with news of kosha mangsho or a rich and dry meat curry in the making. There is too much pressure for Baby D to deliver, pressure coming from the wrong end, of course.

I have often wondered questions like how many (wo)man-hours does someone spend in their lifetime trying to make their children poop? It's certainly a transferable skill (making someone deliver under pressure) that never gets mentioned in the vita. Couldn't someone develop an app called the poopometer or something that dings and notifies parents when their babies are about to poop? 

The pressure to perform, to deliver, every single day. And when you have, the endless questions about quality and quantity. It is only in a house with little children that I have seen so much pressure (excuse the pun) on potty, hagu, number two, call it what you may, every single day. Sometimes, the little one comes out of the restroom, forlorn and dejected and tells Gundamma, her mom, "Amma, no potty, looks like the bum is not working today." I laugh so hard, my stomach muscles ache so bad, my own delivery problems would have been solved.

Baby D continues to sit on the throne, stone-faced, unabashed, undefeated. It's literally a game of thrones. In between, when Gundamma is not looking, she tries to put anything within reach inside the pot: soaps, toys, dinner, wedding rings, cell phones, Nobel prizes. The mood of the entire household is determined by her performance every evening. Sometimes when I am around, I get to hear different levels of negotiation going on.

" Baby D, poop!" (Order)

" Baby D. Poooop." (Pleading)

" Baby D ... who wants a lollypop? Poop then." (Bribery)

"Poop!" (Anger and frustration)

" Baby D.... ammmaaa!" (Defeat)

"Baba Baby D, ektu hago dekhi!" I chime in Bangla. Baby D looks at me suspiciously.

Maybe Baby D doesn't want to deliver in the evenings. Maybe Baby D is asking for privacy and is sick of the boss constantly asking her to deliver (aren't we all?). 

I feel ignored. My kosha mangsho is getting cold. I wonder how I will handle it if I have children. It's easier to climb mountains than enter this dispoo(p)ted territory. 

Gundamma fondly calls Baby D a poopsicle sometimes. I'm more creative and indulgent in my names for her. I try to use my limited linguistic knowledge from various regions of India. Hagu ben (Gujarati). Hagomoni (Bengali). Kusumita Kumari (Tamil). Hagu Bai. Rani Hagumati. If Baby D grows up to read this post and kill me, I wouldn't blame her. 

As I get ready to attack my dinner, my phone dings with a smiley. I breathe a sigh of relief. Baby D has delivered, at least for today. Mission Impossible has finally become Mission Accomplished. A thousand queries just got saved from being posted on the online parents' forum about why their babies are not pooping.

sunshine   

Monday, March 05, 2018

Week 4: Giving up something comfortable


Also read other posts with the label 52 small changes

For five years in the US, I not only drove, but also immensely enjoyed it. I never saw it as a chore, something to be afraid of. I gladly gave free airport rides early in the morning. I would drive from Lincoln to Omaha to get some mutton biryani in a jiffy. I needed no nudging for long road trips, and most of them, I did singly. I drove anywhere between 300-500 miles (one-way) during long weekends, visiting places like the Niagara Falls, New York City, and Princeton during my stint on the east coast (that later became my PhD). Before I left for Germany, I had embarked on a 22-day long road trip that lasted roughly 8,000 miles, driving from Nebraska to Houston (to renew my passport), continuing to Chicago (to get a work visa) before visiting Washington, DC to say goodbye to close friends and finally getting back to Seattle where I sold my car. If I did not run out of time with my driver license, I would have continued my road trip (driver licenses expire with visa expiry).

Things changed when I left for Germany, forcing me to rewire my brain. I could no longer afford to keep a car for various reasons (including not wanting to understand road signs in German). As if on cue, I also discovered the joys of efficient and reliable public transportation in Germany. I took trains all over Europe, all the way to Denmark and Sweden in the north and Slovakia in the south. Where trains did not go, buses and airplanes did. I walked too. It was the best healing experience after being forced to sell my car and give up my driving license when I left the US.

After two years, I moved back to the US. I live in a mid-size city now with a population of about 0.2 million people. Unless you live in a big city like New York City or Chicago, most of the US has bad public transportation. I was prepared to go back to my old ways of being. I thought that I would buy a car, get a driving license, and in no time, I would be driving once again to the mountains, to the nearby cities and quaint little towns.

But in these two years, I had changed. I no longer wanted to go back to my old ways of living, especially after I had completely weaned myself off it. Although I got myself a driving license, I did not want to buy a car unless I absolutely needed it. My wish must have been heartfelt, for things evolved in a way that worked out for me.

On day one at work, I was given a bus pass that would let me ride any bus within the city for free. Next, I realized that the home I had chosen was very close to a bus stop. Then, I realized that the only bus in front of my apartment took me directly from home to work. I saw that as a sign from the universe. I decided to hold off on buying a car for as long as I could. It’s been 18 months now, and I haven’t regretted one day of it.

Why I prefer life without a car?
·       It saves me a lot of money (in buying and maintaining a car). Fuel. Insurance. Parking. Repair. Routine maintenance. Tabs and taxes. Leisure trips. It all adds up.
·       No parking expenses and speeding tickets.
·       No more whimsical trips. I used to do them a lot before, mostly to meet people who are not active in my life anymore anyway.
·       I walk more and make healthier life choices. Sometimes, I walk partially to work till I get tired and then hop on a bus.
·       Riding the bus is a social experience. I get to meet and talk to a lot of people. I have some bus buddies too, and some of the drivers know me now.
·       I manage my time better (since the buses run once every 30 minutes during the day, and once every hour in the evenings). I don’t waste time at work doing random things like spending time on social media. When I am at work, I work.
·        I don’t have to show up to places I don’t want to. It’s much easier to say no to people when you do not have a car.
·       I buy only what I need and what I can carry with me, resulting in less clutter at home. My fridge has never looked better. My grocery has never looked healthier. Often, unhealthy food choices are also heavier to carry, like sweetened beverages. The grocery store is right next to my bus stop. Not only do I get free transportation to work, I get quick access to food too.  
·       I get to take the Amtrak train more often and love the experience.
·       I drink less coffee and do not make sugar-craving induced, impulsive trips to expensive coffee shops anymore.
·       I consciously live in a lovely neighborhood where I can walk to nearby parks. It is a very pretty neighborhood, great for both my physical and mental health.
·       I look at the weather website more often. I ask for directions. I look at maps to figure things out. I carry my umbrella with me now. I take slightly different routes sometimes to get to know the city better. I plan my time and my life better now.
·       I don’t go on impulsive trips to the shopping mall anymore. I use that time to pursue hobbies like reading and writing.
·       I sometimes read on the bus.
·       I use all the time and money I save to spend more time with my family in Kolkata, and also continue my world travels to different countries. My local and domestic (within the US) travels have drastically reduced now.

Challenges of not owning a car
·       It gets pretty cold and icy in winter. They do not always clean the sidewalks properly. Walking on icy sidewalks is dangerous.
·       Sometimes, I have to work until late and buses run infrequently. If I do not want to wait for another 45 minutes to take the bus, I have to take a cab.
·       I don’t get to pursue photography as much, since I am mostly restricted to taking pictures of places I could only walk or take a bus to. No more impulsive sunrise photography trips.

Clearly, my benefits outweigh my costs. Plus, I have a license, I can always rent a car (I have only done it once during the past 18 months). More importantly, I get to experience the thrill of doing something differently and making conscious life choices. For those who think that your lifestyle dictates whether or not you need a car, maybe your need for a car also dictates your lifestyle choices. I know it because I have lived both the lives now. When I had a car, I did a lot of random things, justifying that I can do it since I have a car. The day I absolutely need one, I will go ahead and buy it. Until then, I look forward to all the new life experiences borne out of not having a car.

sunshine

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

A day in Ghent



Summer of 2016

Ghent is an easy-peasy day trip from Brussels. So after seeing a little more of Brussels, I hopped on a train to Ghent. In Germany, I am used to people not understanding me, which is not the case here since most people speak good English. To show a round-trip ticket, I motioned with my hand to show going-coming, and made the mistake of pointing two fingers to signify the two legs of the trip. He gave me two round trip tickets for two people! 

This, I did not realize until I boarded the train and looked at my ticket. Being a Christian holiday, the train fares were half-price, which is great (10€ round trip/person). When I showed it to the person checking tickets on the train and explained what happened, she gave me a refund stub that I could show at the Ghent station and get my 10 € back.. The amicable, well-dressed and quite good-looking lady clearly showed her disapproval at being issued two tickets. 

"What was he? Drunk? Who does that?"

"It must have been a misunderstanding. I showed him two fingers." I said.

"That's not done. Anyway, I am really happy you are going to Ghent. Everyone goes to Bruges. Ghent is relatively lesser known. Actually I am from Ghent."

That explained why she got so upset that I was charged twice. I did not tell her that I am going to Bruges the next day.

I got off at Ghent, got my refund, got hold of a city map, took the tram number 1, and ended up at the Historic Central. The area was extremely crowded for a city this small. The touristy area is a little far from the train station (about 4-5 kms), and needs a tram ride (3€). The trams are quite frequent though. 

So I spent the next few hours walking around, going atop the belfry to get panoramic views of the city (8 €), and soaking in some sun myself before taking a train back to the Gare Centrale in Brussels and another metro back to my hostel. 

There are plenty of good things about Brussels and Ghent. Everyone understands English, which is a huge relief. I do not end up exhausted trying to ask for something as simple as directions. English, and then, food. This place perpetually smells of waffles and frites all the time. There is something very nice about watching people sit outside in promenades and enjoying their food and drinks. Summer in Europe is a lovely place that reminds me that there is more to life than work and more to one's wardrobe than jeans. Everyone is so well dressed here all the time. 

These cities are also very well-connected. Brussels alone has three train stations (more than a thousand trains pass by these stations daily to other parts of Belgium and other countries like France, Netherlands, and the UK) and an intricate mesh of the metro (2.10 € for a single ride or about 7 € for a daily ticket). There is art, architecture, panoramic views, murals, churches, museums, and some very nice food. 

However, and this can be wrongly interpreted as travel-snobbery, I have gotten a little tired of pretty European cities. Traveling as frequently as I do, everything is slowly starting to look the same. A friend's mom who was visiting from India, on being shown the Grand Canyon from the different vista points, got bored soon and remarked, "सब गड्ढा ही है, अब वापस चलो" (It's all one big ditch, looks the same from everywhere. Let's go home.) As sacrilegious as this sounds, most European cities have started to look the same to me. Ornate buildings. Museums. Churches. Good food in nice restaurants. Good chocolate. Nice cafes. You know what I mean? 

sunshine


Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Sweet Therapy


I am having lunch with close friends, talking about a past traumatic experience when I get a text message from Gundamma (also known as G here).

Gundamma: "I got you shrink and ..."

Me: "What? How did you know...."

Gundamma: "No! Stupid auto correct. I got you shrikhand from the Indian store."

A therapeutic experience came only a few seconds from talking about trauma. That mango shrikhand was the last best thing I remember before leaving Seattle. 

sunshine