Pune

I am reminded of the breakfast we had at Vohuman Café three weekends ago. Some of us had taken an early morning flight to Pune. We got really excited about the chicken sandwich they offered in Spice Jet, which is way better than the Chicken Junglee Sandwich in Indigo. Once we landed, we learnt that the hotel was full and could not accommodate an early check-in (wedding season and all). It was 8 am and we had about four hours to kill!

 

So my colleague and I went to Vohuman Café. The maska bun was laden with butter, the cheesy omelette was out of the world, and so was the Irani tea. After waking up at 3 am and catching a flight at 6 am, I needed this. I wish I had not been so impressed with my Spice Jet sandwich earlier.

After that, we walked the length and breadth and climbing the heights of Shaniwar Wada. We also went to Shreemant Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati Mandir. The driver said that a first timer in Pune should not miss this, and it was not too far from my hotel in Koregaon Park either.

 

I did end up meeting a friend as well. I had last met her in 2006, at her wedding. Back in the day, getting parental permission to go to events post dusk used to be as difficult as getting a US visa. There would be thorough background checks, you had to answer hundreds of questions like kothaye jaabi? Keno jaabi? Na gele ki hobe? Koto bhalo bondhu? Kokhon firbi? Aar ke ke jaabe? Ki guarantee je timely firbi? There is no telling you what would happen if you were late. I think the curfew time for me was 10pm, which was more generous than what other friends had. Another friend and I had miraculously managed to get permission, so we slapped some makeup, borrowed a sari, took the afternoon metro with full makeup and people staring at us, and travelled all the way to Behala. We never got to meet the groom because we had strict parents who set stricter curfew times, and we were dependent on public transport which could take forever.

 

We never met after that. Fast forward life to 2022. Parental permissions are a thing of the past. I don’t even attend weddings anymore, all my friends who wanted to be married are married. I am in Pune and I am looking up the map for some odd-sounding place called Pimpri. I have no idea what it means, but I see that it will take a good hour to get there from my hotel. I must be there by 7:30 am. So, I message my friend, letting her know that I am in town and apologizing that I will not be able to meet. By some divine intervention, she tells me that she lives in Pimpri too, not too far from my work location.

 

So off I went there, literally gate crashing on a Sunday morning, finally meeting the groom from 2006 and the entire family. It was a gorgeous morning. I had my fill of adda, ginger tea, koraishuti'r kochuri aar alu'r dum, and we talked about good old times. We called up the other friend and gossiped some more! I even made her pack me some kochuri and alu’r dum for the rest of the day, so shameless I am. It turned out to be the best two hours I had spent in Pune!

 

And just like that, life continues to surprise. I love that my work takes me to different places, and I have reconnected with many school and college friends over the years. I loved Pune as a city too for many reasons and cannot wait for a re-reunion (or tri-union), hopefully with other friends as well!

 

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That deadly concoction of motherly love!

One of the big, big things about living in desh (country) is that I am only one short, direct-flight away from baadi (home). Given the law of averages, this had to happen after 12 years of hopping trans-continental flights for 36 hours and going through multiple immigration and security checks. I have visited home about ten times in less than a year now, and every time, I come back with bags full of cooked food that lasts me a few weeks. If you ever want to know what you could and should not bring in an airplane, ask me! But more on that later.

This time, I came back from a crazy mom slaving in the kitchen for days to cook up a feast-to-go and running after me to take it all. My Aviation-IQ went up after a comically dark stint with the mango, and if there is one piece of advice I could give, it is to NEVER take aam pora’r shorbot concentrate (raw mango concentrate) in an airplane.

Amid a crazy morning after momma and grandma painstakingly packed me food for an army, she looked at me with puppy-eyes to take that raw mango concentrate that I was resisting, the one she had prepared with a lot of love and spices (pepper powder, mint, and a gazillion other things). I was arguing that I will not carry anything in a yellow water bottle with something she made to shield me from the 45 degree Celsius weather and prevent me from getting heat strokes. I have extremely low karma ratings as far as being a nice child is concerned, so I finally gave up.

I don’t know all the chemistry that went into whatever happened, but that bottle passed airport security miraculously. That same bottle would have led to a 3-hour long interrogation in a dark room in the US, leading up to them labeling me a budding terrorist and denying me entry for the rest of my life. But I digress here.

I boarded the plane and settled in with a rather steamy novel that I was going to read in the next few hours. As I was stuffing my backpack in the overhead bin, something prompted me to take that bottle out, lest it leaks. I imagined everything that could go wrong, and the worst circumstance that came to my rather unimaginative mind was a loose lid and spillage. I placed that bottle in between my feet while the airplane took off.

I knew there was a pop-sound as soon as we were airborne, but I thought it was someone goofing around and recklessly popping open a can of soda. Looking back at life in slow motion, most things often make perfect sense. Within the next 5 minutes, just when Jack was about to kiss Stella after 2 months of abstinence following a one-night stand, there was a louder pop-sound. This time, I looked below, and to my horror, the bottle had popped open with enough pressure to spit raw mango pulp all over my white clothes. An onlooker would have wondered how scared I was of flying that I could shit all over myself publicly in the middle of the day, the one of the semi-liquid kind, with telltale signs of the yellow spillage all over me.

I rushed to the restroom, the bottle in hand. It broke my heart to throw it in the trashcan, but I could not have salvaged it. I spent the next 20 minutes wiping the yellow goo off my clothes and sat through the rest of the plane ride shivering from wearing wet clothes as well as getting dirty, judgmental looks from the passengers. The swag with which I had entered the aircraft was all gone. I sat nervously like a mouse for the rest of the ride, praying that I do not hear another loud pop-sound from the restroom with some poor soul inside freaking out with their pants half-on and the pilot rerouting the airplane because there was yellow goo all over the ceiling.

Looking back, I can see why it was a bad idea to bring something that releases gas in a pressurized cabin. Mom does not fly, but I do. The rest of me and my food made it safe, and in case you are dying to know, it had chicken curry with posto, jhinge posto, potol posto, uchche bhaja, lau er torkari, lichu, jamrul, ruti, half-a-dozen gondhoraaj lebu, and even the bhaja jeere moshla for the mango drink. All this because I have a crazy mom who gets powered up listening to stories of people carrying things like ghee made out of barir gorur doodh (unadulterated milk from a cow someone keeps in their home), kilos of maach bhaja, and dhoka’r dalna, and tries to outshine them!

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Car-Ma

I was recently invited to speak at Princeton University. The organizers there treated me really well. I have been invited at other places too, but Princeton clearly stands out as classy. They put me up at one of the best hotels, the food was excellent, and the invitation letter and all was once again, a class above the rest. But the icing on the cake was my mom's response to something they did. Yes, a mommy post again!

Princeton got me a chauffeur-driven limousine for the 50-mile, hour-long drive from the Newark Liberty International Airport to the university/hotel (I was planning to take the train/dinky). My jaws dropped open when I read the letter. I, for one, have never been in a limo before. Forget the limo, I am used to taking the public transport, and for a good part of my life, I have lived in hostels and crashed at people's living rooms to save money during travel. The world of upscale hotels is very new to me, but the limo ride was something I did not see coming.

I was very excited, and when I told my ma, she was excited too! I do not know how much she understands cars, but based on my response, she could sense that it is a big deal. Very sincerely, she said, "This is so exciting. Is a limo as comfortable as the Toyota Innova? Innova'r thekeo bhalo gaadi?"

It reminded me of my first year in the US. G drove a Honda Pilot then, so the Honda Pilot became my standard of excellence, "my" first car in the US. As our friendship grew, my emotional connection with the car grew too. A year or two later, I got onto a friend's SUV during a road trip to San Diego and sincerely told her husband, whom I was meeting for the first time, "Very nice car. Love the Honda Pilot!" To which, I got a very dirty look and a clipped response, "It is a Lexus!"

Oh, well!

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Kedarnath

I've never seen my ma obsess about gods and goddesses, not even a fraction of what my grandparents did. Yes, she offers incense sticks to a laminated picture of Ma Kali every day, and that is it. One's relationship with god, or the lack of it, is a very personal thing, and I am glad she never followed socially dictated norms of letting the entire world know that she is praying.

So it surprised me when she very enthusiastically told me, Kedarnath jachchi! (Going to Kedarnath). It's a holy pilgrimage place in the Himalayas. We have never been there, so it made sense for her to visit. Maybe she was really happy about my new job and move to India. Who knows? People do change with time, although, she could have visited and thanked god in less expensive ways by going to our neighborhood temple or maybe Tarapeeth or Dakshineshwar Kali Mondir or someplace more accessible. But Kedarnath Badrinath? It seemed a bit of an overkill, but then, one's relationship with god is personal! Who am I to judge?

To add to the confusion, she said that she is very excited to see Sushant Singh Rajput. Now I have no idea who this guy is, so I just assumed he is a cricketer who plays for the Indian cricket team. Ma is even less interested in cricket, and too many things seemed wrong in this conversation.

"How far is Kedarnath from there? Are you going with baba?" I asked. I am still trying to understand the logistics, wondering if she is taking the train or flight, and who else is going.

"No, I am going alone."

I am even more confused by her sudden show of bravery by traveling the world alone now!

"It's walking distance, and Tuesday morning shows are half-price."

And just like that, everything suddenly made sense. It was never about god or cricket. It was about a movie called Kedarnath playing in the neighborhood movie theater.

"Ufff, You are growing old rather fast! Tube light ekta," ma told me. Well, I might be getting old real fast, but I am relieved to learn that no supernatural spirits have possessed my ma, and she is just the same! I would be very worried if she suddenly started visiting holy places looking for god or developed an interest in cricket.

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None of my business (class)!

I had my first ever business class upgrade recently while flying from Kolkata to Dubai. When the attendant at the gate called my name, I thought that the flight was full, and they would elbow me out and emotionally manipulate me into taking the next flight.

An upgrade meant that while there was a long line in gate 11, I got priority boarding and took gate 10 with a bunch of pretentious people from a certain demography as mine who documented, through selfies, their momentarily luxurious life every few minutes. The flight had a lot of blue-collar, daily-wage workers commuting, and it is no coincidence that none of them got upgraded.

I always wondered what first class looks like. Now, I know. It's a brilliant marketing move. While coach class walks by passing the business class (and wishing they were sitting in business class), business class walks by passing the first class.

All these years, I would enter the aircraft and stare down at the business class people before moving on to coach. Now, I was one of those people I would stare down at. I had befriended a few strangers in the baggage drop off line. Now, I felt guilty as they walked past my seat, nodding to me briefly and acknowledging my luck rather than stare me down. I shifted uncomfortably and almost mentally apologized to every person who walked by me to the back of the aircraft.

And then, there were switches and buttons. Lots of them. One, to pull my personal TV closer to me. One, to raise myself. One, to recline. One, to lie down like you would lie down on bed. One, to make my arse more comfortable. One, to find my foot rest. I experienced complete cognitive overload and felt out of place trying to figure everything out. The menu was a fat booklet I stole as a souvenir, since the chances of another upgrade or eating lasooni murgh (garlic chicken) for appetizers, braised lamb shank with borlotti beans for the main course, and carrot halwa with dried fruit compote and dark chocolate sauce for dessert 34,000 feet above ground in the next ten years is slim. The gourmet food was out of the world, mostly with long, esoteric French names that were better eaten than enunciated. No plastic, but heavy, high quality china. The headphones were noise cancelling. The pillow was softer, the blanket was a soft, silk comforter. The space was child-free; this is the first flight where I did not hear a single child wailing.

No food trolleys unceremoniously hit my knees. They took your food orders personally, and served you personally, appetizers first (clear table), then the main course (clear table), and then, dessert. They provided hot towels many times, assuming that I was getting tired without doing anything and hence needed to be periodically rejuvenated. The restrooms had fancy perfumes, toilet seat covers, and free dental kits. They cleaned the restrooms and swept the floor dry every now and then. They even gave me a shiny red card for priority visa through a fast gate channel. I was one of the first to deplane.

I have never experienced such opulence and attention to detail in an airplane before. All this, and I kept looking back at hundreds of people huddled like cattle and kept thinking, this business class is not my reality, that is my reality. I had no business taking up double the space and double the resources, eating gourmet food with obscure names, drinking champagne, and pretending that this is my real life. The real me actually walks out of the plane with huge bumps on the head every time after dozing off by the window and banging my head continuously against the window glass. The real me hugs the window during take-off and hungrily takes in the view of Kolkata for the last few moments, teary-eyed, before disappearing among the clouds. This time, I was in the middle of the aircraft and could not even bid a proper goodbye to Kolkata! I think these first-world problems become even more first-world in such opulent spaces.

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Why I am not likely to fly Qatar Airways again

There are mistakes. And there are expensive mistakes. 

The shortest life span of a US-India airplane ticket I bought was 4 hours. Things in my life changed in those 4 hours. I had to cancel my ticket.

Flights from the US usually come with a free cancellation clause for up to 24 hours of initial purchase. I have done that with Emirates and United. You just cancel your ticket online and get a full refund in a few days. No questions asked. This is the first time I was flying Qatar.

Apparently, Qatar Airways works on a different model. There is a button "Hold Ticket for 24 Hours" that I never saw. It could be that I was distracted, stressed, or maybe it was written strategically so that a first-timer who does not know will not notice it. Large business, after all, care about making money. They do not care about customers. Perhaps they design their websites accordingly.

When I cancelled the ticket after 4 hours, the system said that it will refund me the price of the ticket minus $305.00. It seemed odd. I called customer service. Apparently, Qatar Airways does not have a 24-hour customer service either. If you do not call within normal business hours for eastern time zone, congratulations, you have just been screwed. Again, the customer service is not really meant for serving the customer. 

By the time I could have talked to a human the next day, I might have crossed the 24-hour mark. I had to decide quickly. Note that I still had not realized that I have overlooked the "Hold Ticket for 24 Hours" button. How would I? When I had bought that ticket 4 hours ago, I had every intention of making that trip. I was doomed the moment I bought the ticket. Whether I was stuck to the plan or not, my money was stuck there.

If you watch air crash documentaries, it is never one thing gone wrong that brings down an airplane. It is usually a combination of different things, a chain of events gone wrong, often combined with human error. My situation was something like that. 

It took a couple of email exchanges and phone calls the next day to even understand what had happened. I admitted my mistake, told them that I am a first-timer with Qatar, it was a weekend and I could not talk to a customer service agent to understand what was going on. They train their staff well to maintain a robotic voice and keep apologizing for my inconvenience when they are far from being apologetic. For every line I said, they kept apologizing for any inconvenience. 

I wrote to the E-commerce support. I explained what had happened and said that it was my fault. I wrote about four emails in a week. In every email, I admitted to my mistake for not noticing that “Hold Ticket” button. Yet, after a week, I got a vague, impersonal, copy-paste email with words like “we regret to inform you,” “as per policy,” and “we look forward to welcoming you on-board on one of our flights soon.” I wonder if policy is meant for people, or people are meant for policy.

My final reply to them was short. I wrote that I hope this profit of $305.00 will supersede the loss of a customer, and hopefully, they never have to welcome me on-board.

Here was an opportunity for the airline to rise above their policies and make a lasting impression. I even told them that I was willing to buy a new ticket with the correct dates right away, a ticket that would cost me 5-6 times this $305.00 penalty. The math was simple. The intention to help was never there in the first place.

Sheryl Sandberg, in her convocation speech at MIT this year, said something that hit home. To quote her:

“They [the community leaders] understood that the most difficult problems and the greatest opportunities we have are not technical. They are human. In other words, it's not just about technology. It's about people.” [Link]

It’s about people only when the intention is to serve people. Technology forgets. Human beings don’t. My first impression of Qatar Airways will always be my lasting impression.

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My Bleddy Fears

Water travel makes me nervous. One, I cannot swim. Two, when I travel international, I not only carry my camera gear, but my passport too. That summer, two years ago (when I did this trip), three passports had changed hands (the stolen, the intermediate, and the new). After debating about whether or not to take the boat ride in Lake Bled, I decided to give it a shot. I sat tight, clutching on to my bag and chanting some permutation/combination of God's name in a loop. However, people around me aren't perturbed a bit. They are in this urgent need to take selfies, and every time someone shifts, the boat slightly shifts too, giving me many butterflies in my stomach. The children are leaning out and difficult to control, as usual, the parents have kind of given up, and the guy rowing the boat tells us that the lake is only 31 m deep. Only? Even 31 feet is going to make me nervous. People are changing angles to take pictures of the lake, tempting me to ask them if they have never seen a lake before. But the father of a family of seven (parents and 5 children) take the cake. Ten minutes into our ride, he decides to play music on his handheld device. Céline Dion starts singing her Titanic song. Shit, this is a bad omen, I tell myself. God, please don't let me die like this, due to a capsized boat in Slovenia, of all places...

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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.

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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? 

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Enlightenment amid pyramids

Pic: The Pyramid of the Moon (left) and the Pyramid of the Sun (right).

Waiting in a long line in front of the Teotihuacan pyramids in Mexico, 

I was faced with a mathematical problem of enormous proportions. If there are only finite (and definite) ways to climb a pyramid and there is a crowd of thousands waiting to do so, the wait only gets greater proportionally (assuming all other factors remain constant) as one climbs higher because a pyramid is essentially a triangle in 3D. I suspect that this profound realization struck me because I was waiting in line on a pyramid, which meant that instead of seeing the back of someone's head standing in front of me, I was standing on the lower step of an incline and staring at their ass. After such forced ass-staring for about 40 minutes, I was done. I realized that this mathematical problem could be solved using principles of human psychology.

I had aimed to climbed two pyramids- the Pyramid of the Sun (where one could go all the way to the top) and the Pyramid of the Moon (which you were only allowed to climb half-way). Since the second one could not be climbed all the way, far less people were attempting to climb it at all. "Go where life takes you without resisting it," the inner voice screamed aloud once again. I climbed down the sun and made my way to the moon just in time that it was 5 pm, time to drive the tourists away. Instead of hoping to get past the asses, I optimized my constraints of time and energy and ended up climbing half of both the pyramids. 

Mexico City is an amazing place. Despite warnings of being kidnapped, mugged, killed or encountering drug dealers, I am disappointed to report that no such thing happened. The people are nice and friendly, the weather warm, and the food amazing and amazingly cheap. Everything about this place feels like India. People bargain, openly (and loudly) whistle on the streets to signal one another, and heavily rely on what we know as "jugaad." I have never felt more at home.

Flirting is culturally acceptable. Men do not hesitate to compliment or openly (and harmlessly) flirt with stranger women. I met a very interesting 72-year old man, our tour guide, who ran up and down churches as if he was 35. He flirted with most women on the bus, but it did not look cheap or vulgar at all. When he said that I am beautiful, I sighed and told him, "You too, Juan? I wish people were not so obsessed with beauty and women got complimented for their brains too." To which, he brought his face really close to my ears and whispered, "That will never happen, señorita. Men are scared of intelligent women." The way he said it made it sound really profound and entertaining at the same time.

So I saw and climbed half of two pyramids, ate fried crickets, tried pulque (a local drink), visited Frida Kahlo's home (a museum now), and saw, touched, and learnt the many uses of a maguey (agave) plant.

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Why I often think of Portugal, but not Paris

Paris, or any over-hyped tourist destination for that matter, is expensive, crowded, and has often left me wondering, “But what was so great about this place?” Portugal is different. Granted, Paris is a city and Portugal is a country, but that is not the point. Portugal, despite its breathtaking beauty, azure seas and quaint alleys, is strangely a less noisy tourist place. I see more people traveling France, Switzerland and Amsterdam than Portugal (I admit, I have a biased sample, consisting mostly of people of Indian origin whom I know).

So what reminded me of Portugal today? Well, the fact that North America is in the throes of winter right now, and I have missed the sun. Every day, I am at least 3 kilo heavier, winter coat, layers of warm clothing, snow boots and all.

I was floored when I first started researching about Portugal and saw the pictures. Its sheer beauty mesmerized me. Coastal Portugal has some amazing views of the Atlantic. With the little fishing villages, the churches, the bell towers, the castles, the palaces and the winding streets, Portugal has history written all over it. The view of the bay from Lisbon is amazing. Summer is super hot (I have never been there in the winter). And if you haven’t seen the westernmost point of continental Europe, you must, absolutely! It happens to be located in Portugal.

Despite its beauty, Portugal is quite inexpensive (like Croatia, Greece, and other southern European countries). I love the challenge of traveling on a shoestring budget, living in hostels, walking or taking the public transport, and finding cheap eating options. Penurious traveling is a skill I picked up due to many years of being a poor graduate student. I am less likely to be splurging at a fancy restaurant, a glass of wine in hand. What penurious travel does (other than save you money) is connect you to the backpacker crowd, people who take time off their work, short-term or long-term, and travel all over the world. Such people make the most interesting conversations.

In Portugal, you will find wholesome meals for a couple of Euros. Public transportation within the city and train networks between cities is excellent. Buying a multiple day city pass takes you further along in terms of getting around and seeing the places of interest. The Oriente train station in Lisbon is beautiful! Within-city commute is very well-planned and easy to figure out. The bus and metro services in Lisbon is great. I took a train to Sintra at 4:30 am, and it was right on time. The trains are clean, comfortable, and very reliable. The yellow trams in Lisbon take you around the city and cover most of the touristy places. And the one-day or multiple-day pass allows you to take the bus, tram, or metro. Do ride the tram # 28.

The best thing about Portugal was, I could just take a map and venture out on my own. Unless you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, there is nothing unsafe. As a woman on my own, not once did I feel uncomfortable. The metro and trains ply until late hours and the touristy places are crowded. In comparison, parts of Italy had felt somewhat unsafe. Most people understand functional English in Portugal, unlike Sicily where I got around using sign language most of the time. Portugal is not Switzerland, New York, or Paris, which makes it all the more endearing. You can safely skip the hyped-destination travel crowd. Yash Chopra movies might have popularized Switzerland for the Indians, and the same goes for Paris or New York City, but I would rather skip the crowd at the Niagara Falls or the long queues for the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Portugal felt more under-explored, local, and like home for me. Talking of elevators, do not miss the elevators, lifts, and funiculars that take you up and give you a panoramic view of Lisbon.

And if you are even remotely interested in photography, Portugal will never disappoint you. Portugal is vibrant, colorful, cosmopolitan, and yet rustic in a beautiful way. The banks of the Douro river in Porto is lined with colorful flags and quaint houses with balconies. You would see colorful clothes drying off in the sun, and winding streets with old houses lining the cityscape. You will love the orange-tiled rooftop houses, and the bright contrast it makes with the blueness of the oceans. You would love the bridges of Porto, the trams of Lisbon, the palaces of Sintra, and the colorful fisherman villages by the Atlantic. The city of Porto is a photographer’s delight, especially the part of the city by the riverfront, or the view of the city from the numerous bridges.

I write and take pictures to travel twice. Hopefully, Portugal will happen again.

sunshine

Meeting Mr. Alejandro

"Mr. Alejandro? Where can I find you again Mr. Alejandro?"

The words reverberated in my head again and again as I was awash with a deep sense of sadness for not being able to say goodbye.

Mr. Alejandro is the tour guide I had met earlier that morning. I was on a day trip to Taxco, about 200 km away from Mexico City. I had just arrived for the first time in Mexico three days ago and learnt quickly that tipping your way around is not only recommended, but is also the right thing to do. That day, we had our driver, Marcus, and the person who had escorted us to Taxco, Hugo.

When we reached Taxco, Hugo placed our tour group in Mr. Alejandro's hands and disappeared.

Taxco is a silver mining city. They plan the trip so that tourists can have hours to shop for silver. I was a little interested in learning how silver is mined, but not interested in purchasing silver at all. I was done looking around in five minutes.

It had been more than 30 minutes and the fellow tourists were still inside the stores, happily buying away. Bored, I took my camera out and started walking around a block or two. That is when I saw Mr. Alejandro, an old and short man who could be easily passed off as being from India. He wore a brownish shirt tucked in his trousers. He had a lump in his back and walked with a leftward limp. Although not a native English speaker, he spoke English with authority. My grandfather had a close friend from Hazra who used to love visiting foreign countries, dabbing generous amount of Cuticura powder on his chest, and spoke like that.

He told me to check out the streets on the left, those that had a nicer view of the church. And thus, we started talking.

At first, Mr. Alejandro seemed just like any other guide, saying the best and claiming to show us the best. He told us a little bit about the city and promised to take us to a really nice restaurant with magnificent views. And he kept his promise. The food was average, but the views were great. Mexico is quite cheap and even if they took you to a restaurant that was a total rip-off, you would only end up paying maybe a few US dollars more. I was beginning to get an idea of how the tourism industry works here. It's just like in India, everyone has their "internal setting." Guides take you to a pre-decided restaurant they have some kind of a tie-up with. In return, the guides get free meals and drinks. The same way, they took you to certain pre-determined shops for retail therapy.

"This is the only road in the city made of marble," he showed us. "And the widest road in the city too," he added knowledgeably. He did take us to a few shops to look around. Tourists (both men and women) jumped into these shops like they had never gone shopping before. I have stopped buying things I cannot consume. Souvenir hunting was a waste of time for me. I was wondering how many shops he would take us to. I should have brought along a book to read.

I looked up the mountain and saw a statue of Christ, arms outstretched. It was a hot afternoon in December and we were on a pre-determined schedule of shopping and church-hopping. Hiking up the mountain to the Christ statue was not a part of the plan. But that is what I wanted to do.

"Mr. Alejandro, would it be possible to hike up the mountain all the way to Christ's statue?" I excitedly asked.

Mr. Alejandro didn't seem encouraging, and I knew why. It was not a part of the plan. He would rather the visitors shopped for silver and souvenirs and boosted the sales of these shops he had connections with. But he also knew that I was not interested in shopping. He had seen my bored face not too long ago.

"Do you really want to go? You'll have to stick to my plan. We will all walk up to the church. From there, I will try to find you a taxi driver I know personally. You pay him 200 pesos. He will take you up the mountain and wait for 20 minutes for you to look around. He will then bring you back to the main square by 4:30 pm so that you can get back to your group. Are you game?"

"Yes! Yes!" I said enthusiastically. Ideally, I would have wanted to hike up on foot, but we had to leave by 4:30 pm and there was no time. Taking one of those white, cute Volkswagen Beetles would have to do. I knew separating from the group had its risks. I spoke no Spanish and did not have a working phone. My return to Mexico City would be jeopardized if something went wrong. 200 pesos might be a lot, I have no idea, and I was in no position to bargain. Did Mr. Alejandro have a percentage share in that too? He said that he would get me a driver he personally knew. Was it for my safety or his profit too?

My brain chatter never ceased.

200 pesos is $10. Even if it turned out to be an utter waste of time and money and even if I was being ripped off, I was leaning towards climbing the mountain. I can't even buy a decent meal in the US for $10. How bad could it be?

When we got in front of the church, Mr. Alejandro said that he'd rather I go inside the church first since I was there anyway. There was a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe that I must see. Although I didn't care about churches, I did not want to say no. Inside, he gave us a background of the church. To me, it was the story of another rich man from Europe who had come to Mexico to kill and conquer and mark his territory through an ostentatious display of wealth. Sometimes, I can be quite apathetic to the things around me that other people find incredulous, bordering on being flippant.

True to his word, he escorted us out of the church, sent the other tourists on their way for more silver shopping, and started walking around the busy square looking for a taxi for me. Every taxi had a little ID number painted in red. He told me that it is very important both of us remember the number, in case it was past 4:30 pm and my group was not able to find me.

He flagged a few, but he did not know any of the drivers personally. I was beginning to get impatient and wondered again if this hunt for a known driver was solely for my safety, or for his percentage of tip too. I told him that he could just find me any taxi, that I would be fine. He seemed to consider it for a moment and that is what he did eventually. He flagged a taxi, gave the driver instructions in Spanish, and told me to be back by 4:30 pm, no matter what. He asked me to stay safe, helped open my door as I hopped in, and even closed it for me.

The fun started from there.

It was an amazing taxi ride. When I'd asked Mr. Alejandro why our big van cannot take me up, he told me that I will know soon. And I did. The narrow, serpentine roads that led up were heavily inclined. Roads out of a physics textbook, only these tiny Beetles could make it up there. For the next 20 minutes, I sat at a constant incline, my neck literally thrown backward, my hamstrings trying hard to balance. The roads were single-lane and every time cars came from the opposite direction, ours had to go on reverse gear to make space for them. It was one hell of a scary ride. And exciting too. Although I spoke no Spanish and the driver spoke no English, we chatted constantly. By the time I reached up the hill, I was dizzy with excitement. It was the best ride ever and I would have happily paid the 200 pesos just for the ride up.

The driver motioned that I spend 20 minutes after which, he would whistle loudly. That was my cue to come back. I was wondering if he would ask me for more money on my way back. I suddenly had this irrepressible urge to learn how to whistle back.

Like a child or a puppy without leash, I jumped out of the car and made my way to Christ's statue. The views from there were spectacular. The entire city I had walked around with Mr. Alejandro not too long ago was sprawled below me, nestled in the arms of the mountains that looked just like the Shenandoah mountains in Virginia. From the top, I could see the huge church (now a tiny figurine from the distance) and the square in front of it from which Mr. Alejandro got me the taxi. I took dozens of pictures from various angles, changing my lenses to take close ups and then distant shots. Mr. Alejandro would be thrilled to see these pictures. He told me that he grew up here, he must have visited this place many times. When I had asked him earlier to accompany me, Mr. Alejandro had politely declined, saying that he needed to stick around with the other tourists from our group. It was his job. The ride up was so thrilling and now, the views from the top were fantastic too. I am so glad I had broken off from the group, something I usually never do. I made it a point to give him a fat tip when I went back. Mr. Alejandro totally deserved it.

20 minutes later, my driver whistled loudly, a rather funny sight. I jumped up the stairs and hopped inside his taxi, but not before asking him to pose for a picture in front of his taxi, something he readily obliged. I think I liked my driver too despite my initial hesitation of being sent up a mountain with a stranger. He sported a mustache and for reasons not quite clear to me, I tend to trust men with mustaches more than men without one. Don't ask me why, biases and blind beliefs usually have no scientific, data-driven basis. My driver continued to talk on the way back too, stuff I understood nothing of. The ride downhill was even more scary and thrilling. He waved to a woman with a baby and later told me it was his wife and child. He asked me if I had babies. He motioned with his hand and told me he had four babies. "Cuatro," he said. Traveling up and down with a mustachioed man with four babies was probably not that unsafe after all. I might be all brave and adventurous, trying out new things in life, but it did cross my mind that the possibility of a man taking me hostage, forcing me inside a desolate building and tying me up was something that had a non-zero probability of occurring. So far, the driver hadn't shown any such signs. Excitedly, I continued to take more videos of my ride downhill, sitting once again slanted at a precarious angle and without a seat belt. Roller coasters are so passé, this was far more exciting.

When my mustachioed driver dropped me off, I was half-expecting him to demand more money. But he took his 200 pesos and drove off. I was a little surprised, I was expecting him to wait for Mr. Alejandro and give him his share. I was back at the main square where I started that morning. I could see Christ's statue when I craned my neck. I smiled at the statue, so glad for having made a trip all the way up there. I was dying to tell Mr. Alejandro all about it. And while I waited for the group, I took out 120 more pesos from my wallet and tucked it in my camera bag's pocket. This is the most I have considered tipping, but Mr. Alejandro totally deserves his tip.

The group was back within 10 minutes, happily holding bags of merchandise. Hugo had magically reappeared and was leading the group. I had not seen him since morning.

"Hugo! Where is Mr. Alejandro?" I asked excitedly. I had to quickly tell him about my trip up there, tip him and thank him before saying goodbye.

"Mr. Alejandro left," Hugo told me.

"What?"

Mr. Alejandro said goodbye to the group in front of the church after which, Hugo took over. This means I was not seeing Mr. Alejandro anymore. This also means Mr. Alejandro knew that he will not see me again when he got me that taxi and waved me goodbye. Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he ask for a tip?

I boarded the van feeling strangely empty, no longer enthusiastic. I had so much fun in that taxi ride, I wish I could share it all with the person who made it possible. He had magically transformed a boring shopping trip to one of the most exciting trips I will always remember. Why did he disappear from the church?

I rode back the 3+ hour long ride in silence, wishing that I had a chance to say goodbye. As we left the outskirts of the city, I kept glancing back, taking in the views for the last time, the spectacular white-painted colonial houses by the side of the mountain, the serpentine roads and the white Beetle taxis, and up above everything, the statue of Christ standing with its arms outstretched, offering fantastic views of where I now was from that vantage point.

Mr. Alejandro from Taxco, I don't have a picture of you, and I only remember how you look from my memory now. I don't know how you would ever get to read this post. Maybe you will never. If you do, remember that there is a girl eagerly waiting to tell you all about her trip and show you the pictures. She owes you your tip. And a huge thanks. For she could not have asked for a better trip. Thank you!

sunshine