Just finished Ian McEwan's Atonment over the Christmas holidays:
This book has 4 parts, and its saving grace is part 1, which is the only reason it gets three stars (as opposed to 1). Parts 2 and 3 are fluff, added for melodramatic effect, and are a painful attempt at making this a war epic.
Part 4 tries to bring it all together, succeeds in some respects and fails in others. I thought the 80th birthday party was completely cheesy.
I enjoyed McEwan's writing style. Although slightly laborious, I liked his detailed descriptions of feelings, feelings about feelings, the countryside, hot summer days, people and events. I empathized with the characters (only in part 1), and even got the part about atonement (in part 4). I thought that the ending, where Arabella could be any of the female characters in the book was very clever.
**** WARNING - giving away some of the plot - do not read further, if you haven't read the book **** I like that there was no reconciliation between the sisters. It makes it more real. However, Robbie's and Cecilia's premature deaths makes their love, and therefore the book, seem pointless - almost like "all that for nothing" or "so many years for two months together". Most of their relationship is imagined or based on wistful memories and letters. It may have been a better book if they had moved away and started a new life, with some sort of character development and some sort of description of their lives together in addition to the brief glimpse through Briony's eyes. All in all, a good read, but not brilliant, which is sad, because it has all the potential to be so. Oh ya, and the great "mystery" was as transparent as a window right at the moment it happened.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Baking mud pies
It’s been many many years since I’ve baked. A long time ago, I used to be quite the baker, even venturing such exotic delights as sacher torte. I could make melt-in-your-mouth carrot cake, banana bread, and one of my best friends got to be my best friend because 17 years ago, I baked a yummilicious chocolate cake for her birthday.
Now no self-respecting mother can embarrass her child by sending blob-shaped cookies to school, can she? So M, bless her heart, decided that we must decorate these amorphous shapes so that they at least bore some resemblance to what they were supposed to be, and were not just amoeboid (and sadly burnt) things.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Relationship Metaphor
Written in 2003 - recently unearthed from old papers
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I stare out at the ocean - at the waves as they crash against the rocks. Incessant, timeless, everyday, forever. I can taste the salt in the air, feel the burning sun hot upon me. I enjoy the wind in my hair, the feel of the fabric of my shirt as it flaps against my bare skin.
The foam curls around my toes - the tide rolls in. I know the water will soon rise and wet the bottom of my rolled up jeans, but I don't move. I stand there and let it rise -- from toes to ankles to calves to knees. I step back a few feet, and wonder what I will do when the water rises further. How will I react, will I step back again, or will I let it engulf me?
It's now at my hips, inching upward towards my waist. Each wave throws my balance a little. The salt water stings my eyes. I know I need to move away, but my feet are rooted in the sand and I am caught in some sort of inexplicable inertia. How long will I stay, I wonder. What will happen when the water reaches my chest, then my neck, then slowly fills my mouth?
Curiously enough, I seem to be enjoying the uncertainty of not knowing. I see the huge wave coming towards me. The water is now at my chest. I feel buoyant. The wave is inches away, and before I know it, it crashes into me and and I am in over my head. I am thrown by the force, swirling around in the foam, arms and legs flailing, water in my nose, eyes, and mouth. I straighten up, the water settles down around me - it’s at my chin. A few more inches, and I won’t be able to breathe. I raise my legs, throw my head back, and start to float. I laugh into the sun and wait for the next wave.
--------------------------------
I stare out at the ocean - at the waves as they crash against the rocks. Incessant, timeless, everyday, forever. I can taste the salt in the air, feel the burning sun hot upon me. I enjoy the wind in my hair, the feel of the fabric of my shirt as it flaps against my bare skin.
The foam curls around my toes - the tide rolls in. I know the water will soon rise and wet the bottom of my rolled up jeans, but I don't move. I stand there and let it rise -- from toes to ankles to calves to knees. I step back a few feet, and wonder what I will do when the water rises further. How will I react, will I step back again, or will I let it engulf me?
It's now at my hips, inching upward towards my waist. Each wave throws my balance a little. The salt water stings my eyes. I know I need to move away, but my feet are rooted in the sand and I am caught in some sort of inexplicable inertia. How long will I stay, I wonder. What will happen when the water reaches my chest, then my neck, then slowly fills my mouth?
Curiously enough, I seem to be enjoying the uncertainty of not knowing. I see the huge wave coming towards me. The water is now at my chest. I feel buoyant. The wave is inches away, and before I know it, it crashes into me and and I am in over my head. I am thrown by the force, swirling around in the foam, arms and legs flailing, water in my nose, eyes, and mouth. I straighten up, the water settles down around me - it’s at my chin. A few more inches, and I won’t be able to breathe. I raise my legs, throw my head back, and start to float. I laugh into the sun and wait for the next wave.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Small fish, Big pond (2002)
(This was written in 2002. I just rediscovered it while cleaning out files on my computer, and given that it's probably some of my best writing, I decided to post it)
-----------------------------
In moments of introspection, I wonder why I decided to move to America. I had a good job, visions of a great career, I was in love with presumably the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood, and guess what! - he was crazy about me as well. We would settle into a nice life, carry on his father's business (which conveniently fit in very well with the fact that I was an architect), we'd go to church every Sunday, and be the epitome of happily married life. Even have some kids on the side. How very perfect!
I suspect that it might have had to do with the fact that I felt life had more to offer. I needed to see more, to BE more. I had to go out there and know for myself that this was indeed the best that was in store for me, and not have to wonder when I was forty whether I could have done better. I had to make my own destiny.
So eight years later, here I am -- a successful single in America, a yuppie right down to my Victoria Secret low-rise-bikini underwear. I live in a yuppie apartment, complete with white American roommate and purple couch, drive a red car, and have a freezer well stocked with Lean Cuisine.
Like my fellow yups, I too start the day at Starbucks, where I wait 15 minutes every morning for my double-espresso latte. Skim milk and Equal ?- have we escalated into a world where nothing is real anymore? Air-conditioning in summer because it is too humid, humidifiers in winter because it is too dry. Seems quite lop-sided somehow.
My weeks are filled with work, and my weekends with the eternal quest for fun and entertainment. Boston is fabulous. Biking by the Charles on a warm, sunny day, hanging out in Harvard Square where summer evenings bring out the street musicians and chess players. Central Square with its punks and weirdos. Eating hot clam chowder on cold winter afternoons, the lingering taste of cream and potatoes melting in my mouth.
Tea at Tealuxe -- the tea connoisseur?s dream come true. Browsing the used bookstores and antique markets for undiscovered treasures, open-House in South Boston when the artists let the public into their studios. Driving to the beach, basking in the sun, wallowing in the heat and humidity, the smell of the sea in my nostrils, bringing back memories of Bombay and picnics at Gorai.
Trivia and pool at Hannah?s with Debbie and Anton ?- just like Cheers where everybody knows my name, Denise?s in Davis Sq. that makes the best ice cream in the whole world. Zipping down Storrow drive at night, looking wistfully at the houses on Beacon Hill, wondering if I will ever have a home with a river view. Walking down Newbury where the pretty people hang out and the rich shop. Jazz at Wally?s, salsa at Sophias, oh! I could go on. And all my friends -- where would I be without them? They are my surrogate family, my inner sanctum, my refuge when I am having a bad day. Ah, life is sooo good!
And yet, life in America can be so extraordinarily strange. Most Indians strive to achieve the great American dream. The bigger house, the better car, designer clothes, kids in private school who will eventually go to Ivy League universities, and hopefully turn out to be doctors or lawyers, and achieve everything that their parents never did, but gave up the love and leisure of life in India for. As for me, I want my kids to be musicians. Pursue my dream, perhaps? "Oh yes, my daughter studies piano at Juilliard", I will proudly say.
Some of us adapt to life here, and morph into some state of wannabe-Americanism.
Most don't, and continue to live in a time warp, always comparing life in America to life back home. Still have a lota in the bathroom, and smell like a curry. Attend all desi parties, and watch Zee TV. Wear salvar-kurtas to work, and shout Indian patriotism from the rooftops. Children meet and marry other Indians (preferably of the same religion, caste and social status), and are frowned upon if they dare to stray from the beaten path.
And then there's us, the 20/30 something "Generation-Xers" with our struggles for over accomplishment. We have to have the great job, two Master?s degrees, the best leisure, and the perfect, most knowledgeable minds in the even more perfect bodies. For some strange reason we are obsessed with our appearance, leading to our pursuit of whiter teeth and perfect skin. Crest white strips and Estee Lauder's NEW Resilient Overnight Lift. Liposuction and breast implants, padded bras and corsets.
Women must look like the latest little hottie supermodel, and to that end we trudge to the gym every day, run miles on the tread mill, do weights, tummy crunches, butt-lifts or whatever the latest exercise fad is - power yoga, thai-bo, or some other sort of bastardized oriental art that the great fitness gurus tote as the latest and greatest solution for buns of steel. The treadmill seems to be the great metaphor of life, I sometimes think. You appear to be moving forward, but at the end of it all you have not gone anywhere. My pet gym theory is "the bigger the biceps, the smaller the brain" - heheh. Women in tank tops and sports bras (complete with emblazoned designer logos), caked with enough makeup for ten people, there not so much to work out, as to be ogled at.
And then there's me! blissfully oblivious to, and quite blasé about the underlying male/female chemistry going on around me. "Oh, check out the guy's butt", the girl next to me whispers to her friend, sweat glistening off her toned abs. I discretely peek up from my magazine, and am rather amused - a worthwhile distraction from a rather interesting article about Kim Jong Il and the nuclear arms race. (Do I see a reason why I am still single? My supercilious attitude problem, perhaps??) High-fiber, high-protein, low-carb diets, soymilk and green tea (so far not together, thank God!). Guilt pangs for gained pounds, elation at lost ones. Forty minutes on the Precor, reading the Economist on the side, burning 600 calories an hour, cursing the sedentary lifestyle that compels me to waste precious time everyday getting some form of exercise so as to not bloat into super-obesity. I think of my mother who walked two miles in the hot sun from the railway station to home, and speculate the irony of it all. I'm sure she wished she had a car to drive her around.
Of course, there's the job and career, which so far have turned out to be very good, and everything I hoped they would be, notwithstanding the pains of climbing up the career ladder - "oh, but you are a woman, and pretty, therefore you're probably not that bright". Fight to establish credibility, and establish it enough to prove that I am bloody good, and better than most of the men out there, who in spite of it still get paid 30% more than I do. Inspired by Kipling, I carry on regardless.
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
And inevitably, all conversations about life eventually roll around to talk about love and relationships -- every fiber of our beings caught between Indian conservatism and American liberalism. Nice girls don't drink, nice girls don't stay out all night, nice girls don't ... nice girls don't .. "Yes Ma, No Ma, three bags full Ma". She's not here, and probably would not even care anymore, so why do I still hear her voice and feel her disapproval? How well our childhood creeds have been indoctrinated! And therein lies the conundrum!
I wonder at the walls I have built around myself, and until I figure out WHY I don't want to break the barriers and let people in, it's going to stay that way. Protection against being hurt, perhaps? Not wanting the pain of ending a relationship? Commitment fears?? I don't know. And so I continue to wait for the super-spectacular, special person who will see beyond the obvious, who will love me for the person inside and not be bogged down by superficialities. Until then, I shall continue to be Barbara Streisand and Donna Summers singing "It's raining, it's pouring, my love life is boring me to tears".
I pull out my guitar and strum "Blowing in the Wind" (finally comprehending the questions in the lyrics) and wonder at the paradox that the world and I have changed so much and yet so little. Bush is in the white house and America is at war -- AGAIN! The Republicans propagate their anti-abortion, pro-life mantra, while Rael clones human beings.
And yet, as I contemplate it all, I realize that I am inexorably happy. I came here to make my destiny, and despite all the ups and downs, the loss of an idyllice life and love that might have been, the confusion and the ambivalence, the freedom of living by myself weighted by the despair and loneliness of not having my family near me, and so on, I think I have. I look back at the girl who left home six years ago full of naiveté and awe, and I say to myself "You've come a long way, baby!"
-----------------------------
In moments of introspection, I wonder why I decided to move to America. I had a good job, visions of a great career, I was in love with presumably the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood, and guess what! - he was crazy about me as well. We would settle into a nice life, carry on his father's business (which conveniently fit in very well with the fact that I was an architect), we'd go to church every Sunday, and be the epitome of happily married life. Even have some kids on the side. How very perfect!
I suspect that it might have had to do with the fact that I felt life had more to offer. I needed to see more, to BE more. I had to go out there and know for myself that this was indeed the best that was in store for me, and not have to wonder when I was forty whether I could have done better. I had to make my own destiny.
So eight years later, here I am -- a successful single in America, a yuppie right down to my Victoria Secret low-rise-bikini underwear. I live in a yuppie apartment, complete with white American roommate and purple couch, drive a red car, and have a freezer well stocked with Lean Cuisine.
Like my fellow yups, I too start the day at Starbucks, where I wait 15 minutes every morning for my double-espresso latte. Skim milk and Equal ?- have we escalated into a world where nothing is real anymore? Air-conditioning in summer because it is too humid, humidifiers in winter because it is too dry. Seems quite lop-sided somehow.
My weeks are filled with work, and my weekends with the eternal quest for fun and entertainment. Boston is fabulous. Biking by the Charles on a warm, sunny day, hanging out in Harvard Square where summer evenings bring out the street musicians and chess players. Central Square with its punks and weirdos. Eating hot clam chowder on cold winter afternoons, the lingering taste of cream and potatoes melting in my mouth.
Tea at Tealuxe -- the tea connoisseur?s dream come true. Browsing the used bookstores and antique markets for undiscovered treasures, open-House in South Boston when the artists let the public into their studios. Driving to the beach, basking in the sun, wallowing in the heat and humidity, the smell of the sea in my nostrils, bringing back memories of Bombay and picnics at Gorai.
Trivia and pool at Hannah?s with Debbie and Anton ?- just like Cheers where everybody knows my name, Denise?s in Davis Sq. that makes the best ice cream in the whole world. Zipping down Storrow drive at night, looking wistfully at the houses on Beacon Hill, wondering if I will ever have a home with a river view. Walking down Newbury where the pretty people hang out and the rich shop. Jazz at Wally?s, salsa at Sophias, oh! I could go on. And all my friends -- where would I be without them? They are my surrogate family, my inner sanctum, my refuge when I am having a bad day. Ah, life is sooo good!
And yet, life in America can be so extraordinarily strange. Most Indians strive to achieve the great American dream. The bigger house, the better car, designer clothes, kids in private school who will eventually go to Ivy League universities, and hopefully turn out to be doctors or lawyers, and achieve everything that their parents never did, but gave up the love and leisure of life in India for. As for me, I want my kids to be musicians. Pursue my dream, perhaps? "Oh yes, my daughter studies piano at Juilliard", I will proudly say.
Some of us adapt to life here, and morph into some state of wannabe-Americanism.
Most don't, and continue to live in a time warp, always comparing life in America to life back home. Still have a lota in the bathroom, and smell like a curry. Attend all desi parties, and watch Zee TV. Wear salvar-kurtas to work, and shout Indian patriotism from the rooftops. Children meet and marry other Indians (preferably of the same religion, caste and social status), and are frowned upon if they dare to stray from the beaten path.
And then there's us, the 20/30 something "Generation-Xers" with our struggles for over accomplishment. We have to have the great job, two Master?s degrees, the best leisure, and the perfect, most knowledgeable minds in the even more perfect bodies. For some strange reason we are obsessed with our appearance, leading to our pursuit of whiter teeth and perfect skin. Crest white strips and Estee Lauder's NEW Resilient Overnight Lift. Liposuction and breast implants, padded bras and corsets.
Women must look like the latest little hottie supermodel, and to that end we trudge to the gym every day, run miles on the tread mill, do weights, tummy crunches, butt-lifts or whatever the latest exercise fad is - power yoga, thai-bo, or some other sort of bastardized oriental art that the great fitness gurus tote as the latest and greatest solution for buns of steel. The treadmill seems to be the great metaphor of life, I sometimes think. You appear to be moving forward, but at the end of it all you have not gone anywhere. My pet gym theory is "the bigger the biceps, the smaller the brain" - heheh. Women in tank tops and sports bras (complete with emblazoned designer logos), caked with enough makeup for ten people, there not so much to work out, as to be ogled at.
And then there's me! blissfully oblivious to, and quite blasé about the underlying male/female chemistry going on around me. "Oh, check out the guy's butt", the girl next to me whispers to her friend, sweat glistening off her toned abs. I discretely peek up from my magazine, and am rather amused - a worthwhile distraction from a rather interesting article about Kim Jong Il and the nuclear arms race. (Do I see a reason why I am still single? My supercilious attitude problem, perhaps??) High-fiber, high-protein, low-carb diets, soymilk and green tea (so far not together, thank God!). Guilt pangs for gained pounds, elation at lost ones. Forty minutes on the Precor, reading the Economist on the side, burning 600 calories an hour, cursing the sedentary lifestyle that compels me to waste precious time everyday getting some form of exercise so as to not bloat into super-obesity. I think of my mother who walked two miles in the hot sun from the railway station to home, and speculate the irony of it all. I'm sure she wished she had a car to drive her around.
Of course, there's the job and career, which so far have turned out to be very good, and everything I hoped they would be, notwithstanding the pains of climbing up the career ladder - "oh, but you are a woman, and pretty, therefore you're probably not that bright". Fight to establish credibility, and establish it enough to prove that I am bloody good, and better than most of the men out there, who in spite of it still get paid 30% more than I do. Inspired by Kipling, I carry on regardless.
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
And inevitably, all conversations about life eventually roll around to talk about love and relationships -- every fiber of our beings caught between Indian conservatism and American liberalism. Nice girls don't drink, nice girls don't stay out all night, nice girls don't ... nice girls don't .. "Yes Ma, No Ma, three bags full Ma". She's not here, and probably would not even care anymore, so why do I still hear her voice and feel her disapproval? How well our childhood creeds have been indoctrinated! And therein lies the conundrum!
I wonder at the walls I have built around myself, and until I figure out WHY I don't want to break the barriers and let people in, it's going to stay that way. Protection against being hurt, perhaps? Not wanting the pain of ending a relationship? Commitment fears?? I don't know. And so I continue to wait for the super-spectacular, special person who will see beyond the obvious, who will love me for the person inside and not be bogged down by superficialities. Until then, I shall continue to be Barbara Streisand and Donna Summers singing "It's raining, it's pouring, my love life is boring me to tears".
I pull out my guitar and strum "Blowing in the Wind" (finally comprehending the questions in the lyrics) and wonder at the paradox that the world and I have changed so much and yet so little. Bush is in the white house and America is at war -- AGAIN! The Republicans propagate their anti-abortion, pro-life mantra, while Rael clones human beings.
And yet, as I contemplate it all, I realize that I am inexorably happy. I came here to make my destiny, and despite all the ups and downs, the loss of an idyllice life and love that might have been, the confusion and the ambivalence, the freedom of living by myself weighted by the despair and loneliness of not having my family near me, and so on, I think I have. I look back at the girl who left home six years ago full of naiveté and awe, and I say to myself "You've come a long way, baby!"
Monday, September 17, 2007
My travels in Europe
Just returned from a fantastic vacation, and decided to post the pictures before the buzz wears off. More details of the trip will follow, but here are pictures for starters.
Day 1 (9/24/07):
After a really painful flight with me in the middle seat, I reach Geneva frazzled and a little annoyed. NorthWest, in the usual kanjoos fashion of all domestic American airlines offered us a granola bar for breakfast (no tea, coffee, nothing). How generous. Imagine a plane full of hungry, tired passengers, who are not allowed to bring their own water on board, nor are they provided any in flight (or at least not enough to sustain the 7 hour journey). Anyhoo, rants aside, I reached Geneva quite tired. Not to mention that I had been getting by on 4 hours of sleep a night for all of the prior week. The first thing I spot as I get of the plane is a chocolatarie, and that certainly brightened my day.
Reached Tarun's postage stamp size apartment, which is totally adorable and in the heart of the city with fantastic views of the mountains. Some of them even have snow-covered peaks. Yay, this is Switzerland. Tarun brought up the most awesome apple pie from the corner boulangerie. Well, if there's one thing the French know, it's their bread and pastries - it literally melts in your mouth. I could live on hot bread and tomme.
Day 2 (9/25/07):
I slept in late without guilt. Yes, one of the other pains of growing older is that I have tremendous guilt if I sleep in later than 7:30 am. But hey, I'm on vacation, and hence, guilt free - hmmmm ..... not quite guilt free because Commodore Theogaraj walks in, looks at his watch, and says "10:30 am, Gaelyn??". But nothing could suck the joy out of my extended sleep, and the fact that I could just lounge around the rest of the day doing nothing.
That evening, we all headed off to sit around on the shores of Lac Leman. The thing that makes it so extraordinarilty beautiful is that not only is there a lake, but it's a lake surrounded by mountains, and also lush, lush, green grass of the brightest green, with quaint little houses dotting the hillsides. And to add to it all, there's a profusion of swans. My entire trip was just a feast for the eyes.
Day 3 (9/26/07):
Nothing much happened on day 3. Continued to laze around, and was quite content to do so. Until the American in me kicked in, and I thought "hey, I'm in Switzerland, I can't be sitting around doing nothing". So I spent the rest of the day doing some frantic google searches on "things to do in and around geneva". You'd think Tarun would have had a list, but then, he's not American :) Having made my list, I went on to prioritize it - just in case I couldn't get to everything - AND create a time-table.
I look in the mirror and laugh at the person I've become :D So I abandon the list and get back to trying to be spontaneous. Not succeeding, I end up taking a nap.
In the afternoon, Tarun and I walked around the jardin on the shores of Lac Leman. It was nice to just goof off, take silly photos, giggle. The "El Bandito" and "Sombody gonna get hurt" photos were taken on this little jaunt.
We also took it upon ourselves to name every passer by, trying to guess their nationalities. We saw a couple of Giovannis (Italian), one Colin and his wife Hazel (British), a Bob and Sarah (yeah, American) and a surprising number of Ganesh's with their wives whom we named Suddha.
That evening the family and I walked around old Geneva, took photos, went to the top of St. Peter's cathedral, and stopped at an outdoor cafe for a beer.
Day 4 (9/27/07):
Three days and I'm starting to get restless. We spent the day visiting the UN. Dancing Danny (not his real name), was the tour guide. It was a most excellent morning and I don't remember a thing he said. We had shwarma for lunch. WARNING: DO NOT HAVE SCHWARMA IN SWITZERLAND. You think we'd know better.
We boarded the train to Florence at about 9:00 that night. It was a wonderfully comfortable sleeper car - blankets included.
Day 5 (9/28/07):
Arrived in Florence, and was reminded of childhood trips to Baroda to see my grandmother. The scene looked remarkably and disappointingly familiar - slightly beat-up houses by the railroad tracks. Getting out of the station (Santa Maria Nouvella), we boarded the D bus to take us to our hotel. From that point on, everything was magically, quaint - I was transported into my own dream world, imagining I was a Renaissance princess living in the times of the Medicis, and DaVinci and Michelangelo.
For starters, the streets are no more than about 10-15 feet wide. The busses are small, and can hold about 10 people. They teeter along the cobblestones, honking at passers by. We arrived at the hotel, which looks nothing like it's online pictures. I walk in warily, hoping that I dont' have to stay in a roach motel for the next two nights. But we were pleasantly surprised - La Scaletta is one of the most charming little hotels I have seen. Converted from an old palazzo, the rooms have 15 ft high ceilings, there's a lovely terrace with a panoramic view of teh city and the Boboli gardens. I have my first cup of Italian capuccino, and all is well with the world.
Later that morning, we went to the Acadamia museum, before which Mona and I scouted the leather shops. And I finally see Michelangelo's David - it's what I've romaticized about for years now. Going to Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance, walking down the same little streets as the artists did. David is truly awe inspiring. At about 15' tall, he is still lithe and graceful. He frowns, which I found rather intriguing, given that he is about to slay the giant - in fact, his expression is almost MonaLisa-esque, in that you can't quite fathom what it is. It's also interesting to see the other sculptures around to understand why this was such a break-through. The seem like little play-dough toys in comarison.
I have to admit that I was a little disappointed that the marble wasn't polished and transluscent like the Pieta, and wonder why it was left that way. Nonetheless, it is still magnificent.
In the afternoon, we had a rather nasty lunch at one of the touristy restauraunts near the Ponte Vecchio. Another word of caution to the unwary traveler: Only eat at places that have referrals. I found Frommers to be a good source.
I went to the Duomo, which, although quite impressive, did not leave me breathless in the way the Gothic cathedrals do.
We had a little picnic dinner at the Piti Palace, followed by drinks on the terrazo, which really sealed the deal on making it a really spectacular day. As I stared out at the serene Florentine sky with the Duomo lit up, and all the little lights on in the hills, all my stress ebbed away - now I know why people go on vacation.
I also started reading the 7th Harry Potter (more on that)
Day 6 (9/29/07):
My second day in Florence. We had breakfast on the terrazo - I have to say that I am really liking this terrazo business. I wish I had an outdoor space in my little Cambridge apartment. Then headed off to the Uffizi. Walked through several halls of really fabulous paintings - DaVinci, Botticelli, Caravegio - oh, it was fantastic.
And believe it or not, we had lunch at McDonald's. Yes, it was tasty, and familiar, and I am embarassed to admit, I actually enjoyed it.
We then took the bus out to Fiesole, a little town up in the hills hear Florence. We drove by olive orchards. The view from up in the hills is really nice, and I strongly recommend making this little side trip.
We had dinner at Mama Ginas, which was fantastic, and highly recommended. After a spate of disappointing meals, I was so thankful to have one fantastic Italian dinner.
Day 7 & 8 (9/30 - 10/01/07)::
I am excited to be off to Venice - another dream journey that I have always wanted to make. After an uneventful train ride, we arrive at Santa Lucia train station.
I step out, and am so unprepared for the wonder that is Venice. The way the sun glints off the water as the gondolas sail by and the architecture along the grand canal is unquestionably magical despite the throngs of tourists and the vaporetti that ply along. Venice - it's very existence is a wonder in itself, and the more you hear about its history, the better it gets. Venetians first started off as salt makers and traders, and then as the city went on to become an important port, it obviously made ship building and other maritime activities paramount. I can well imagine Shylock and Antonio bargaining for his pound of flesh on the Rialto.
Every little piece of Venice thrills and delights me - sailing down the Grand Canal, the Piazza San Marco, the little canals, the gondolas. I spent the next two days enthralled.
We went to Murano, saw the glass blowers, and could not get enough of walking through the little shops, picking up little trinkets and show pieces.
One evening, Tarun and I tried to find take-out pizza. Would you believe that it is really hard to find take-out pizza in Venice? We finally had to get it from a Chinese-run tratoria, which I found absolutely hilarious. In fact, the whole concept of take-out food appears to be rather alien. I suppose in Italy, one either eats in the restaraunt, or cooks at home.
I knew I should have written everything as soon as I got back. It's been more than a month, and I've forgotten the details .... but anyway, here goes nothing ..
Day 9 (9/02/07):
Paris, why aren't I as enamored as I should be? Perhaps it's all the luggage I'm lugging around. Wasn't the Eifel tower one of the first structures to have an elevator? Why then, do the subways in Paris not have them? Anyhoo, I finally get on the train to Reims. Once there, I discover that holidaying by one's self is not so much fun. I really miss the family. As I walk along, I have so many things to say, but no one to say them to. So I capture as much as I can on film, to share with everyone when I get back home.
I set out to see the Mummms winery, which at any given point in time houses around 25 million bottles of champagne. A half hour later, and a little wiser about the whole champagne making process, I get to taste some of the good stuff. I now know that chardonnay gives it effervescence. Later that day I go over to the Notre Dame cathedral. Oh, my God!!! - it is so outstandingly beautiful. Words cannot even begin to express how amazing it is. I stare dumbfounded, and dazzled by the intricacy of the carvings, contrasted by the bold architecture. It brings tears to my eyes. Gothic has always been one of my favorite periods, and this epitomizes everything that it was - from the stained glass windows to the flying buttresses, everything is painstakingly rendered.
Just this little episode makes the whole trip worth while - that and the pate de fois gras I had for dinner :) Back at my hotel, I turn on the TV and am amused to see Desperate Housewives dubbed in French. It actually loses some of its trashiness when spoken in French, which in itself is rather interesting. It was followed by Sex in the City. Carrrrrrriie the way the French say it sounds weird. Carrie without SJP's voice is weird too.
The next day I went to the Veuve Cliquot champagne house and left with a bottle 1999 Vintage demi-sec. Can't wait for the special occasion when i can drink it.
9/3/07:
Back in Paris.
OK, so far the best part of my stay in Paris is the food. I suppose what they say about Paris being for lovers is true. It's just not as much fun when you're by yourself. And everyone is so damn blatantly romantic, it's actually quite sweet. People turn and spontaneously kiss, or walk around hand in hand, or make out under a blanket on the banks of the Seine ...
Paris on Friday night is really hopping. The Latin quarter is bustling with life, and the chocolate mousse is ooh-la-la.
Interestingly, I being and end this blog with chocolate ...
9/4/07:
Back in Boston
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| Vacation 2007 - Switzerlan |
Day 1 (9/24/07):
After a really painful flight with me in the middle seat, I reach Geneva frazzled and a little annoyed. NorthWest, in the usual kanjoos fashion of all domestic American airlines offered us a granola bar for breakfast (no tea, coffee, nothing). How generous. Imagine a plane full of hungry, tired passengers, who are not allowed to bring their own water on board, nor are they provided any in flight (or at least not enough to sustain the 7 hour journey). Anyhoo, rants aside, I reached Geneva quite tired. Not to mention that I had been getting by on 4 hours of sleep a night for all of the prior week. The first thing I spot as I get of the plane is a chocolatarie, and that certainly brightened my day.
Reached Tarun's postage stamp size apartment, which is totally adorable and in the heart of the city with fantastic views of the mountains. Some of them even have snow-covered peaks. Yay, this is Switzerland. Tarun brought up the most awesome apple pie from the corner boulangerie. Well, if there's one thing the French know, it's their bread and pastries - it literally melts in your mouth. I could live on hot bread and tomme.
Day 2 (9/25/07):
I slept in late without guilt. Yes, one of the other pains of growing older is that I have tremendous guilt if I sleep in later than 7:30 am. But hey, I'm on vacation, and hence, guilt free - hmmmm ..... not quite guilt free because Commodore Theogaraj walks in, looks at his watch, and says "10:30 am, Gaelyn??". But nothing could suck the joy out of my extended sleep, and the fact that I could just lounge around the rest of the day doing nothing.
That evening, we all headed off to sit around on the shores of Lac Leman. The thing that makes it so extraordinarilty beautiful is that not only is there a lake, but it's a lake surrounded by mountains, and also lush, lush, green grass of the brightest green, with quaint little houses dotting the hillsides. And to add to it all, there's a profusion of swans. My entire trip was just a feast for the eyes.
Day 3 (9/26/07):
Nothing much happened on day 3. Continued to laze around, and was quite content to do so. Until the American in me kicked in, and I thought "hey, I'm in Switzerland, I can't be sitting around doing nothing". So I spent the rest of the day doing some frantic google searches on "things to do in and around geneva". You'd think Tarun would have had a list, but then, he's not American :) Having made my list, I went on to prioritize it - just in case I couldn't get to everything - AND create a time-table.
I look in the mirror and laugh at the person I've become :D So I abandon the list and get back to trying to be spontaneous. Not succeeding, I end up taking a nap.
In the afternoon, Tarun and I walked around the jardin on the shores of Lac Leman. It was nice to just goof off, take silly photos, giggle. The "El Bandito" and "Sombody gonna get hurt" photos were taken on this little jaunt.
We also took it upon ourselves to name every passer by, trying to guess their nationalities. We saw a couple of Giovannis (Italian), one Colin and his wife Hazel (British), a Bob and Sarah (yeah, American) and a surprising number of Ganesh's with their wives whom we named Suddha.
That evening the family and I walked around old Geneva, took photos, went to the top of St. Peter's cathedral, and stopped at an outdoor cafe for a beer.
Day 4 (9/27/07):
Three days and I'm starting to get restless. We spent the day visiting the UN. Dancing Danny (not his real name), was the tour guide. It was a most excellent morning and I don't remember a thing he said. We had shwarma for lunch. WARNING: DO NOT HAVE SCHWARMA IN SWITZERLAND. You think we'd know better.
We boarded the train to Florence at about 9:00 that night. It was a wonderfully comfortable sleeper car - blankets included.
Day 5 (9/28/07):
Arrived in Florence, and was reminded of childhood trips to Baroda to see my grandmother. The scene looked remarkably and disappointingly familiar - slightly beat-up houses by the railroad tracks. Getting out of the station (Santa Maria Nouvella), we boarded the D bus to take us to our hotel. From that point on, everything was magically, quaint - I was transported into my own dream world, imagining I was a Renaissance princess living in the times of the Medicis, and DaVinci and Michelangelo.
For starters, the streets are no more than about 10-15 feet wide. The busses are small, and can hold about 10 people. They teeter along the cobblestones, honking at passers by. We arrived at the hotel, which looks nothing like it's online pictures. I walk in warily, hoping that I dont' have to stay in a roach motel for the next two nights. But we were pleasantly surprised - La Scaletta is one of the most charming little hotels I have seen. Converted from an old palazzo, the rooms have 15 ft high ceilings, there's a lovely terrace with a panoramic view of teh city and the Boboli gardens. I have my first cup of Italian capuccino, and all is well with the world.
Later that morning, we went to the Acadamia museum, before which Mona and I scouted the leather shops. And I finally see Michelangelo's David - it's what I've romaticized about for years now. Going to Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance, walking down the same little streets as the artists did. David is truly awe inspiring. At about 15' tall, he is still lithe and graceful. He frowns, which I found rather intriguing, given that he is about to slay the giant - in fact, his expression is almost MonaLisa-esque, in that you can't quite fathom what it is. It's also interesting to see the other sculptures around to understand why this was such a break-through. The seem like little play-dough toys in comarison.
I have to admit that I was a little disappointed that the marble wasn't polished and transluscent like the Pieta, and wonder why it was left that way. Nonetheless, it is still magnificent.
In the afternoon, we had a rather nasty lunch at one of the touristy restauraunts near the Ponte Vecchio. Another word of caution to the unwary traveler: Only eat at places that have referrals. I found Frommers to be a good source.
I went to the Duomo, which, although quite impressive, did not leave me breathless in the way the Gothic cathedrals do.
We had a little picnic dinner at the Piti Palace, followed by drinks on the terrazo, which really sealed the deal on making it a really spectacular day. As I stared out at the serene Florentine sky with the Duomo lit up, and all the little lights on in the hills, all my stress ebbed away - now I know why people go on vacation.
I also started reading the 7th Harry Potter (more on that)
Day 6 (9/29/07):
My second day in Florence. We had breakfast on the terrazo - I have to say that I am really liking this terrazo business. I wish I had an outdoor space in my little Cambridge apartment. Then headed off to the Uffizi. Walked through several halls of really fabulous paintings - DaVinci, Botticelli, Caravegio - oh, it was fantastic.
And believe it or not, we had lunch at McDonald's. Yes, it was tasty, and familiar, and I am embarassed to admit, I actually enjoyed it.
We then took the bus out to Fiesole, a little town up in the hills hear Florence. We drove by olive orchards. The view from up in the hills is really nice, and I strongly recommend making this little side trip.
We had dinner at Mama Ginas, which was fantastic, and highly recommended. After a spate of disappointing meals, I was so thankful to have one fantastic Italian dinner.
Day 7 & 8 (9/30 - 10/01/07)::
I am excited to be off to Venice - another dream journey that I have always wanted to make. After an uneventful train ride, we arrive at Santa Lucia train station.
I step out, and am so unprepared for the wonder that is Venice. The way the sun glints off the water as the gondolas sail by and the architecture along the grand canal is unquestionably magical despite the throngs of tourists and the vaporetti that ply along. Venice - it's very existence is a wonder in itself, and the more you hear about its history, the better it gets. Venetians first started off as salt makers and traders, and then as the city went on to become an important port, it obviously made ship building and other maritime activities paramount. I can well imagine Shylock and Antonio bargaining for his pound of flesh on the Rialto.
Every little piece of Venice thrills and delights me - sailing down the Grand Canal, the Piazza San Marco, the little canals, the gondolas. I spent the next two days enthralled.
We went to Murano, saw the glass blowers, and could not get enough of walking through the little shops, picking up little trinkets and show pieces.
One evening, Tarun and I tried to find take-out pizza. Would you believe that it is really hard to find take-out pizza in Venice? We finally had to get it from a Chinese-run tratoria, which I found absolutely hilarious. In fact, the whole concept of take-out food appears to be rather alien. I suppose in Italy, one either eats in the restaraunt, or cooks at home.
I knew I should have written everything as soon as I got back. It's been more than a month, and I've forgotten the details .... but anyway, here goes nothing ..
Day 9 (9/02/07):
Paris, why aren't I as enamored as I should be? Perhaps it's all the luggage I'm lugging around. Wasn't the Eifel tower one of the first structures to have an elevator? Why then, do the subways in Paris not have them? Anyhoo, I finally get on the train to Reims. Once there, I discover that holidaying by one's self is not so much fun. I really miss the family. As I walk along, I have so many things to say, but no one to say them to. So I capture as much as I can on film, to share with everyone when I get back home.
I set out to see the Mummms winery, which at any given point in time houses around 25 million bottles of champagne. A half hour later, and a little wiser about the whole champagne making process, I get to taste some of the good stuff. I now know that chardonnay gives it effervescence. Later that day I go over to the Notre Dame cathedral. Oh, my God!!! - it is so outstandingly beautiful. Words cannot even begin to express how amazing it is. I stare dumbfounded, and dazzled by the intricacy of the carvings, contrasted by the bold architecture. It brings tears to my eyes. Gothic has always been one of my favorite periods, and this epitomizes everything that it was - from the stained glass windows to the flying buttresses, everything is painstakingly rendered.
Just this little episode makes the whole trip worth while - that and the pate de fois gras I had for dinner :) Back at my hotel, I turn on the TV and am amused to see Desperate Housewives dubbed in French. It actually loses some of its trashiness when spoken in French, which in itself is rather interesting. It was followed by Sex in the City. Carrrrrrriie the way the French say it sounds weird. Carrie without SJP's voice is weird too.
The next day I went to the Veuve Cliquot champagne house and left with a bottle 1999 Vintage demi-sec. Can't wait for the special occasion when i can drink it.
9/3/07:
Back in Paris.
OK, so far the best part of my stay in Paris is the food. I suppose what they say about Paris being for lovers is true. It's just not as much fun when you're by yourself. And everyone is so damn blatantly romantic, it's actually quite sweet. People turn and spontaneously kiss, or walk around hand in hand, or make out under a blanket on the banks of the Seine ...
Paris on Friday night is really hopping. The Latin quarter is bustling with life, and the chocolate mousse is ooh-la-la.
Interestingly, I being and end this blog with chocolate ...
9/4/07:
Back in Boston
Sunday, June 10, 2007
on hair color and growing older
The day has finally arrived when I color my hair not so much as a fashion statement, but to hide the gray. Will I age gracefully or fight it with a vengeance?
I'm unsettled by the lines around my eyes, but even more unsettled because they don't smile as often than they used to. The smile starts at my mouth and stays there - wide, maybe even pretty, seemingly happy, but frozen.
Older is wiser, and wisdom is the loss of innocence!
I'm unsettled by the lines around my eyes, but even more unsettled because they don't smile as often than they used to. The smile starts at my mouth and stays there - wide, maybe even pretty, seemingly happy, but frozen.
Older is wiser, and wisdom is the loss of innocence!
Saturday, April 14, 2007
today I met my mother ..
... and she’s fragile and frail.
Cancer always happens to someone else: you never think it will hit home. And yet it's here, staring evilly out at me through her tired eyes. I squeeze her hand hard and smile with as much conviction as I can muster, saying its going to be all right, but inside I’m crying out, pleading with God to make her well again.
She's always taken care of me, so as I bathe and feed her, and wash her hair, I am bewildered by having to be the care giver instead of the receiver. I cringe at every uncertain step she takes because I know how much she hates feeling so helpless. I'm shaken by her helplessness - she seems like someone else. I wonder if everyone has the same sense of disconcertion in seeing their parents grow old. I want to hold her close, hoping that if I squeeze hard enough, my strength will somehow flow into her.
When she cries as I leave to return home to Boston, I quickly turn away, not
wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to face the fact that I this may be the
last time I see her. I know she feels the same way, but neither of us voices
our fears. I can see it in her eyes, but avert by gaze and walk away. And then
I turn back to hug her - again, and again, and again.
My mother – the person whom I went to when I was afraid, whom I clung to when I was scared, whom I held as I fell asleep, who stroked my forehead gently, wiping away my silly little childhood worries.
I’m afraid, terribly afraid, but have no one to cling to. I fall asleep at her bedside, and I cannot crawl in beside her. I desperately want to hold her and have her tell me that everything will be fine, like she did when I was a child. But this time, I’m the one who is doing the telling … it’ll be all right mom, you’ll we well and strong again.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
on manequins
I work in the mall -- well, not in the mall, but above it. So everyday, on my way to work, as I walk past Ann Taylor and Ralph Lauren, BeBe and Barami, and look into the windows, I am intrigued by the manequins. Now a manequin is a manequin, and one should be no different from the other. However, as I ramble on, and share my observations, you may think I am quite crazy, but I do imagine that each of them is quite distinctly characteristic.
Ralph Lauren - Why are they colored brown? Perhaps to suggest that they've just returned from a cruise with newly acquired tans? They're the privileged jet-set, graceful and lithe in their wonderful, out-doorsy settings. They've just stepped off a yatch onto some private island, where the crew has laid out a picnic, or they're skiing in the Alps, or they are lounging by the pool at a luxurious 5-star Carribean resort -- Despite the fact that they're absurdly androgynous, and the females curiously flat-chested, I do envy the Ralph Lauren mannequins their trust funds and beautiful clothes.
LaCoste - No heads, hence no facial expressions to read or fathom. They're athletic with fantastic bodies - perhaps that's why they don't need heads, or brains, or faces. They're about to take that next tennis shot. Even in her bikini, she is more beach-volleyball than lounge around and soak up the sun.
Ann Taylor -- aloof, size 2, A cup -- the type who wears a double string pearl neclace. She seems more wife than career woman. Poised and confident, she's a little pensive. She's at the garden tea party or the charity gala, and her unsmiling eyes are cast downward - always.
Victoria's Secret - Unlike the others, which are monochromatic, the VS mannequins are bright, and vivid, with big hair and voluptious breasts. They stare blankly into the distance, their expressions rather harsh, almost bored, absolutely aware of their sex appeal. But do I detect a twinge of tiredness at the routine of having to be sexy all the time?
So that's all for now. I could go on, but it will get stale. Maybe my next writing will be on the food court and why sushi as fast-food is appalling.
Ralph Lauren - Why are they colored brown? Perhaps to suggest that they've just returned from a cruise with newly acquired tans? They're the privileged jet-set, graceful and lithe in their wonderful, out-doorsy settings. They've just stepped off a yatch onto some private island, where the crew has laid out a picnic, or they're skiing in the Alps, or they are lounging by the pool at a luxurious 5-star Carribean resort -- Despite the fact that they're absurdly androgynous, and the females curiously flat-chested, I do envy the Ralph Lauren mannequins their trust funds and beautiful clothes.
LaCoste - No heads, hence no facial expressions to read or fathom. They're athletic with fantastic bodies - perhaps that's why they don't need heads, or brains, or faces. They're about to take that next tennis shot. Even in her bikini, she is more beach-volleyball than lounge around and soak up the sun.
Ann Taylor -- aloof, size 2, A cup -- the type who wears a double string pearl neclace. She seems more wife than career woman. Poised and confident, she's a little pensive. She's at the garden tea party or the charity gala, and her unsmiling eyes are cast downward - always.
Victoria's Secret - Unlike the others, which are monochromatic, the VS mannequins are bright, and vivid, with big hair and voluptious breasts. They stare blankly into the distance, their expressions rather harsh, almost bored, absolutely aware of their sex appeal. But do I detect a twinge of tiredness at the routine of having to be sexy all the time?
So that's all for now. I could go on, but it will get stale. Maybe my next writing will be on the food court and why sushi as fast-food is appalling.
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