Travellers tales

Now I don't know if I told you this before, but the hubby is an incurable traveller. And ofcourse he loves for us to partake in his misery journey. So every few years or so, we up sticks and make like the proverbial arab and dissapear silently into the night, tent and all.
This time, when we threw darts bildfolded at the map (that's the ONLY way to decide our next move, don't you know?), it landed on Bucharest. so that's where we're headed.
Moving with kids comes with its own set of complications, though. There's term times and holidays to consider which narrows the window for the move drastically. There's also the new school address to consider - if the school's in the remotest corner of the city, then, sadly, that's where our new house will be, because beating traffic (driving on the wrong side of the road) every morning while getting two groggy-eye children into the back of the car is not how I want to spend my mornings.
But this post is not about the wonders of an expat lifestyle. Oh no. That'll need a whole blog and a new therapist.
This post is about my luck (or lack thereof) when it comes to travelling. It's ironic for someone who travels so much to have such rubbish luck with travel. Especially with air travel. The Gods of Air Travel must have a special bone to pick with me.
It all started ordinarily enough yesterday at Heathrow. Self, Hubby, two kids, the Mum-in-law, car seat and about 10 pieces of assorted luggage had safely made their way into the airport with just a minor wobble when our taxi wallah threatened to take us to the wrong terminal. Hubby, champion backseat driver, jumped to the rescue and we safely made it back to our original destination.
Okay, like I said, minor wobbles. Much like the suspicious counter staff at the airport counter who didn't know the rules about entry into Bucharest if you didn't have a Europeans passport. All that required as a quick call to the Romanian embassy to clarify what had been put on their website. After all, who can blame the guys on the counter? he'd heard of people coming in from Romania to the UK. But this whole bucking the trend thing had addled his brains.
Right. check in now done, I'd begun to relax a little bit now, and got on the phone to say our final goodbyes. The Mum-in-Law in the meanwhile decided to head off to the toilets, and the Holy Terror, following in her brother's footsteps and continuing the fascination with public toilets, follows her gran.
Half an hour later, no sign of Holy Terror or MIL. hmm. I have now been promptly sent off on an errand to check toilets for missing MIL & HT. Picture this scene: Toilets in the busiest airport in the world on one of the busiest days of the year. A steady stream of tourists, all being greeted with the sight of me wailing 'Ammmmaaaaaaaaaaaaa????' while knocking on each cubicle and checking under doors. Five minutes of this and I knew I was in serious danger of being arrested before I left the shores of the blighty.
Naturally by this time the airline had announced that they we closing the boarding of our flight. Baa-lamb's decided enough of this tomfoolery and takes charge.
"Right. You head off to the departure gates and stall them with Pickwick while I find Airport Security" he says as he jogs offs.
"But how am I..." I begin to ask, but I am only talking to thin air. The baa-lamb has marched off with a determined air about him.
Okay. So stop flight. Right. Lets take this step by step. We need to get to the gates first. All hare-brained schemes to stop the flight can be formed en route or, once we arrive. Who knows, maybe inspiration will strike upon seeing one of the bored ladies at the gate.
I arrive breathless at the gate - still inspirationless and decide to throw myself at the mercy of the attendant and the gates- who seems to be carved from ice. Like she's heard it all before (really? you've heard of people losing their mothers and their children? At the same time?). As I launch into a long-winded explanation, the Holy Terror tugs at my trousers. "Not now, honey, Mummy's talking to this nice lady here." I say on autopilot.
"Like I was saying Ma'am, my daughter here- my daughter? HERE?!!" I ended with a screech. Having rendered half the passengers on the flight deaf, I proceeded to squeeze the life out of my daughter  and dishevel my normally super neat MIL.
"But... You... How? Where?" Credit goes to the MIL for making sense of my incoherent ramblings and she explained that having lost her way on her way back from the toilet, she sensibly decided to wait at the exit gate knowing at eventually we would have to land up there. She'd then borrowed a phone and called the baa-lamb, and he did try and get in touch with me, but I was so busy concocting plans to stop the flight that I'd ignored his calls.
By the time the baa-lamb arrived it was a proper reunion worthy of a bollywood blockbuster.
I am happy to report that we are now in Bucharest without and further untoward incidents.  

The heart of London

So I attended this photography course over the wee

kend. And all in all it was pretty neat. Most of all it reminded me what was so amazing about the city of London. There we were, right in the heart of the city, and this is what we spotted:

No idea what that contained, but what a pretty colour.

Tre

k

k

ie moment

My attempt at creating movement.

Hail-O, halo

Atmosphere

A heron with a Mohawk

Tube Zodiac

I have lately stopped reading my book in the tube. I find it for more interesting to watch other people while listening to the latest hindi ‘gaana’

 

Like Ms Goodman chooses to classify people into 12 broad categories, we can classify the tube commuter into 12 broad catergories:

 

The Ram: The ram bulldozes his/ her way into the crowded compartment and yells at the top of their voices ‘Move alonnnng, please’. Yes, dear ram, we needed you to tell us that, otherwise, we just so love to leave vast expanses of unoccupied seats and standing space, all to huddle together on the 3 square feet of space you need to occupy.

 

The Bull: The bull just goes a step further and pushes you out of the way. One needs to be especially wary of the female variety, as they just zero in on the seat they’ve spotted through the window. PLEASE, for your own safety and for the safety of those around you, jump out of their way! Once they are comfortably seated, of course, they’re the most pleasant things to have around.

 

The Twins: These are generally of the adolescent variety, and one is seriously tempted to urge them to get a room. They are so entwined that it is hard to decipher where one ends and the other begins. The upside to this, of course is that they occupy one seat instead of two, or if standing, will stand collectively on only two feet at a time.

 

The Crab:  we tend to spot the crab at most major interchanges. They dart in, espy two-odd seat in different direction, mentally calculate the distance from the door to the seats, pick the closer of the two, and with some deft maneuvering (that can only be describe as ‘crab-like’) he’s sitting pretty, while others are still struggling to get in.

 

The Lion: The lion is not afraid to voice his opinion. He’ll have an opinion on the services, on Gordon Brown, on the recession, on the weather, on you...and it’s this last bit that particularly galling, because he’ll be there ‘tch’-ing at the bull, rolling his eyes at the Ram, hissing at the twins… you get the picture. Watching his back must be a full-time job for him.

 

The Virgin: This is someone you’d like to unleash the lion upon. Super –critical doesn’t begin to describe them. They’ll be the ones running their finger over the window sill with a raised eyebrow. A 30 second delay in departures with have them impatiently looking at their watch while tapping their feet. God forbid, you choose to jump into the tube seconds before the door shuts, then you’ve really had it – You will be root cause of any delay henceforth, be it signal failure or a man having a cardiac arrest 3 trains ahead. You Were The Cause. And the Virgo won’t let you forget it. Maybe there’s a reason they’re Virgins?

 

The Balance: These ones would do you proud on a footboard in a Mumbai local. They’ll be the one’s standing near the door, first to hop out as soon as the train stops. No, not just at their station, but at every station – they’re also the last to hop in. At every station. Why they do this beats me, but I suppose it give them a warm afterglow to know that they have successfully shaved 1/625 th of a second off their travel time in a day. 

 

The Scorpion: Beware the scorpion – they strike when least expected. Largely prevalent in shady locations, they normally move in herds.  Their sting, also called switchblade swiftly deprives you of your most prize possessions, and they melt way into the night, never to be seen again.

 

The Archer: The archer loves to, well, ‘arch’. He arches over you to get at the newspaper, arches over to open the window, arches over to grab the hand-hold… erm, hey, archie, newsflash: believe it or not, shoving smelly armpits in peoples faces is not the best way to get them to like you. In fact, it might surprise you to know that it has quite the opposite effect (yes! Really!)

 

The Horned Goat: Or the tube lothario. Normally, despite being hampered by a severe shortage of it, people are quite respectful of each others’ personal space, but the horned goat delights in getting up close. This is because under normal circumstances, the ladies would rather join a nunnery that be caught having a conversation with the goat. With some faces, even that mother of all beauty creams – beer, fails miserably.

 

The Water- Carrier: Thanks to the miracles of modern science, pregnant women can now work further and further into their term. Now if only science could find something to calm co-passengers and they get more and more nervous. The reason for this, is not that they’re worried about the health of the mother and baby, but more on account of the fact that if the water- carrier turns to the water-breaker, there’s a good chance that they might miss the kick-off of the football game they’re going to. Would make a grown man cry, it would.

 

The Fish: Ah! The fish! Commonly sighted at Pubs, other tube zodiacs magically transform into the fish after football matches, weekends, hours of hard partying, stag dos, weekends, rugby matches & weekends. Look out for the fish’s tendency to assume everybody’s their best friend, a total lack of co-ordination (like the inability to put food into the right orifice in the face), the inability to find their home, and hence, assuming that you’re their best friend, now that they have known you for all of 38 seconds, they can crash at your pad for the night. Naturally, if you’ve transformed into a fish as well, you will not remember any of this the following morning.

How we spend snow days.

My family has always been proud of being foodies. We make no bones about it. hence the conversation that follows.

Venue: Our House. Time: 8:50 am, on a Sunday. The Occasion: our first real snow shower in London.

For The benefit of all the non- Tam-brams reading this post, I have translated the conversation for you.

Baa Lamb: ... BIG flakes.

(pause)

Have you made the curry already?

Mother-in-law: Almost. Everythings' ready. You can start if you want. Just have to fry it a bit more. it's done.

(pause)

IT's nice... soft (No we are NOT talking about the snow here) or we can stop now.

BL: what's the time?

MIL:not even 9.

BL: 8:55. (thoughtful pause)

MIL: so should I fry it?

BL: Don't you always fry it??

MIL:It's fried! it's done!

BL: Fry it.

(sound of frying...)

Autumn

Autumn. I love the word. I love it more because its one of the words my son says adorably. I love it slightly less than I used to on account of the gloomy, chilly evenings I'm experiencing, after a gloomy, rainy summer. Still, before I begin to absolutely loathe the word, here's a glimpse of why I still think it's semi- cool. The Greenhouse.

Late Afternoon at the park

last of the green leaves

A final burst of defiance by the flowers before winter decides to show them who's Daddy

Henry Moore and Nature.

Pickwick finds his Kamal...

...in the Keechad!

Hooked! Line & Sinker

After 28-odd years (yes, 28. No. I DO NOT lie. And Yes, I DO LOOK older in my photos. I'm not getting older. I'm aging gracefully) of my life on this earth, I have finally realised what I have been missing. This is quite apart from missing the bhel and the samosas and the paani puris and the Golas... *sigh* I digress. As is often the case when we talk about food.

Pause for a brief moment where I imagine the taste of the above bursting in my tongue.

Well, last night I had the pleasure of watching a Broadway musical. OK, OK- you can stop with the shocked noises. I haven't been to one despite having resided in London for six months. I will lay the blame for the same squarely on the shoulders of a certain baa-lamb who refused to shell out what he terms as 'a criminal amount of money' to watch people cavorting about in tights and singing. He claims that sort of thing looks better in the movies. So last night when BL's (Baa-lamb, dearies) colleague asked if we would like tickets to a musical, BL snorted at the suggestion of his ever being caught dead watching that kind of stuff, but graciously offered to babysit Pickwick while I indulged in my long cherished dream.
I reached well in advance (despite having climbed the 293 steps of Covent Garden Station Coz I was too impatient to wait for the lift- a decision that showed my general fitness levels in abysmal light). A little too well in advance- they were still cleaning out the steps when I arrived, I think. I generally hung around soaking in the atmosphere. Also soaked in a whole lotta second-hand cigarette smoke, directed two lost tourists very helpfully in the wrong direction, and grabbed every free leaflet available to read up on the musical and London's theater guide. Just when people were giving me funny looks as assessing if I was a serial stalker, my date showed up.
We promptly collected our ticket and got seated in the front rows (very good seats). Oh- did I mention I was there to watch Chicago? No? Doesn't matter. It could have been Posh's life on stage, and I would have still enjoyed myself. Still, love the songs, can sing along with most of them, and totally flipped for the movie, so the play was a good choice.
Needless to say the Play did not disappoint. I was a bit deflated with Kelly Osbourne's performance as 'Mama Morton' (after all, Queen Latifah, is a act to follow), I believed she sang, but the rest performed(huge difference). And what a performance it was! The only time I took my eye off stage was to grab a couple of spoonfuls of the hazelnut and fresh cream ice cream (very good. Daylight robbery prices, but Very Good.), and to briefly apologise to the poor chap whose foot I was squashing in my excitement, as I tried to tap along with the performers on stage (I would have clapped, but hands were otherwise occupied with the aforementioned ice cream).
At the end of the play, I clapped, hooted and whistled like a crazed Rajnikant fan at the first show of his movie. And I wasn't alone. More than half the audience was on their feet, showing their appreciation for the awesome spectacle that entertained us for about 2 ½ hours. The lobby as we poured out was something else- we had a lot of people singing their favourite ditties from the musical, the odd snatches of tunes being whistled, and short of throwing their arms of one another and offering to buy you a drink at the local pub, the general air of bonhomie was something else.
Although it was close to midnight, trains were running to full capacity, and I got home with my head still full of the musical and a silly grin plastered to my face.
I now know why the say the stage is an addiction. I 'm hooked. And they'll try to make me got to rehab and I'll say No. No. NO!

I'm a Legal Alien

There are things that are endemic to each country that other people find inexplicable. Here are a few ads and announcements that have me flummoxed.

- Trains will not be stopping at Victoria station today due to excessive dust on the station.
Really?By that logic, the Virar local can only stop at the coach shed. maybe not even there- God Forbid, there might be Excessive Dust!

- And Ad on the Telly: 'Oasis- The chuggable fruitiness for people who don't like water'
Hasn't their mother ever told them of the millions of people dropping dead in third world countries because they don't have clean water to drink??? What kind of people are these? are you sure they are the same species as us???

Children who opt for eduation above the age of sixteen get paid by some boroughs to stay in school!

The cost of a litre of ice-cream and a bottle of mineral water is about the same.

Pureed tomato (in a tube) is cheaper than whole, raw tomatoes.

An ad on the telly asks you to contribute 3 pounds a month to keep some dogs in kennels, but another wants just 2 pounds to stop prevention of cruelty to children. (and guess which ads are played more frequently)

and Oh- Flash Floods! They make headline news... just to be clear what the idea of a flash flood here is: ten minutes of heavy rains (the kind we get for two continuous day in july in Mumbai)

Shall keep everyone posted as more googlies are thrown my way.

London on a Student Budget

Images of London- when you have no Budget to speak of, and not nearly enough days...

Tower Bridge. One of the most photographed places in London

The tower of London. Infamous for its numerous executions.

The Big Ben- by twilight

The new London Bridge

The Thames- in all it's fury. Not a patch on the Bhramaputra, but intimidating all the same.

Westminister skyline

A Dali Sculpture.

The London eye. AKA a mother of a Ferris Wheel.

Buckingham Palace.

Deer. Richmond Park.

Nice, eh?

Rainy streets.

A break in the weather

another view of the eye. Notice the chopper circling it.

Trafalgar Square. We caught the beginnings of a Protest.

Nice Brit Pub near Trafalgar

Typically Rainy Afternoon...

... And then the sun peeks out.

Freeze Framed!