Rome-Day 1

Jetlag caught up to all of us, and we woke up at 11am. We wanted coffee. Natalia had shown us how the Italians made their espresso at home. Either the Italians copied our south Indian filter coffee or we copied their espresso method. Everything is the same, down to the utensils used, and slow. So we head out for breakfast, to do the European thing- Chill out, have a cappuccino and watch the birds.

Romans do not like the morning sun. The only humans on the street were tourists like us. I heard one american ask another, “Why is this place deserted? Is it a holiday?” When you party hard all night, you don’t want to wake up before lunch. We found a café bar and ordered cappuccino. What we got was tepid coffee. Kala’s face puckered up, obviously disappointed. “What the hell is this?”

A little background here would help.

 A few years ago, we visited Spain with friends and just about had a near-disastrous trip. I wrote about it (see earlier blogs about Seville). The one thing we remember fondly about that trip was the perfect cappuccinos we got everyday; 3-4 every day. Despite the talent-challenged football team Italy has, we figured the cappuccinos would be similar in both countries. Boy where we mistaken. I tried my pidgin italian; Calda, CALDA, CALDA. The waiter nodded and brought me the same damn drink every time. And you see folks sitting around with the same cup of joe for hours on end. I wanted to tell them the milk in that cappuccino is probably curdled after sitting around in the open for so long. We were out walking quickly thereafter to run some errands. 

Natalia had told us about the farmer’s market close to the apartment, and we needed to buy some supplies, and a TIM card for the phone.There was this malayali aunty working in the store. She made the same mistake everyone makes who meet Kala the first time; she asked if Kala was malayali. She smiled and said no. Anju of course smiled and giggled at the lady and she was eager to help. The store carried curry powder and pickles, and ghee! We bought ghee for the kids. Yes we had a fully functional kitchen and we used it too. 

Farmer’s market was nice too. Awesome tomatoes. Juicy, ready to burst open at touch. A Bangladeshi worker there asked if we were from Chennai. When we said yes, he being a big Calcutta Knight riders fan said, “Shah Rukh Khan superstar. Calcutta Knightrider best cricket team. Chennai superkings lost haha.” It was weird to talk cricket with a Bangladeshi in Rome! 

We took it easy after all the shopping and returned home. While the kids slept, I went out for a run, up the hill to Gianocolese park. As it always happens, I got lost very close to the Spanish embassy, and a soldier in a parked Humvee helped me set me on the right track despite the language barrier. Fantastic run through the park, with trees to my left and spectacular views of the city of Rome to my right. Ran 3 miles and picked out a route to bring the Kala and the kids later in the day. 

Couple of hours later, we were on top of the hill, had a gelato We lounged about lazily soaking in the sun and the sights. There was a carousel in the park which got the girls happy. A bored-out-of-her-mind teenager with a Led Zeppelin T-shirt sat at the counter and gave out tokens for the rides. Felt bad for her; probably wanted to be out chilling with her friends than work at her family-run carousel. 

Something funny happened on the way down. We stopped by a local vegetable market on the way back. It was run by a Bangladeshi family. Their 5-year old son took one look at Maya and said “Aeei!” And did a Salman Khan move saying, “Dinchaak Dinchaak Dinchaak”, trying to wriggle his hips! He must have seen it in a movie. Maya gave him the same withering “What the hell are you doing?” look that her mother usually gives her, and walked on to look at the bananas. The boy did not know what to do next and went back to sucking his thumb standing behind his mom! Priceless.

Dinner was at dar Poeta; Trastavere’s best pizzeria. Same pizza experience here too; pre-bite Madness, magic, post-bite madness. Now we were quickly getting used to being KOed by the food, and using red wine to temper the impact. Here is where I say; Not the pizza from last night, but THIS pizza was the best!! At this rate, one could scrounge around the dumpsters in the back alleys of Rome, and come up with better-tasting pizzas than Pizza Hut’s “stuff”. Pizza Hut and Dominos have conned the world; that I am sure of.

Roma- Day zero

I will tell you of incidents, little stories, of people we met in Italy. I am no food writer, but will try to talk to the magnificence of the food we ate. 

Roma:

Anjali just about lost it in the airport after all that travel and no place to walk. There were just too many people to let her walk around. We had to calm her down and then head out into the heat.

The apartment folks in Rome had sent us a cab. Alessandro, the cabbie, waited for us for an hour with a sign “GANESH” that caught our eyes right away, amidst all the Gandolfinis, Berninis and Mancinos. We lost no time in getting the cabbie to chat. He loved to show off his English. 2 sons; one not so good in studies and helps drive cabs with the father, the other very good and works in a IT job in Roma and has moved in with his girlfriend. Mother is very happy that children are close by, and likes the girl (father also happy). The family detests Berlusconi (the very corrupt, philandering, misogynistic and very racist ex-PM of Italy who was eased out one too many years too late), and is sure economy will recover after a couple of years of austerity. I had no heart to tell him it would take a bit longer than that. 

The half hour trip to Trastevere took us past some really old and rich neighborhoods and Gianicolo park. When asked who lived in the old villas, he said “A loth of reech peepulleh”, and gave a throaty laugh. Our apartment was in a middle-class segment of the area, on a cobbled street and with barely enough room for a car to squeeze by. By the time we got out, took the baggage out and paid him, there were 4 cars honking behind him. “Aaah Italy”, here we come. We looked forward to 10 days of fun. 

The lady who managed the apartment, Natalia, waited for us at the apartment. She was super nice with the kids. Anjali took off as soon as I set her on the floor, literally took off poof!! Kala had to run behind her to make sure she did not put anything in her mouth. Natalia was a Romanian (from Romania) student studying music in Rome. She worked part time in a café bar nearby and helped run the apartment for the non-English speaking owner of the house. In fact we met a lot of immigrants like that. The English-speaking immigrant face of all-Italian establishments. Natalia gave us a map and talked about all the best eateries nearby and ways to use mass transit in Rome. I was glad I listened, because each one was awesome! The girls were on cloud nine, exploring the house: look Appa I am jumping on the bed, why do they have 2 potties in the bathroom (one was a bedet), they have a crib for Anju, but can I use it Appa, can I have some of the candy… it was going on and on. 

After settling in, we walked about the neighborhood of Trastevere. Cobbled streets, old buildings, mopeds parked at odd angles, clothes drying high above, between buildings. There were cafes at every corner, and everyone sitting at the tables outside smoked. Wearing sunglasses and people-watching and smoking over a glass of wine or Cappuccino was a European thing to do. 

Dinner was at Il-Duca. We  made the classic rookie mistake of ordering too much; ravioli, pizza, dessert and a carafe of wine! The restaurant reportedly has the last of wood-fired pizza ovens in the neighborhood and is known for the pizzas, which only sets the expectations even higher. When we ate the pizza, we fainted. 

What happens when you faint? Your eyes are closed, the world spins around you, you lose consciousness, and settle into your own world that your mind concocts. That’s pretty much what happened with that first bite of the pizza. I have been thinking about why the pizza tasted so good. It’s not just the cheese in the pizza, it’s the tomatoes, it’s the sauce, and how you have to eat it. The slices are large, so you fold it over like a handkerchief and I know it sounds uncouth. Not having tasted the pizza in the homeland of pizzas at all, your mind goes crazy with expectation. Your tongue touches the rough crust and it surprises you. You get past it. The teeth tear into the pie crust and your tongue is inundated with juices from the melting Mozzarella, the bleeding fresh-baked tomatoes and the sauce. The taste explosion just about causes you to lose sensation for a second. To understand it on an intellectual level, I had to close my eyes…taking in the fleeting image of Anjali reaching for the wine glass and thinking I will get to that problem in a second. That was the first time I had a momentary loss of reason due to food. That first bite convinced me that it was pizza made for the gods. Have you seen those movies where there is a fight, where the moves are fast until the fist meets the face at which point things go slow and you see the impact of the punch in slow motion? After the punch has landed, it goes back to the fast mode again. That is exactly how dinner went. Everything pre-bite was blurry; ordering the food, keeping track of a wily Anjali and curious Maya, taking a sip of wine, running after Anjali. Then that first bite lasted an eternity. Post-bite things went back to blurry; I caught Anju within inches of the glass, then ran after her, Maya nodded off, so did Anju, then things petered off toward dessert.

 We spent almost 2 hours at Il Duca and practically stumbled out, clutching our bellies. We swore we will never overeat again. To walk it off would require us to walk to north pole, so we settled for walking next door to Piazza Santa Maria to watch a few musicians play. The kids were up by then and thoroughly enjoyed the music. We lounged around and were home by 10pm. The neighborhood was just getting crowded! This is a town that parties hard.

We crashed like we had just run a marathon! Good times lay ahead.

Italy vacation: En-route stories

Connection to Rome was from Frankfurt. Boy where we glad to set foot on soil, any soil after flying 10 hours with a feisty Anjali and nonstop gabber Maya! It was the new Airbus 380 which took us from SFO to Frankfurt. The first and business class folks sit at the top level, and winding stairs lead up from the economy class. I made Anjali walk the stairs 25 times before she tired out and fell asleep on my shoulder. I timed her. She fought to stay awake for about an hour, and slept for half an hour. This happened in cycles all of the 10 hours! My neighbor was this Afghani man traveling with 3 children. He took pity on me since I slept all of half hour on the 10 hour flight, and did not even wake me when he wanted to go to the bathroom. No, he was not wearing adult diapers. The seats are spaced apart a bit more in the A380, so he squeezed past without waking me. Maya sat next to this 3-year old, who was as talkative as she was. When the entire section was trying to sleep and the lights were switched off, these two caught up on stories, conversing like old buddies. The stewardess had to come by and shush them a few times. Long story short, yes we were glad to be on ground and a couple of hours from a shower and bed. 

But of course, things had to go a bit awry in Frankfurt. Computer system shut down, and they had to manually check in passengers. To delay matters further, everyone had to go through security check-in again. With only an hour between connections, we ran with 2 carry-ons, 1 heavy laptop backpack, and another backpack filled with baby stuff. Kala pushed Anjali’s stroller. Maya kept pace, while asking “Why are we running?” like Lenny Kravitz; Anjali loved the lights and smiling people whizzing past her. For us, it was like backpacking down mission peak before night set in! We did it, and our flight left with our baggage onboard, 30 minutes late. It was definitely a first for us on Lufthansa, who pride themselves for punctuality. 

The one thing that sort of set the tone for the rest of the trip was the food on this short flight to Rome. They served us this Rye bread with cheese sandwich-That’s it. The bread was a bit nutty, and when chewed with the cheese, had this remarkable texture. It was like biting into soft heaven, and chewing it with softer heaven. Oh man, it was fantastic, and we resolved to recreate it when we got back home. I know a German bakery in Fremont, right off Fremont Blvd, which sold German cheese and bread. That set the mood for Italy- A little confusion, good food, kids on hyper-drive and nothing to do but chill.

Not expecting anything other than good pizzas and pastas, we did not know what we were in for when I set foot in the cacophonous capital of Italy.

Italy Vacation: Pre trip

When I told people we were going on vacation to Italy, their responses reflected their own experiences. Almost unanimously the women, or folks who had spent time there said "Ohhhhhh... Its (supposed to be) gorgeous there!" like they just saw a cute puppy play with a ball of wool. Italy inspires images of sunny beaches, sunlit villas, romance, puppies playing with balls of wool in the beach... The men typically said "Wow! Heard the pastas there are pretty good. Have some on me. " No exclamations to note. 

Folks who have never been there, or have heard of places like Capri or Rome only on TV, typically said, "Ok. Is it far from the Leaning tower of Pisa?" Or "Capri like the pants?" I admit that last one was me. What was worse was, I assumed there were shops with nothing but the shortened pants on sale all year around. Italy, for those who have neither been there, nor appreciated pastas, only elicit images of soccer, Mafia and the tower of Pisa. Then there is Vatican city; birthplace of Christianity, centuries worth of history, the playground of Michael Angelo and Leonardo daVinci, “Angels and Demons.” Then there is the language, and the people; the day to day itinerary can get filled with opportunities even if you knew nothing of the place.

The man from Virudhunagar

It was a surprise visit, and an undesirably short trip to Chennai these past few days. It is nice here. Not too hot or humid; my shirt soaked through only by 4pm. In June, you wake up at 7am with sweat-soaked clothes. There was a gentle breeze blowing everywhere in the city, where you in Velachery or Anna Nagar. My sister’s house in Anna Nagar is in this nice tree-lined street. Kids still play on the streets here, stopping when cars came by. The bark of the trees is dyed black from soot in the vehicle fumes, the resplendent green leaves far above street level bear a stark contrast to the black tree trunks, reminding me of the pollution in the city. It’s a sight to watch the branches swing lazily in the breeze. 

Every trip I make to the city, be it long or short, leaves me with a few memorable minutes. Once, it was a porter with impeccable English, and my daughter’s wonderment that he wore no shoes. Another time, it was this conversation with an auto rickshaw driver.

 It was midnight. After an enjoyable evening with my buddies, they flagged down an autorickshaw for me. A few minutes after I sat in it, I learned that the driver had agreed to a dirt cheap rate primarily because my friend, with whom he had negotiated, was from the same town as he. I would have loved to have been there when they found this out; it only took 2 minutes of conversation for them to figure it out! The driver was about 65 years old, and showed every year of it. The years had not been kind to him. Even in the darting lights from sodium vapor lamps by the streetside, he was quite striking. The large moustache that swung upward proudly announcing that he was from Virudhunagar, almost covered all the pockmarks on his face. He lacked all but a couple of front row of teeth. He chewed on a wad of tobacco stuck in a corner in his mouth and kept spitting out every now and then. I steered clear of the spit angle and sat in the opposite corner, just in case there was a gust of wind! 

 He moved with his entire family to Chennai, when he was still a boy of 14. He, with his 4 brothers and 2 sisters all went to work right away, his mother running the house while also working as a maid in a few houses nearby. The men drove rickshaws, worked construction jobs and cleaned streets to make ends meet. The girls worked as maids. They had no money and they lived in a small tenement near Parry’s corner. 2 of the brothers did not make it, dying away from Malaria. He said it so matter of factly that I did a double take and had to stop him. “2 of my brothers died a few years after we moved here. I got married after that. My wife was also from the same village…” His father had died long before and it was his mother’s decision to move to the city. There was little money to made from agriculture. 

He married and had 3 children of his own. He drove autos all day and night to do one thing and one thing only: to put the kids through college. You should have heard the pride with which he told me his 3^rd child, a girl, was going to graduate from college soon. I asked him how old he was. He said he was 75!!! 75 years old, and still grinding away. I asked him if he would retire any time soon. Pat came back the answer.; “No. What will I do with myself?” That was one thing I liked about him. He was confident of himself and his decisions. He did not go to school, he was happy working away 18 hours of the day, letting his wife manage the household and the children. He was happy working when many of the other drivers drank away precious earnings. He was proud that he had no vices like alcoholism or political leanings. The latter typically led to the former among his peers. I liked his singular desire of educating his children. It most probably saved him and his family. 

I liked that he believed in something more significant than religion or politics. Grinding poverty could have made him put the children to work as well, which happens often. But he refrained, and I felt good for having known the wise man. In the 25 minutes it took him to get me to Velachery, he told me his story with an incredible narrative. When we reached the house, I thanked him for the story and paid him. That was a year ago and I can still recall his voice and the forcefulness in his voice, when I traveled the same road at night. I am sure he is still toiling away with a smile and pride in his heart. I never did ask his name. As far as I was concerned, he was the man from Virudhunagar. Proud and resolute.

Here's to you Mr.Shadid

I was driving to work a few months ago, while listening to Fresh Air on 91.7. Terry Gross’ guest was this Pulitzer-winning Beirut-based correspondent with New York Times. He talked eloquently about the war in Iraq, the Arab uprising and the future of the region. I had stopped at a light just when he started talking about the future of Iraq. Just then a minivan pulled up beside me. A middle-aged woman, sat smoking at the wheel; the other seats were empty. My eyes were drawn to the signs on the van. The one that said “Iraq- Mission Impossible”, was partially torn off. I thought about the meaning of the sign for an instant. Perhaps, they thought the relevance of the sign had outlived its comedic life and the owner of the car figured it was time for a new sign. Something that said “Iraq was the dumb war,” to reflect then-candidate Obama’s views on the matter. Perhaps the car was bought second hand, and the new owner felt offended by the sign, figuring it was a valiant move on Prez Bush’s part to send in men and women and machinery for a brutal 10-year conflict, and sought to set the record straight for the future generations. In the new owner’s mind, perhaps the sign “Mission Impossible” ought to have instead proudly read “Mission Accomplished”. But all those signs were probably now resting in a dusty old box at the Smithsonian. The power of a strong voice and eloquent thought sometimes does force one to think a bit differently, and break away from the monotony.

I then moved on to other topics to write about and completely forgot about the day. Occasionally, I did struggle to remember the correspondent’s name, but never really took the time to dig it up from the archives. Last week I knew. His name was Anthony Shadid. Last week, he died of an apparent asthma attack, trying to make his way into Syria, while chasing the story of the uprising there. Here is how the official story goes: He was allergic to horses. The day he was trying to get his story in Syria, he was being taken there by guides on horseback. An asthma attack ensued, and he passed away miles away from any medical help.

He was an eloquent speaker, and from the brief few minutes I heard him speak, a journalist passionate about his subject. He spent years in Beirut, writing about life there. It was evident he was surrounded by danger, in a volatile region. And to meet his end with an asthma attack! I can only imagine the shock his family feels. They must have constantly worried about his well-being, what with all the danger surrounding him. And it came from a horse!

To each his own. Goodbye Mr.Shadid. This essay is to you.

Cheery memories of a dreary day

Today was a typical dreary English day. The Mission hills had their tops covered in clouds. The ground was wet; you heard the scrunch of wet pavement when you walked on it. Birds seldom flew away, if only to escape an oncoming car. The air was fresh, crisp, and the breeze gave you goose pimples without freezing the skin; the way only a winter morning can. The fog lent a deceptively sleepy, dreamy feel to an otherwise breakneck day that most people have here.

Maya spoke very less on the way to school, except for “This is my favorite song appa!” to everything that came out of our car radio. I smiled looking at her in the rear view mirror. She watched the distant mountains as she listened to the music. It took me back almost a couple of decades, to the winter of 1993. Everything about today; the fog, breeze and the wet ground, reminded me of the day of Kuzhali’s wedding.

Kuzhali, my buddy Saru’s sister, was loved by all for the cheer she surrounded herself with. I was in my first-ever job, in Bangalore, and the wedding was 300 km away in Coonoor. I had zero vacation days accrued, but there was no doubt of if I could make it to the wedding, but by when. Ooty and Coonoor had received a record rainfall that year, and there was imminent danger of landslides. Rampant denuding of the forests and housing developments had made the landslides a common occurrence by that time. I somehow managed to board a bus the night before the wedding and hoped that we would make it in time without incident.

A night’s bus journey later, I found myself standing at the Coonoor bus depot at 5AM. There was a slight drizzle, and a chilly fog covered everything. Dogs barked not too far away. A man was setting up his tea stall. We chatted a bit while I sipped the first cup of delicious tea he made for the day. I had misplaced the wedding invitation. All I knew was that it was in a hall close to a church in town. The tea-man told me it was 5 km away, and pointed me in the right direction. I hauled my soggy backpack and set out. The directions were pretty straight-forward; “Just take this road up the hill and you will see the church."

There were no cars on the road, save a couple of cows grazing on cinema posters and fresh grass of the season. I could not help smile to myself. It was the first holiday I had taken as a professional. Daylight was fast approaching, and the scenery lit up with spectacular vistas. There were little houses on one side, and tall trees on the other. Rolling hills everywhere, and the smell of flowers hung in the air. I was soaked to the skin, and I could not feel my nose. The pavement gave off a delicious scrunch as I walked uphill.

I must have walked about 2 km, when I heard a loud honk. I turned around and a couple of familiar heads poked out of the taxi. It was my sister, and my soon-to-be-brother-in-law. They had a hunch I would be coming that day and would probably be walking. We did not have cell phones back then. So there were more coincidences and lucky hunches when people made decisions by the seat of their pants.

2 km of walking was good enough for me, and I really needed to shower. I hopped in. Things had turned out better than I had expected. I looked forward to meeting all my friends, and trade stories.

Dreary days remind me of that morning, and brings warmth to the heart.