That's Me

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A wanderer. A bon vivant. A movie aficionado. En amour avec 'A'. These four remain constant. New interests develop every day. Latest being photography. And mastering the French language. Training for the marathon. And blogging.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Lost and Found in Translation - Tales from Tokyo

6 days of visa runs across 2 embassies for a 5 days extended weekend break; by the time I got into the plane, I was wondering if it’s even worth it. On second thoughts, those sleepless nights were a perfect prelude to the most exhilarating sojourn I could ever imagine, in the city that never sleeps. In Tokyo.

For the sake of saké and wa-shoku

We arrive in Tokyo on an early spring morning in May. Narita International Airport should prepare anyone visiting Tokyo for the first time, for what to expect from the city. Immigration is cleared in 2 minutes flat as your luggage awaits you. Precise signages lead you to the Airport Express Platform and the JR Express to Shinjuku, where we are staying, arrives right on the second. Having taken enough airport expresses in my lifetime, I know how exasperating an experience it can be; but here in Tokyo, it is a walk in the park.

Shinjuku is right in the heart of the city, a convenient location for tourists and locals alike, if you want to traverse the length and breadth of the city by public transport.

Shinjuku West also happens to be the business district and right after checking in, we head out to mingle with the "salary-men" and "office-ladies", as they are called in Tokyo, in search of our lunch. Not before experimenting with the remote controlled WC in our hotel room, of course.

A hearty wa-shoku (wa means Japanese-style and shoku indicates food) of gohan (steamed rice), okazu (the accompaniments with rice - in this case, a beef dish), tsukemono (pickled vegetables) and tamagoyaki (rolled omelet) later, we look out for the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. Apparently Notre Dame in Paris is the inspiration for this 296 meters high building. There are two observation galleries, with free entrance, one in each tower at the 45th floor. The city view from the top is, undoubtedly, breathtaking. On a clear day, one can even see Mount Fuji and Yokohama, they say, though we could only catch a hazy silhouette of the former.

Evening is kept aside for Kabuki-cho, Tokyo’s notorious nightlife district. It is in the vicinity of our neighbourhood and a leisurely stroll takes us to this multitudinous lanes and bylanes of neon lit restaurants, bars, dance clubs, strip joints, peep shows and hostess bars. Legend has it that the district's name comes from late-1940s plans to build a kabuki theatre and although the theatre was never built, the name stuck. We peep into the stores, strip our inhibitions and blend with the locals and end up making acquaintance with a couple of college kids, eager to polish their English, who eventually take us to a ramshackle restaurant, frequented by locals only, to try some real saké. And believe me for saké’s sake, when I say that it leaves you shaken and stirred. A whole bottle, a lot of conversation and a brief lesson on saké later - that saké is brewed like beer and undiluted saké contains 18%–20% of alcohol (but of course) - we decide to call it a night and tipsily make our way back to the hotel.

A day of Vintage and Avant-garde

We wake up leisurely the next day, with hardly any hangover. A wants to give credit to his scotch drinking system, though I attribute the absence of hangover to the purity of the alcohol that we had the night before. Out to hunt for asagohan (breakfast), we end up having a typical Japanese breakfast of yakizakana (grilled fish), oshinko (pickles), miso shiro (miso soup) and a bowl of rice.

Fortified for the rest of the day, our destination today is Asakusa, a neighbourhood in Tokyo where you still find women in Kimonos and Geisha girls with painted faces, narrow streets with quaint shops, traditional houses and shrines from the Edo period. Once Edo period’s main entertainment district, the neighbourhood is famous for its bright red Kaminarimon Gate with its 220-pound lantern hanging in the middle, and Kaze no Kami, the Wind God to the right and Kaminari no Kami, the Thunder God to the left, protecting the deity enshrined in the Sensoji Temple. Sensoji is Tokyo's oldest temple, founded in the 7th century, dedicated to Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy, and is popularly called the Asakusa Kannon Temple.

The Asakusa Kannon Temple. A pair of giant slippers has been thoughtfully kept on either side of the gate in case the resident Goddess feels like taking a stroll down the neighbourhood.

Since it is a nightmare to get A to visit any religious shrine, I have cleverly coincided our visit with Sanja Matsuri, one of the largest festivals in Japan, when mikoshis (portable shrines) are carried across neighbourhoods to the temple with much fanfare. This festival is held in Asakusa for 3 consecutive days, every year on the third Friday of May.

The festivities kick start on Friday afternoon, when a large procession of priests, geishas, dancers, musicians and locals - all dressed in their traditional regalia - with Palanquins and Mikoshis, make their way to Asakusa Shrine. This procession is called the Daigyoretsu Parade and is followed by a Shinto ceremony, with prayers for abundant harvest and prosperity. On the Saturday, mikoshis
gather at Asakusa Shrine and then set off to parade through the town streets. On the Sunday, three especially large-sized mikoshis join the parade.

We are aiming for the Friday afternoon Daigyoretsu Parade and after a quick tour of the neighbourhood and some shopping in the temple market, we position ourselves strategically with the crowd, near the Kaminarimon Gate, to catch the festivities.

My heart beats in rhythm with the drums that set the parade in motion. Dancers in colourful costumes, geishas in their fineries, men and women draped in colourful kimonos - it is an ensemble cast of bizarre and beautiful, of music and celebration, of tradition and reminiscences that I pray to Goddess Kannon to mercifully keep alive forever.

A Friday afternoon well spent, we head to Akihabara, en route Shibuya. What a contrast! Akihabara is the electronics district of Tokyo and I need not describe what that means. Rows of shops displaying the latest in Japanese technology; had I been a geek, I’d spend my entire life here. I sense A is starting to talk like a little boy, excited at the prospect of spending some time in this wonderland. So I whisk him away before it is too late, to Shibuya, one of the busiest crossroads in the world, with tales of Scarlett Johansson. Japan's busiest intersection is in Shibuya, with its cumulation of pedestrians, rows of neon lit shops, and five video billboards. If you remember, this spot was a recurring theme in the movie “Lost in Translation”. The busiest Starbucks in the world also happens to be here and if you are lucky to get a seat here, you will find yourself ensconced by the window, sipping your macchiato and well away from the chaos, watching the world spin in a frenzy, with hundreds and thousands of denizens of downtown Tokyo, crisscrossing each other every time the traffic light turns green.

Sushi, Sashimi and Sumo

Got to reach Tsukiji Fish Market by 4 am. Those were the last words I told A before we went to sleep the previous night. However, the frenzy of the last couple of days had caught up with the old bones and by the time we leave for our morning destination, it is almost 6 am. Never mind. Chances were we would not have got our seats at the Auction Market, which in recent years has seen restricted entrance to tourists. But any Bengali, worth his/ her fish, has to visit Tsukiji and hence, here we are. Though the wee hours of morning are when all the action is, with catches from all over the world finding their way to this wholesale market for live auction; once the auction and action is over, the wholesalers set up stalls to monger off the remaining sea creatures. There are apparently 1600 stalls and 450 different kinds of seafood found in this market and one has to see it to believe it.

Once the photography round is over, with much care taken not to be run over by forklift trucks and slide over blood and water (not a place for faint hearted), it is time for some fresh Sashimi breakfast. We head over to the stall that has the longest queue of locals and after a patient wait of 30 minutes, find ourselves in a tiny room and a bench full of smiling hometowners, trying out the omakase set of whatever is good today. I don’t remember what I had, but I remember dying and going to Sashimi heaven.

By noon, we are ready for the next course of action. We have booked ourselves for a Sumo Wrestling Match at Ryōgoku Kokugikan , the largest sumo arena in Japan. The grand tournaments or basho are held in January, May and September and we are right there when the action is happening, in May. These tournaments are more than just wrestling matches. These are Performing Arts, with ceremonies and rituals observing strict hierarchies for the wrestlers, and also for the referees. The competition each day begins around 9am with the amateurs and wrestlers compete in progressing order of seniority. The professional wrestlers start in the afternoon.

We are just in time to catch the top division makuuchi enter the ring for the dohyo-iri (rice throwing) ceremony. We are soon drawn into the action, rooting for our favourites (I was picking by colour, the men in blue being my favourites). Surrounded by diehard fans, who know their ōzeki, from yokozuna (the grand champion), we get into the groove of learning to appreciate the nuances of the art of Sumo Wrestling. Each bout lasts for about 5 minutes or so, each match preceded by an elaborate ceremonial ritual. It is fascinating to watch a century old martial art form, still practiced with so much of diligence and reverence. I could write a whole blog on Sumo Wrestling from the notes I took, but suffice to say it is an experience of a lifetime.

A blissfully bizarre Sunday

A Wedding procession in Meiji Jingu Shrine on a delightful spring Sunday morning

Our last day in Tokyo, we decide to spend the Sunday as Sundays should be spent in Tokyo. In Harajuku.
We start with Meiji Jingu Shrine, the most venerable shrine in Tokyo, where we catch a few Japanese weddings in progress. An usual scene if you are there on Sundays, with nervous Grooms and radiant Brides springing up on you from every corner. We walk through the peaceful gardens of Yoyogi, catch the early summer breeze and Elvis look alikes shaking a leg or two. Children running with dogs, families out on a Sunday picnic, lovers strolling around hand-in-hand, it is a blissful retreat to take a pause from the frantic city life.

We retrace our steps back to Harajuku Station and find ourselves in Takeshita Dori. Five minutes apart and the world changes. There are young kids everywhere, in groups or solo, displaying the Japanese teenage culture at its most extreme, engaged in cosplay (costume play), dressed up in crazy costumes to resemble anime characters, barbie dolls, punk and rock-n-rollas, witches and draculas. Bizarre as it may sound, they congregate here every Sunday, to celebrate their weirdness, dressing up as characters they would like to be. It is a part of teenage culture in Japan, the locals don't give a hoot, the tourists gush and snicker while taking pictures. The cosplayers play on.

It’s a good spot for people watching and what other way to spend a Sunday, watching the weird and the wise, merging and mixing together, to form one of the most amazing cultures that I have come across. Our next stop is Kinokuniya Bookstore in Shinjuku - spread out across 3 floors, where we will eventually end up with excess baggage. But that is scheduled for the evening; giving us ample time to hang around with these weird cosplayers, taking pictures and exchanging free hugs and free tips about Harajuku Fashion.

Centuries old Edo charm juxtaposed with modern futuristic revelation; red tiled brick and stone shrines interlaced with steel and glass skyscrapers as backdrops; gothic punk coalesced with traditional kimono - that’s what Tokyo is in short. A city that stands at the crossroad of old & new and embraces both with open arms; in the process, breathing excitement and bouncing with vivacity. A city that charms you, teases you and leaves you yearning for one more day. We just scraped the surface of Tokyo because a week, at least, is needed to even get a proper orientation of this complex city of contradictions. In Tokyo, everything is colour coded and runs like a clockwork. Taking a cue, for this trip, I colour coded all the attractions and decided on the ones that I wanted to absolutely visit to get a feel of the city. Another itinerary is all ready and waiting to be executed, to unearth some more of the weird and wonderful Tokyo, some other day.

Friday, November 30, 2012

There's an iceberg in my drink

I am dreaming of Antarctica these days. You heard me right - Antarctica. That fast shrinking but still the most desolate, coldest, windiest and emptiest place on Earth. But before you go green with envy, let me clarify that I am nowhere on my way to the white continent in the near future. I am just dreaming. Like last night, I dreamt that I was sunbathing with the Leopard Seals, the sound of crashing icebergs lulling me to a gentle sleep. The night before, I was sharing a picnic basket with a family of Emperor Penguins, drifting on a piece of iceberg. You get the drift?

"The Fantastic Antarctica by Aneu Martinez, courtesy of They Draw & Travel.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am dreaming of the big A these days. And since I believe in the adage, don’t dream, just do, or whatever it is that they say - I did it, too. Put an itinerary in place. Then did the budget. Then literally fell down from the chair.

The cheapest of the cruises to Antarctica, for a week, can set your savings back to a few months. Or years, depending on how much you save. You need to fly to Argentina or Chile (depending on which part of the world you are coming from) and then fly or hitchhike down to the tip of South America (depending on your budget), either to Punta Arenas in Chile or to Ushuaia in Argentina, to catch a cruise ship to Antarctica. Or fly and cruise, if you are related to the royals, somewhere, somehow. Well, all options considered, I have worked out an itinerary. And every time I look at it, especially wherever the $ sign appears, my heart sinks like the Titanic that was sunk by an iceberg.

But being a very positive girl, I am concentrating on the good parts. So far, I have managed to find one. You don’t need a visa. My latest quest has been to only visit countries where we, Indians, don't need a visa beforehand. Yes, I am getting old and am losing patience over the bureaucratic nightmare that is often called ‘obtaining a visa on Indian passport when you do not live in India’. Now though it limits my options of countries to visit, it opens up new vistas. Countries like Comoros, Togo, Turks and Caicos Islands, Palau or Tuvalu. I can come up with a few more exotic names, that I can bet all my savings on, you have never heard of; but I will be digressing. Anyway, Antarctica is not governed by any specific country, rather by the Antarctic Treaty, signed in 1959 by 12 countries, initially. Today, 45 countries or so come under the treaty, the main aim of which is to prohibit military activities and mineral mining, while supporting scientific research and protecting the continent's ecozone. And to cut a long story short, making holidays possible without a visa. Hurrah!

In the evening, over a cup of coffee, I show off my latest acquired knowledge to A.

That Antarctica is considered a desert, because it experiences even less rains than the Saharas (huh!?).
That the name ‘Antarctica’ comes from a Greek word meaning ‘opposite to the north’ (duh!).
That at least two active volcanoes exist in Antarctica (wah!).

As A is warming up to my trivia, I, very casually, sell him the adventure of conquering the final frontier. Is the raised eyebrows a sign of ‘tell-me-more’ or ‘I-don’t-like-the-way-this-conversation-is-headed’?

Be positive. Keep calm. Throw in a few more interesting facts.

That if you throw boiling water into the air in Antarctica, it will instantly vaporize. Most of the particles will turn into steam while others will instantly be converted to small pieces of ice.
That Antarctica is the only continent without a timezone.
That 30,000-40,000 summer tourists visit Antarctica every year.

Now he is asking questions. That is a good sign, right? What would be the temperature like in summer? I consider my options. Will an average of 2°C during summer months in Antarctica freak him out? Or should I avoid the temperature question altogether and instead, veer the conversation towards Global Warming and how the huge shelves of ice are melting away with every passing day and this is our now-or-never moment? I opt for the truth and to my relief, he has warmed up to winters these days and does not mind the chill, he says.

He is starting to feel like Captain Roald Amundsen now, so I slip in the budget.

And I exaggerate not, A has caught a cold almost instantly. He hasn't stopped sneezing since. So much for my Captain Roald. He has been so shocked after he heard the budget that he forgot to close the refrigerator door that night after grabbing his midnight snacks and we have had our very own incident of Global Warming in our kitchen the next day. So much for conquering the most desolate place on earth.

So I am left to dream alone again. I have figured out that if I can manage to save very diligently for the next 30 months, sacrificing my macchiatos and some holidays and on-sale-and-hence-justified purchases, then we can afford the excursion. But then again, after 2.5 years, the costs will have gone up and I'd be needed to save for another 24 months. Very much like the property rates in Bombay - no matter how much you earn, you never can afford one!

Plan B is to buy some lottery. But that's more like B for bad, because with my luck, I will never win anything. No sudden inheritance from either side of the families on the radar also - so Plan C for childless, rich uncle has to be scrapped as well.

As I seriously consider one plan after the other, my mother calls to inform me that one of my money back policies from LIC has decided it's time to pay the money back for all the premiums I have paid over the last 15 years or so. I feel elated. Surely our air tickets will be taken care of now. I recalculate the cost and my savings equation as my mother, like always, looks for her reading glass, answers the doorbell, shares home remedies for diarrhea with my sister on the other line, while putting me on hold on an international call. She finally comes around after 15 minutes and triumphantly informs that I have had a Rs. 40,000 windfall gain. That is around U$700. Thank you very much. You can keep the change.

So I have finally devised another plan. I share it with A as I am confident that he will agree. I plan to run away from home and join an expedition to the South Pole as the ship's tenth mate. Sweep the floor, empty the garbage - you know, do the works and see the world. But wait, wasn't that exactly the plan I had hatched while reading Moby-Dick many many years back. Things haven't changed much around here. Only now, I have a partner in crime.

Or so I think. A listens to my idea with that look in his eyes, the look that says the-poor-girl-has-finally-flipped and the look that he gives me often. And then very nonchalantly suggests that I’d better come down from the highest continent and concentrate on more pressing matters - like finalising our next holiday - the week long detox and fasting session in Ubud that we have promised ourselves next year. 

Now that is one holiday I am having nightmares about. That’s the last holiday I want to plan. So I go back to dreaming about the last holiday I’d ever want to take - an expedition to the white sheets of Antarctica, drifting along the icebergs, watching the giant Humpback and Sperm whales in action, walking with the Emperor Penguins and ducking the Albatross.

Tonight I plan to revert to Plan Z and dream of Aurora Australis. We are camping somewhere above the Antarctic Circle, watching the ethereal burst of colours thrown by the solar winds, in the still of the night, with a zillion of billions of Milky Ways to keep us company. Well, dreams come free, if not true and a dream about Antarctica is always priceless. And you heard me right, I am dreaming of Antarctica these days.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

C'est l'été et Paris me manque

I am a self confessed francophile. I don’t care what people say (and especially A) - I am in love with France. Why, for a very brief period, I even had a crush on Sarkozy. Mid-life crisis, as A puts it. Perhaps. Otherwise, why would I spend two years, in my mid-thirties - trying to master the language. To no avail, because, the French speakers, without any fail, have always preferred speaking to me in English. I try and console myself by thinking that they need to brush up their English, too. I do take pride in the fact that I can understand French, if it is being spoken very slowly. Once in a while, I try and translate French movies for A. The fact that he prefers to watch French movies with the English subtitles on is a different story.

J'aime Paris. Cynics call it a city of cynics - I call it a city of no-nonsense people. If you are a Parisian, no tourner autour du pot for you. All my trips to Europe, I have tried to plan it such that we have at least a couple of days to spend in Paris. CDG is a nightmare, but I love the chaos. I love getting out of the plane, walking miles to take a bus to change terminals, going up and down and forward the long escalators and travelators, queuing up patiently for immigration clearance, fighting off fellow passengers to retrieve my luggage, reading the signs and finding the way to the RER B Line and proudly showing off my language skill while buying the tickets to Gare du Nord.

I love the tiny chambre d'hôtes we stay in and the warm croissants and the dark chocolate I have for breakfast every morning when I am in Paris. I love sitting in the petit cafe’ by the roadside, watching the world go by and sipping my rose’. I love the boulangeries where you get the most amazingly decadent, sweet, beautifully constructed, magnificent little pâtisserie that can make your heart cry out in joy. I hate their baguettes though - the only thing I hate about Paris.

I love the aimless long walk we always take from Louvre to Arc de Triomphe, through Champs-Élysées. I love the window dressings of the designer stores in Champs-Élysées and the sense of dressing of an average Parisian. I love taking the Metro and saying aloud the names of the stations with the announcer to get my pronunciation right. I love their quirky roadside art and their smart cars and Segways.

I love the evenings spent by the Seine, when a band strikes up some ridiculously romantic tune just for the pleasure of the lovers walking hand in hand. I love the lovers, sitting on the river bank, oblivious to the world around them, weaving their dreams together. I love the strain of accordion drifting through the air, catching me unaware with a familiar tune, whose lyrics I could never master. I love watching the sky turn from blue to orange to red, turning the world golden with it as the sun sets in the Seine

I love discovering the weird museums of Paris - from Catacombes de Paris and Musée Edith Piaf and Cinémathèque Française to Le Musée des Égouts de Paris (Museum of Sewer, which I plan to invade the next time I am there).

I love exploring the marchés - and mostly marchés aux puces, or flea markets, where I can pick up an owl or a trinket and polish up my bargaining skill in French. Be it St-Ouen de Clignancourt or Rue de Bretagne, if you can laugh at a joke and be polite, you may come out with a good bargain. Yes, the French homme, be he 8 or 80, can always make a woman feel special.

I love getting lost in the city and figuring my way out from one arrondissement to the other. I love the quirky Metro stations - Arts et Metier which looks like a submarine or Louvre-Rivoli station, with its mini museum of artworks or Abbesses station, with its glass canopy which is so 1800’s art nouveau. I love walking up to Sacre Coeur and catching some breathtaking views of the city, atop Montmartre. I love the ugly Tour Eiffel and how beautiful it looks when it is all lit up at night.

I love coming back to our chambre d'hôtes after a long aimless, itinerary free day and planning the next day, while soaking our weary feet in the bathtub. And then forgetting all about the plans the next day and again aimlessly walking around the city, discovering it as we go, in the midst of foliage, steeples, blue skies and cobblestones. Something new, something funny, something weird, something amazing - Paris never fails to keep me in awe. I love being a Parisian - even if it's for a few days. And everytime I leave Paris, I say au revoir (see you again) and not adieu (goodbye) because I know that I will be back sous le ciel de Paris, someday soon.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

The future is bright, the future is Ojek.

Destination: A’s office, 15 minutes away from our home.
Itinerary: An Indian dinner, followed by ZNMD.

When you have kali daal and succulent kebabs in mind, followed by Farhan Akhtar for dessert, you want to start right away.

Yet, here I am, stuck in the infamous Jakarta traffic, inside a narrow lane, for the last 40 minutes. There are cars everywhere and motorcycles. They come in droves and my driver, though he’s been trying his best to maneuver his way through this nightmare, is looking quite hapless. A has already called twice and is already talking about cancelling the evening plan.

When I say narrow, I mean, really narrow. Narrower than the ‘gali’s of Calcutta or Benaras and one wonders how can they allow traffic, that too, both ways, to pass this bi-lane. I ask the driver, yet again, if I can abandon the car and walk to A’s office and his answer has not been very encouraging. And even if I were to walk, I wouldn’t know where to go. I am in an unknown back road, in the middle of a colossal mess and no GPS can guide me through these lanes and bi-lanes of Jakarta anyway - that I am sure of.

My driver, the enterprising guy that is, realises my frustration and calls his friend, a courier guy from A’s office, and explains the situation to him. A’s office is 5 minutes away from where we are stranded and his friend, who has a motorcycle, is asked to come down and escort us through this mess.

In another 5 minutes, our saviour is here, in his motorcycle. My driver assures me that we will now be able to make it to A’s office in another 30 minutes, perhaps (being the key word), with the help of our beacon.

But I have had enough sitting pretty in the AC, away from the dust and heat , watching the cars and counting the bikes and looking at my watch. Time for some action now. I ask my driver if it is possible to hitch a ride with his friend, instead of waiting. Even as I put forth the suggestion, I realise how crazy I sound. You see, the two wheelers, locally known as the Ojek, serve as the lifeline of Jakarta and by the look of it, seem quite dangerous. They dive and maneuver through the standstill traffic in what looks like a very menacing stunt. But between Farhan Akhtar and my limb, I would definitely go for the former. So yes, I am desperate.

Even before my driver can answer, I hop onto the bike, wave my driver goodbye and say my prayers. I can see, from the corner of my eyes, the bewildered look on my driver’s face - yes, he certainly did not expect this from me! But I am beyond care now - my patience has bid adieu to me a long while back.

So the ride starts. We zig and zag and make our way through the honking cars. We hit the main road and catch up with the rest of the traffic that is, at least, moving. We see a few inches of free space between a bus and the pavement and scrape through it. We honk our way through, threaten to run over a man trying to jaywalk through this crazy traffic and zip past the cars. All this while, with a grin plastered on my face. Yes, I am loving it. I am loving the wind that’s caressing my hair, I am loving the missed heartbeat as we make leeway between two vehicles, I am loving the thrill of the ride. But what I am loving most is the memories this ride is bringing back. Back in Calcutta, back when I was young, back when a bike was my preferred mode of transportation, back when I was foolhardy enough to throw all cautions to the wind and ride recklessly.

In 3 minutes flat, we approach A’s office. I can see A and our friends waiting impatiently at the car park, probably, cancelling the evening plans at that precise moment. I feel like asking my saviour to make a grand entry in his tiny two wheeler, screeching the brake right in front of them. But I am yet to pick up the local language and all I can manage is a Terima Kasi. My friends have spotted me by now, though from the look of it, they don’t believe that it’s actually me who’s getting off the two wheeler. A is amused and the other two friends are horrified. And me, I am ecstatic. My adventure for the day is done, I don’t need a Farhan Akhtar to make me feel alive.

Like a friend said, I have rode pillion on an Ojek, I have lived the true Betawi life. Jakarta, you can’t bring me down. Now I know how not to get intimidated by your traffic, now I know where there’s a pair of wheels, there’s a way.

Here, There and Everywhere