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.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Terminal Tantrums

‘Sir, any particular reason why you are travelling with an empty laptop bag?’
Sorry…what…err…no…but…why…WTF!!???
A and I look at each other in despair. The last 3 hours play out in flashback in front of our eyes.

We are at Heathrow Airport – one of the most ill organized airports in the world, if you ask me, next only to Charles De Gaulle in Paris. We are on our way back from a nice, if a bit hectic, 3 weeks holiday. In the last 3 weeks, after A has finished his work in the London office while I have enjoyed the autumn leaves of London, we have crossed the Abbey Road several times, paid tribute to the Mojo at Père-Lachaise, drunk beer by gallons at the OktoberFest and been overwhelmed by the splendours that are called “The Lion King” and “Moulin Rogue”. We have also had an overload of fish and chips, schnitzel and baguettes and simple home cooked meal of rice and dal is gently calling us back.

We have patiently gone through the torture that is called security checking. Did our strip act without any complaints. Then we had excitedly spent the 2 and half odd hours browsing through the Duty Free shops. We also spent all the loose change of pence and pounds on coffee. Remembered the ugly looking fridge magnet gifted by a colleague on her trip abroad and picked up some chocolates from the Duty Free as a return gift. Checked out the toilets and paid a visit to the smoking lounge. In short, we have done everything that one would usually do when one has 2 hours to while away.

The flight is at 12.05 pm and we dutifully present ourselves for boarding at 11.25 am. The last round of security check happens. And it is precisely here that the ‘penny is dropped’. My dear husband, the seasoned traveller and the perfectionist, either in a hurry to get into the plane that would take him to his rice and dal or enthralled by some blonde in uniform giving him a smile – has left his laptop miles and miles away at the first security check. And then has roamed around the next 2 and half hours with an empty laptop bag.

Now if you know Heathrow, you can sympathize with me. We have traversed through several terminals, walked through labyrinths of passageways to finally be where we are standing now. Going back there – at the initial security check in counter – seems an impossible task. We start reasoning with the attendant; ask him to provide us with a buggy ride or something. Seriously, had this been India, they would have already established an auto rickshaw route, with trade union and everything – the distance is such.

A: I have left my laptop at the security check.
Airport Attendant: My condolences, sir.
A: I need to get it back.
AA: Not possible, sir.
A: Give me one of those carts you use to move around in the airport – I can make it back in time.
AA: I am sorry sir – those are only for invalid passengers.
Me: (Under my breath) And A will fit right in that category in another two seconds.
Me: (Aloud) Just go… don’t waste time arguing with them – we have only 15 minutes left to board the flight.
A: (To me) But I don’t know where to go! (And I believe him because if you know him, you will know that “Men can read maps” is yet another myth perpetrated by men)
A: (To AA making one last effort) Please, I have left my laptop at the security check.
AA: My condolences, sir.

The stiff upper Brit lips don’t move. After more precious minutes lost, when it is finally clear that the conversation is not taking anyone anywhere, they agree to spare a trainee to guide A back to the point of disaster. I am left behind to wait for my husband to make a heroic return.

And I wait. The scheduled departure time arrives and departs. A man approaches me and asks if I am willing to fly without my husband, since it is quite obvious that he has deserted me. I remember my wedding vows of ‘till death do us part’ and refuse him. Also, I think if he gets to miss the flight and stays back in London for one more day, why should I miss out on the fun? My mind starts planning – if I call my brother now, who is halfway to Sussex after dropping us off, I might just be disowned by him. Not a good idea. My friend is in London – but did she not mention that she’d be holidaying in Dover this weekend? I might have a pound or so tucked away somewhere in my pockets – but will that be enough to see us through till the next flight? All kinds of questions cloud my mind as I try to reason with the Airport Attendants as to why they must wait for us.

A senior and serious looking guy comes up to me and asks me if I can identify my luggage which will be unloaded in the next 5 minutes if my dear hubby does not show up. The flight is already 25 minutes behind schedule, thanks to us. The Sardarji, who, while checking my passport when we had entered the departure gate, proudly cooed to me “East or West, India is the best”, is giving me dirty “these Indians” looks. I have no option but to put up a worried face, though deep inside, I am, in a perverse way, very thrilled. I am all geared to ridicule A for the rest of his life for this mess – something which is highly expected of me but definitely not of him. I am also more alarmed at the prospect of losing all my holiday photos that were downloaded to the laptop the night before rather than feeling sorry for A for maybe having lost all his work data.

And then, my brave hero arrives. I am all set to blast him but actually burst out laughing – seeing him, limping his way back, with a proud smile of having accomplished the mission. Apparently he had performed some heroic stunts like jumping over racks of luggage and running through crowds, while knocking a few unsuspecting people down – the scenes we watch over and over in the last 15 minutes of most Hindi movies – where the climax ensues in the airport with the hero trying to stop his lady love from flying away forever. Here, of course, A’s aerobatics were for his beloved laptop and in the process, he had twisted his ankle. And he is drawing solace from the fact that there are at least 10000 odd feather brains like him, with hearts large enough to donate their laptops to the security people. So he gets into a tale of how he had to rummage through several similar looking models, before he finally found the one that belongs to him.

We enter the aircraft– which is well over an hour behind the schedule now. I can feel the dirty looks from all around – similar to the ones I have given a number of times – to that last couple that enters through the door. We find our seats and my tired hero promptly goes off to sleep, leaving me to handle all the glares. The flight finally takes off – 3 hours behind schedule – all thanks to one man and his precious laptop.

Since I am talking about airport horror stories and mentioned CDG somewhere, let me also add another story to this piece. This one happened while we were flying home from the worst airport in the world – Charles de Gaulle. I am not sure when CDG came into being but over the years; it has grown like an un-pruned tree – branches added here and there, without any rhyme or reason or plan. If Heathrow is a nightmare, CDG is hell.

We are again on our way back. We have braved the overcrowded Airport RER from the city and arrived at the airport well before the stipulated time. You see, if you are travelling from CDG, you might as well arrive before time, you never know where and how you might get lost in that mess. So, we dutifully get lost and eventually find our way to the check in counter. The check in counter in question looks like a queue to buy tickets for the first day first show of an Amitabh Bachchan starrer. There is only one counter functional for the flight we are taking and the queue winds and rewinds to a few kilometers. Not to worry – we have 3 hours at our disposal before the scheduled flight. So far, so good.

While we are waiting at the queue, wondering why is it taking more than 30 minutes to issue boarding tickets to each passenger, we hear some ruckus. We look up to see a group of people, all with red flags, chanting some slogan in French. Reminds me of my good old Calcutta, where such scenes are very familiar. People protest at the drop of the hat, go on strike whenever they don’t feel like working. We ask around and find out that there is a similar situation happening here – the ground staff is on strike and hence the delay. Ah well, we take solace from the fact that after all, we Indians, and especially Bengalis, are not the only ones with a penchant to protest.

After almost an hour and half, we are privileged enough to present ourselves at the check in counter. The girl at the counter inspects our tickets and passports and asks us to put our luggage on the conveyer belt. Our luggage travels 10 meters and the conveyer belt stops. The girl makes some frantic phone calls and informs us that the protestors have firmly lodged themselves on the conveyer belts and hence this situation. As she takes out our belongings from the belt and keeps it aside, assuring us that they will be loaded on the flight eventually, I take one last look at my baggage. I make a mental note of all the things that are there inside and do a rough calculation of the value all the things that just might get lost. I can live without that pair of shorts, though it’s my favourite, but how can I replace my sapphire blue strappy sandals for which I had paid a fortune, unknown to A? So far, not so good.

We forgo the opportunity to browse through the Duty free shops and go through security check and board the flight – without any major incident. The flight is scheduled to take off at 12.30 pm. It is 12.45 now and I fix my eyes at the gate so that I can give nasty looks to that last passenger who walks past it. There is a bit of commotion going around that area and we see a few uniformed workers getting in and out of the aircraft. At 1.30 pm, we ask the air hostess what is happening and are informed that because of the strike, it is taking a while to load the luggage. My sapphire blue shoes flash in front of my eyes and I decide to forgive them for the delay.

2 hours have passed since we have entered the air craft and it has not moved an inch. People are getting restless but, like the well behaved Europeans, are bearing it with a smile. Had this been India, a riot would have ensued by now, with some crew members assaulted. We again summon an air hostess and are told that there is some problem with one of the drainage pipes in the lavatory which is being fixed, pouring water to all the stories I have been conjuring up in my head all this while - about bombs being found on the aircraft or secret information of terrorists being hidden on board or such!

1 more hour hence, A has lost it. The air hostess is summoned again and we ask her if they can at least be kind enough to put on the entertainment system so that we can at least do something other than staring blankly at each other. We are told that it cannot be done. Some refreshments perhaps? A starts his patented "You are in a service industry" speech - and those who know him knows that this particular speech never fails to arouse emotions. Most of the speech is however, lost in translation to our French air hostess. But by now, our fellow passengers, encouraged by A’s initiatives, join the protest. Trust a Bengali to organize a demonstration, given the slightest opportunity. The air hostess relents and after a while, we are given some beverages and tidbits to keep our mouth shut.

7 hours wasted on an air craft, while you are in Paris, of all places – time spent staring vacantly at the air conditioner duct while you would rather roam aimlessly on the streets – it is announced that despite all their efforts, the drainage pipe could not be salvaged and the passengers are advised not to use Toilet no A. With that, the air craft finally takes off. I did contemplate suing Malaysian Airlines for those 7 precious hours wasted in an aircraft in Paris – but decided to forgive them when I got back my luggage intact – with both my favourite pair of shorts and the sapphire blue shoes.

The last story in the series of Airport woes. We are on our way back from Saigon. It is an office trip and since both A and me are working at the same office at that time, it is a paid vacation for both of us. The holiday is as it should be – like any other office sponsored holiday, where copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed and every one has a bad hangover. We check in, go through immigration control and are on our way to look for a pub to have the last drop of beer before boarding, when we hear A’s passport number being called on the PA.

I give A one of my famous “I-told-you-so” looks. You see, while in Saigon, we had gone a bit overboard with shopping. But if you are a movie buff as much as we are, you will understand. How can one resist the temptation of picking up the entire work of Kubrick, Woody Allen or Truffaut or the entire collection of Oscars from 1929 to 2000 – for only $1 per DVD? We could not and we ended up buying some 150 DVDs. When A’s name was called, we are sure that all those DVDs will now be confiscated, since it is illegal after all.

We make our way through the crowd again (by now, A has become quite a pro) and we present ourselves to the security officers.

Security Officer: Callying fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?
SA: Gun? Bang bang. Fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?

I, with my experience, am wise enough to see this conversation going nowhere. They also figure that out after a while and put A’s luggage through the X-ray machine. And point out 4 spots and repeat the words “Fiel Alms”. Oh…fire arms! Our first instinct is to laugh – but there it is, in front of our eyes – 4 bullet like silhouettes and again, the last 4 days flash in front of our eyes – in rewind mode.

From Saigon, we were taken to Củ Chi tunnel – which was the Viet Cong’s base of operation during the infamous Vietnam War. Apart from the usual touristic activities of actually going underground and crawling through the tunnels, A also got lucky to accomplish his lifelong desire to be in Rambo’s shoes – by getting to fire an AK47. A real AK47, none the less, with real bullets – 4 shots for $5. Having been there and done that, my man proudly retracted the empty cartridges as souvenirs and threw them aimlessly into his bag before leaving for a night of wild partying.

The next scene is as embarrassing as you can imagine. The two of us, in the middle of a crowded airport, throwing soiled under wears everywhere, so that we can retrieve those bullets. After 15 minutes, the bullets are found, hiding in 4 remote corners of the bag and handed over to the security. We are warned that it is an offence to carry even empty cartridges while flying and let off with a warning.

We are not even 5 minutes away from the scene of crime when we hear A’s passport number being announced again. While we enact the climax scene from Hindi movies again, we are sure this time that the DVDs have been discovered. We are told again that A’s bag contains more firearms, this time, a hand grenade. Now imagine our predicament. Two law abiding people, whose only tryst with anything illegal is to buy pirated DVDs and download songs for free from the internet, are being accused of concealing weapons in their luggage. We again deny vehemently – though now I start to doubt if it has indeed been planted to put us in a quandary. I also visualize a scene with A behind the prison bar, in those zebra striped prison garbs and find it quite funny. But this is not a time to laugh; we are in a pickle, all right.

We again rewind the last 4 days – this time we stop at day 3, the day we visited the ill fated Củ Chi tunnel. And realize that the grenade in question is actually a souvenir we had picked up from there – a lamp that looks like a hand grenade. We find it from the corner of the bag and hand it over to them with much protest. We had paid $5 for it, after all. Now we are told that it is illegal to carry anything that might even bear any resemblance to any kind of weapon. And again let off – this time with words spoken in a very stern voice, half of which we could not make out.

We conclude that the souvenir shop at Củ Chi tunnel has stopped producing the lamps long time back – our confiscated lamp will find its way back to the shop window to be sold to some other unsuspecting tourist. But we can’t complain. We walk away with a sigh of relief – our 150 pirated DVDs intact.

I have another story where A's luggage failed to arrive from Paris to Nice and we had to wait for over 3 hours at the airport, for the next flight to bring his stuff. But that story ended with free beers and free lunch, courtesy Air France - so I will not include it in this list.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The Last Train from Saorge

I have missed the 05.54 pm train from Fontan Saorge to Nice. Not to worry, there’s always the next train that should arrive at 06.35 pm. I will just have to change trains at Ventimiglia and I will be reaching Nice by 08.12 pm. From there, depending on the train I get, I should easily reach Cannes by 09.15 pm. That is my plan A. Sounds like a time table? Well, my life revolves around train schedules when I travel - hence can't help it.

It is 06.37 pm now and no sign of any train in this uninhabited, desolate station at the France-Italy border. I start getting worried. This is Europe after all; everything works like clockwork here. How can a train be running late? Then I realize that the train, in question, will be coming from Italy – a country notorious for impromptu railway strikes.

I have a theory that Bengalis and Italians come from the same Neolithic ancestor – at least the men do. More on this theory of mine in a later post – but just to give you an insight into my theory - both Bengali and Italian men live with their mothers till they get married and sometimes, even after they get married; remain mamma’s boy forever, love their carb and fish and afternoon siestas and every now and then, call for a ‘bandh’.

I curse all the Italian and Bengali men I know and their Neolithic ancestor because I am in trouble here. I need to get myself to a station which has more than a single railway track and hopefully a station master. I spot a couple sitting in the other corner of the station - the only two souls, barring me, in this god-forsaken station. I pray that they speak English and approach them.

I am lucky that they do. They are waiting for the train as well and they are in deeper shit than I am. Their destination is a lodge up in the mountains and if they don’t reach the next station – Breil sur Roya - in another 15 minutes, they will have no way of reaching home. They decide to hitch hike and offer me to join them. I know that I will get some train to take me till Ventimiglia from Breil sur Roya, from where travelling to Nice is easier - so their proposal makes sense. But I am not that adventurous to hike a ride and I am in two minds. Time to work on Plan B, which is to make Plan A work. But how to go about it – that is the question.

I am again getting ahead of the story. The day starts like any other day in Cannes. I am off to explore the Alpes-Maritimes countryside – away from the usual touristic trail. The trail I follow today is semi-touristic. I take the Train des Merveilles from Nice at 09.05 am that runs through the Roya Valley, crossing the Alps – into Italy. There are picture perfect villages where the train stops and ideally, one should break up the journey over 2 days, spending nights in the larger villages and exploring the smaller hamlets during the day. But I don’t have the luxury to do that – I have to be back in Cannes for the night. So I did my research before starting the journey and zeroed down on two villages – Saorge and Tende. As I pass the villages that dot the Nice-Cuneo line – each one with a pretty name – like Peillon or Sospel – I feel tempted to get off the train. But I hold myself back – I must stick to my plans, I have a husband to go back home to.

The Train des Merveilles runs till Tende and that happens to be my first stop. I reach there by 10.50 am and sit down in a café near the station just to let the few tourists who have descended with me, get lost. When the coast is clear, I start my exploration. I visit the Office de Tourisme that is just beside the railway station and collect a map of the village. There is also a museum attached to the office. Now, I am not a museum fanatic – so I skip it, but if I remember correctly, it is the Musée Départemental des Merveilles where the rock engravings found in the “Vallée des Merveilles” are displayed.

I’d rather admire the tiny theatre, painted in bright blue, in front of the Office de Tourisme and that is exactly what I do. It reminds me of the movie hall where Tito used to work as a child in “Cinema Paradiso”. A village market near the station takes up some more of my time. A further 10 minutes walk and I find myself in the medieval village. Though a fortified village, this one looks more Italian than French. I am no expert in architecture, but I can make out the difference in style of the stone houses from the other French fortified villages that I have visited. The narrow streets and vaulted passages are, of course, a common feature to any medieval village in this part of the world. I follow the map and start exploring the nooks and crannies.

I spend some time exploring The Collégiale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption, a very colourful 15th century church with a clock-tower. I walk past an interesting looking work shop displaying medieval weapons of torture and am fascinated by it. Now this is the kind of museum I’d like to visit. I make my way up the terraced cobbled streets, that open out to balconies so that one can admire the scenery below - a cluster of slate-roofed houses, grouped tightly together, with the colourful tiled roof of the clock tower looming over them all, sitting on the Roya Valley, with lush green snow-capped mountains serving as a backdrop.

I realize I am being followed and turn around to see a black cat. I am not a cat person and also, being followed by one, that too a pitch black one, in a medieval town makes me feel a bit eerie. I try to make matters light and take a few photographs. The cat obliges me by giving picture perfect poses. I take my eyes off it for a moment to adjust my camera and when I look up, I find it’s disappeared. My doubts are confirmed – the cat must be a 15th Century Knight, tricked and cursed by some wicked Ogre to spend the rest of eternity in this feline form. He must be looking around for someone to save him – maybe by some valiant girl with brown skin who has traversed seven seas and seven lands to rescue him, but just missed her only chance!

I hike up the village and find myself in the ruins of the 14th-century château that sits on the top of the village. Tende was a fortified town guarding the Vallée de la Roya till the 15th century, and was considered impregnable. The château was destroyed in 1692 and all that remains today is a needle like structure that might have been a part of the château wall. The view from this point is even more breathtaking. My mind starts conjuring up stories to go with the surroundings. So this must be the remote château where the Princess was held captive by the evil Ogre, waiting for her love to come and rescue her. Alas, she did not know that her love still roams around the dark alleys of the hamlet below in the form of a black cat.

I see some hikers travelling even further up and when asked, am told that there are excellent hiking trails around this area. Neither do I have the time nor the proper gears – otherwise I would have never declined their offer to join them.

3 hours is more than enough to wrap up the tiny village of Tende. I have my lunch at a local café and I am recommended to try Sugelli, by the old pot bellied owner who serves as the chef cum maître d'. Sugelli is a special kind of pasta with a thumb print indentation and is a local specialty. Since I have a thing for Italian cuisine, I am inclined to say that it is delicious.

I catch the 02.05 pm train to Saorge, another medieval village perched along a narrow rock spur that juts out into the Vallée de la Roya, high above the river. Saorge is classified as one of the "40 most beautiful villages of France". The train reaches Fontan Saorge station in 25 minutes. The station itself is a piece of art deco and is shared by the communes of Fontan and Saorge. From the station, I hike up the main road for about a kilometer to reach the village of Saorge. In between, I cross a huge tunnel, bathed in orange-golden light and wonder if I am really heading to heaven. Saorge, if you notice, sounds very much like Swarga, which means heaven in Sanskrit.

The village of Saorge is as pretty as it can be. Again, a medieval stone terraced village, this hamlet lies in the beautiful surrounding of the Gorges de Saorge – so the view from anywhere in the village is impressive. The village is built in levels and there are these tiny stone bridges that link one level with the other. The Office de Tourisme is closed for the afternoon and I have no option but to explore the village without a map.

Not that I mind, because it is more fun exploring the village without a plan, getting lost and finding some amazing photographs waiting to happen at every corner. The La Madone del Poggio church, with its 15th century, 7-storey tall Lombardy-style bell tower fascinates me. The 17th century Notre-Dame-des-Miracles monastery, with its serene ambiance, is a miracle indeed. I find a few more nameless medieval chapels and spend time admiring the frescoes and the stained glass windows.

After exploring the village for a couple of hours, I find a small café and rest my legs for a while, while sipping cold lemonade. I reminisce the day that I just had and as usual, rue the fact that A is not around to share it with me. And just as I am thinking of A and wishing that he were here with me, I hear his phone ringing. I almost jump out of my chair and for a second, wonder if this is, indeed, heaven where all your wishes come true. In that split second, I also make sure that I wish for a life full of travel, free airtickets and hotel stay at any place in the world or an unknown uncle leaving his billions to me so that I can travel forever. But that is not to be – as a young man sitting across me, picks up the phone that happens to have the same ringtone as A's. Ah well, this may not be heaven, but this place does have a lot of good looking men around. I feast my eyes on this handsome guy and temporarily forget about A.

I have a 05.54 pm train to catch and am so lost in these compelling surroundings that I end up missing it. And then the wait starts. While I am contemplating whether to join the couple, who have offered to take me along with them till Breil-sur-Roya, provided they can hitch a ride, we see a bus driving up to the station. The driver runs to us and asks us if we are waiting for the train. He asks us to hop into the bus which has been sent as a replacement to the cancelled train and says that he will try his best to reach us in time to catch the 06.46 pm train in Breil-sur-Roya. That sounds like an impossible task since it is already 06.40 pm – but Breil-sur-Roya, which is the next station, is only 8-10 kms away from Fontan-Saorge and the way the bus zips past the winding mountain roads, I get convinced that I may just have my tryst with heaven today. We arrive in Breil-sur-Roya in about 7 minutes and find the train waiting for us. My faith in the European Transport System is restored.

As the train makes its way through the Roya Valley, I toy with the idea of getting off at Sospel or Peille and explore these hamlets. But I have had a tiring day and I also have a man waiting for me, back in Cannes, eager to listen to my adventures. For €17, which is the cost of the return ticket from Nice to Tende, I have had enough adventure for a day and have collected a life time of priceless memories. I decide not to be too greedy, but come back some other time to explore the remaining villages. Well, that would mean that I will have to be back to this part of the world again – but, like I said, I am not greedy. I just want it all, when it comes to leaving my footprints in some remote corner of the universe.

Here, There and Everywhere