Archive | December 2008

Belfast–Northern Ireland’s Capital

Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Belfast

I awoke to another dismal day. It was wet and it was cold–hardly the kind of weather in which one could go out joyfully to explore a city. Thanks to the Hop On Hop Off Bus, my day was saved in that I was actually able to salvage it. I purchased a ticket for 12 pounds from the Belfast Tourist Center and caught the 11 am bus–upper deck, front seat, of course! I enjoyed the tour so much, I took it twice for the same price, each time in a different bus with a different tour guide and I wasn’t bored!

It was cold and my fingers ached. As the bus wound its way through the City Center towards the Alfred Clock Tower (named for Victoria’s beloved husband), I tried every way I could think of to warm them, but to no avail. Finally,I just sat on them and that did the trick!

Commentary was provided by those Irish tour guides known for their wicked sense of humor. His name was Ivan and our driver was Ciaran. About six other people shared the bus with me. You could tell it was decidedly off-season. In fact, a few days previously,I had heard an Irishman comment upon a tourist who was lugging a suitcase through St. George Market: “Imagine a tourist coming to Belfast in the winter!” He clearly thought the lady was nuts. As I tried to get warm, I thought I was nuts too!

Soon we were crossing the Lagan Weir and heading towards the ship-building yards of the renowned company known as Harland and Woolf that once ruled the world–or at least Ireland. Responsible for building some of the most famous ships in history–the Titanic, the Olympic, the Lusitania–they once employed 34,000 people. Their giant cranes, affectionately nicknamed Samson and Goliath, tower above the city’s skyline, a silent reminder of the glory that once was navigation. Today, they linger idly waiting to be restored to, as some have suggested, a five star restaurant! At the deserted dry docks, we saw the Pump Room close to where the Titanic was once docked as she went through the final stages of construction and decoration. Though many cities host Titanic exhibitions today (Liverpool, for one), Belfast claims that this honor should go to her alone as the ship was fine when she left Irish shores!

On to Stormont, a massive mansion made of Portland Stone that sits on a hill approached by a mile-long alley lined with lime trees–one for each of the workers who built it. This is Northern Ireland’s Parliament Building where affairs of state are still debated and laws passed. The area around it is elite, with lovely terraced housing and the campus of Campbell College not too far away.

Then, it was time to enter the most notorious parts of Belfast, known for the infamous strife between Protestants and Catholics that kept the country in a state of high tension through most of the 70s and well into contemporary times. The bus took us through Shanklin Road, Protestant stronghold, where all the fallen sons of the Loyalists are remembered in large size murals painted on the sides of the houses and stores that line the narrow streets. We passed through the Court House where the scales of Justice are missing from the hands of the Goddess perched on the pediment. They turned up recently on ebay! Right across the street is the Crumblin Jail, a tunnel linking the two buildings underground. Some of the most notorious political prisoners were held in this jail which today is used only as a memorial to the country’s troubled history.

In the distance, the guide pointed out a Linen Factory, another remnant of Irish history that has gone with the wind. Once the mainstay of the economy, the creation of linen from flax is a long and laborious process and involves a great deal of manual work. No wonder the industry fell by the wayside as synthetics flooded the market. Today, it serves only the luxury market and a few consumers able to pay the vast sums it costs to make the fabric wearable. I know that I will never look at linen again without appreciating the time and trouble that went into its creation.

On Falls Road, we saw the other ugly side of religious warfare–this is the Catholic side, home of the IRA or the Irish Republican Army manifested in the offices of Sinn Fein that sits on a rather nondescript street in a modest brick red building. This was the place that Bill Clinton visited in his attempts to broker a peace agreement with Gerry Adams. The Peace Agreement is holding tenuously (so far, so good, everyone says, but they’re clearly not holding their breath!) as seen in the ease with which one can now travel from the Protestant to the Catholic side. The Peace Wall still stands, though, dividing the town and the people. It snakes around the residential streets in brick red decorated with a few black details. The murals here remember the Catholic martyrs such as Bobby Sands who starved himself to death in the Thatcherite era to gain dignity for political prisoners held in British jails. There are other murals–loads of them–featuring Bush sucking away all the oil from Iraq and reproductions of Picasso’s Guernica. The people of Northern Ireland are passionate about their politics–I will say that much. No wonder so many of them came to America where they entered politics. No less than 23 American presidents can trace their roots to Ireland including, of course, the most famous of them all, the Kennedy clan!

We passed through Queens University next, the educational institution that produced Literature Nobel Laureate Seamus Heany whose portrait, together with several others, adorns the walls of the Great Hall inside. Built by Charles Langdon in imitation of Magdalen College, Oxford, this red brick Tudor building brings tremendous dignity to Queens Quarter with its funky clubs, lively restaurants and smoky taverns. Indeed, Belfast is known for its historic pubs and I downed a swift half in two of them: Magner’s Irish cider in Robinson’s and Guinness in the Crown Tavern, that sit cheek by jowl on Great Victoria Street. The latter is a confection of Victorian embossed tiles and a plasterwork ceiling, mirrors and carved counters and booths–the most ornate of the country’s pubs. No wonder it is managed today by the National Trust–one of only two pubs that the Trust runs.

Of course, we passed the bastion of the City Hall, built in the manner of St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a towering dome and the statue of the Queen looking glumly over her city. Near at hand is Belfast’s newest attraction–the Wheel–a huge ferris wheel that provides good views of the city. Not that it would work on a foggy day and there are many of those in Ireland!

In the City Center, there are churches and cathedrals and shopping malls of which the city is very proud indeed. In these days of credit crunches, the streets were still thick with shoppers who found relief in the Continental Market being held in the grounds of the City Hall where shoppers could feast on everything European from French crepes and baguettes to Spanish paella, from Greek mezes to German marzipan. There was also a carousel and games of skill to add to the festive revelry.

I took the bus tour twice. It was the only way to escape the cold and receive a bird’s eye view of the city at the same time while being entertained by the tour guides whose humor never faltered. I spent an hour browsing through books on Ireland at W.H. Smith and sipped Ginger and Ginseng tea in the tea rooms of Marks and Spencer where I also indulged in a warm mince pie! I stopped to appreciate the attempts to instill holiday cheer through music as a lone accordionist from Romania named Fernando played Jingle Bells outside Clarks from where I purchased two pairs of shoes at bargain prices! Alas, people were too frenzied filling their stockings to support his attempts to make an honest living in the midst of his poverty.

Visiting Belfast at Christmas might have been idiotic in terms of the weather, but it offered me a glimpse into the holiday spirit of a city that is slowly recovering from its decades, if not centuries, of religious war mongering and trying to extend a hand of friendship towards diversity. Harmony, the Ring of Thanksgiving, a sculpture that towers above the weir, is a testimony to the possibilities of friendship.

Belfast has none of the gaiety of Dublin. I realized that almost immediately. It still seems to be covered under the dark shroud of doubt and religious fanaticism and though it is making frantic attempts to be respectful of religious difference, I found that it lacked the kind of happy and joyous spirit that the Republic of Ireland seems to possess so effortlessly. Of the two major cities, I found Dublin infinitely ‘happier’ but I am glad I visited Belfast. I achieved an understanding of the kind of harm that radical religious politics can do as well as saw for myself how difficult it is to recover from such dogmatism when one has made it a way of life.

Giant’s Causeway and Londonderry by Paddywagon

Dec10

Monday, December 8, 2008
Giant’s Causeway and Londonderry

Paddywagon runs day tours to the Giant’s Causeway on the North Atlantic shore of Ireland–a must-do trip for anyone who visits Belfast, even if briefly. Several companies run this tour but Paddywagon was different in that it did not follow the scenic coastal route but went inland to the Giant’s Causeway and from there traveled further west to Londonderry or simply Derry as the Catholics call it. Since I was keen to see as much of Northern Ireland as I could, I opted for Paddywagon.

This meant awaking at the crack of dawn to walk to a neighboring hostel on Lisburn Road to pick up the coach at 8. 30 am. I bought a croissant and a take-away coffee and set off, found our driver/guide David and a bunch of other young folk brave enough to visit Belfast in the heart of winter. By the time we set off from the city, it was about 9. 30 am. As we passed through the urban midst of Belfast, David pointed out buildings of particular interest. Before long, we were coasting out of the city and on to the highway, passing by Cave Hill, which had been the inspiration for Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. The profile of the hill does look suspiciously like a giant sleeping on his back. When viewed against the dockyards of Harland and Woolf, the many men rushing back and forth all day appeared to be running across the giant’s face and stomach. This provided the image for Gulliver in the Land of the Lilliputs and led to the 18th century novel that sealed Swift’s reputation.

An hour later, we arrived at one of Northern Ireland’s best-known attractions, the Carrick-A-Rede Rope Bridge which is simply a swinging cable bridge that connects the mainland to a small salmon fishing island. To get to the island, visitors cross the bridge, one at a time. This wobbles dangerously about 70 feet above the sea and is not for the faint hearted. I doubt I would have given it a shot, but at any rate, I wasn’t allowed to find out as the bridge is closed in the off-season. Perched high above the cliffs, we received a good view of it as well as the distant shores of Scotland (the Mull of Kintyre was clearly visible when the fog lifted) just behind Rathlin Island to which ferries sail in the summer. The sheer isolation of this venue was deeply striking especially when viewed against the emerald-green of the dales that sloped down softly to the seas.

About half an hour later, past marvelous rural countryside, dotted liberally with black-faced sheep, we arrived at the Giant’s Causeway about which I had heard so much when I was researching a visit to the Republic of Ireland about five years ago. David told us about a restaurant called The Nook that served really good traditional Irish fare and as I was keen to taste some of it, he took orders from all of us. He recommended the Irish Stew strongly but the Steak and Guinness Pie even more warmly–so I opted for that. We were given an hour at the Causeway and were told to return at noon to the restaurant for lunch.

The Giant’s Causeway is a natural phenomenon caused by a sudden volcanic eruption, 60 million years ago, that pushed molten basalt from the core of the earth to the surface. Because it cooled down rather quickly, it contracted and, in the process, formed straight columns that have perfectly even polygonal sides. These nest together in a sort of honeycomb at the water’s edge, washed by the thundering waves of the Atlantic.

Of course, because Ireland is also full of local folklore, the story goes that an Irish giant named Finn McCool fell in love with a Scottish damsel named Nieve. To reach her easily, he built the Causeway. When Nieve’s love, the Scottish giant Oonagh, realized that Nieve had left him for Finn, he set out to claim her back. Finn was afraid of the consequences of a conflict as Oonagh was larger and stronger than he was. But the wily Nieve disguised Finn as a baby and instructed him to lie on his back on the bed. When Oonagh arrived in Ireland, Nieve informed him that she could not return with him to Scotland as she had just had Finn’s baby who, she pointed out, was asleep on the bed. When Oonagh saw the size of the ‘baby’, he panicked, wondering just how huge the father would be if the baby was so massive. He turned tail and returned to Scotland in such a hurry that he broke the causeway into pieces leaving only a few bits of it surviving today. David told us the story with relish and invited us to choose whichever version most appealed to our temperaments.

The National Trust manages the Giant’s Causeway which has been ranked as one of the ten best free sights in the world. To get to the sight, however, you need to wind your way down a steep mountainside to reach the edge of the ocean. While making it down is manageable enough for most people, the climb upwards is steep and no picnic–at least not for those who do not exercise regularly. I was pleased to see a small coach called the Causeway Coaster coasting right past by and when I flagged it and asked the driver if I could hop one, he said, Sure, for a pound each way, I was welcome. Well, I was downhill in two shakes of a tail and before I knew it, the rain came down in sheets and it grew bitterly cold.

Of course, this sudden dip in temperature had to happen at a time and in a place in which there was no where to shelter. Fortunately, I had my brolly in my pocket and I whipped it out smartly but it was no match against the ferocity of the wind. Then, I was taking pictures quickly of the vast basalt columns that form a natural wall on the hillside near a projecting mountain called the Aird’s Snout.

When I had my share of this portion of the Causeway, I walked towards the bus stand and discovered that the other passengers on my coach had reached the shore. At this point, the hexagonal columns were most marked, their regularity stunning in the visuals they presented. Though lapped by the waves and whipped by the wind, they created a startling effect on my senses as I took them all in. Some of them created mounds, like little hills, and we climbed and posed on these to take pictures. Others formed natural stone steps. Yet others spread out evenly towards the waves. The colors were also varied. Grey, black, even ochre, they are a wondrous sight and no matter how many pictures you might have seen of the phenomenon, it is still fascinating.

Then, I was on the Coaster again, driving up to the summit where, at the gift store, I purchased a few postcards as souvenirs. All of us were ready for our meal by that point. We were hungry and more importantly, we were freezing. The Steak and Guinness Pie completely lived up to its promise. Portions seemed to have been created for Finn McCool and Oonagh–they were gigantic! I was able to eat heartily and have more than half of my plate packed up for my evening meal. Served with mashed potatoes, it was Irish comfort food at its best and we all ate well as we washed it down with glasses of Guinness–does anyone know why Guinness tastes so good in Ireland?

Coastal Castles:
Then, we were on the coach again, heading further west along the coast to see the ruins of two castles–Dunsverick Castle of which only one sturdy wall remains at the water’s edge and the far more picturesque Dunluce Castle of which many more ruins remain. We posed at both spots for pictures but did not venture any closer to the cliffs. As the coach moved on, we passed by other places of interest: White Rocks Beach with its surfers tumbling merrily on the crashing Atlantic waves below us, Bushmills–the town that is famous for procuring a license to brew whiskey from James I in 1609 and today offers tours and tastings in its distillery, Portrush, a pretty resort town that is perched on the cliffs. The countryside of Ireland was most soothing to my soul as we passed by myriad flocks of sheep, all marked with bright spots of color to help identify them. The mountains were never far away from sight as the Mourne and the Sperrin Mountains came within view. David told us we could doze off for the next one hour until we reached Londonderry but the countryside held me spellbound and I was the only person on the bus wide awake as I took in the charms that only Ireland’s bucolic rural escapes can offer.

London(Derry) Here We Come:
As predicted, we were in London(Derry) within the hour. David offered us an optional walking tour for 4 pounds each–which all of us on the bus decided to take. He then introduced us to Rory, a radical Catholic, who took us through the walls of Derry towards the ‘Bogside’, the area that was ravaged by the religious turmoil that shattered Northern Ireland in the 1970s. David had laid the foundation for us on the bus, telling us about the troubled history of Ireland from the 1916 Easter Rebellion in Dublin to the 70’s when Bloody Sunday led to the rebellion and the founding of the IRA or Irish Republican Army with strong Catholic ties and a determination to free Ireland of the British yoke.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, Rory took us towards the many murals that remember the tragedies of that period and the courageous men and women who gave up their lives fighting for what they believed to be a just cause. As someone who can trace his family lineage to centuries in Northern Ireland, long before the English took control of the island, Rory is fiercely proud of his heritage and refuses to recognize the control of the English crown over his beloved land. He told us that as far as the IRA is concerned, though labelled terrorists and militants and guerrillas, they are merely fighting for what they believe to be their birthright–an Ireland free of the English. We paused by Celtic crosses with verses penned in Gaelic that recall the sacrifices of these young men and the passion that led them to their goals and their deaths.

Of course, we received only one side of the debate from Rory, and, no doubt, I would receive the Protestant version from another equally impassioned fighter before I got out of Ireland. But in his retelling of the tragedies of that period, I received an insight into the history of a people and a country that has laid a pall of gloom over the culture. Indeed, it amazes me that in the midst of their multiple losses and suffering, the Irish people still find the joy in their lives to indulge their love of music, dance, drink and merriment.

Derry is an extraordinary city perched upon a mountain that is enclosed by walls that were built in the 1600s. It is divided by the River Foyle that cuts through the Protestant and Catholic parts forming a natural line of division to keep the warring factions at bay. With my mind still wrapped around the strife, I arrived at a large public church yard where a recent X-Factor star called Owen made an appearance, much to the thrill of pre-teen girls who had arrived there to catch a glimpse of him. It is manic, this power of reality TV and the reations it can induce.

By 4. 30, we were bidding goodbye to Rory, then boarding our Paddywagon to head towards Belfast where we arrived after darkness had fallen. It was a long ride but a very pleasant one indeed. I noticed that there is little in terms of the countryside to distinguish Northern Ireland from the Republic of Ireland further south. They can both boast incredibly beautiful countryside that is unspoiled by human development, a slow pastoral lifestyle that is characterized by good music and loads of good stout.

It was to experience some of this that I headed to Robinson’s Bar, one of the most famous Belfast pubs with Marina, an Italian from Ancona, and as we chatted over a cold cider, I realized how enlightened I had become by my visit to Northern Ireland. Our travels in the Republic of Ireland, a few years ago, while introducing us to the bloody uprising of 1916 on O’Connell Street at Dublin’s Post Office, had not prepared us for the immediate encounter I had with more recent strife in the Northern part of the country.

As Belfast attempts to rise up, phoenix-like, from the ashes of her troubled past, I could only hope that the Peace Agreement, however tenuous it may now seem, will be a long-lasting one, and that the country may enjoy the same lightness of spirit that is so easily evident down south.

In Ivy’s Company–Carrickfergus to Glennarif

Dec10

Sunday, December 7, 2008
Causeway Coast, Northern Ireland

Ivy (nee Joseph) Ridge is a very close friend of my close friend Sunita (Sue) Pillai from Bombay. It was Sue who put me on to Ivy and when I emailed Ivy to let her know that I would soon be visiting Belfast, she responded promptly and warmly and told me that she would arrive at the Youth Hostel to pick me up and show me around her neighborhood. I was overwhelmed by her hospitality and, to my immense surprise, we both clicked instantly. It was as if we had known each other forever!

At 11 am. on Sunday morning, Ivy arrived, as planned. I had eaten breakfast and had taken a walk around Great Victoria Street by the time she packed me off in her car and drove me along the beautiful Causeway Coast as it is known. Ivy has lived in Ireland for about 14 years and has grown to love the country immensely. Her husband Darryl is a Forest Officer…so it was only natural that she suggested we link up with him and her kids, Stephanie and Ryan in the forest. I was more than happy to place myself in her hands.

Carrickfergus Castle:
Our first stop on the lovely coastal road was the 12th century Norman castle of Carrickfergus which stands on the very edge of the harbor as if guarding it from intruders. It is in a remarkable state of preservation and is extremely picturesque against the few colorful boats that bob in the harbor. Unfortunately, we were unable to enter it to explore the interior as it opened only at 2 pm on Sundays. Still, I was quite pleased with the pictures we took as the sun was out and despite the chilly wind that blew incessantly, the day didn’t seem dreary. This castle was visited by William III and a sculpture of him in pirate’s dress stands at the entrance.

The Antrim Coast:
Miles of coastal road brought the magnificent drama of sea, waves, rocky promontories and beaches into view as we ate up the miles. As we passed the seaside villages of Gywnne and the larger port town of Larne, I was struck by the sheer beauty of the country. Ivy was an enthusiastic guide as she pointed out to me items of interest that I should not miss.

Soon, we reached the little town of Ballygally (don’t you just love these Irish names?) where a castle haunted by a friendly ghost has been converted into a luxury hotel. We visited it briefly before we sought sustenance in a pub called The Meeting Point. There I treated Ivy to a traditional Irish Sunday Roast which was an enormous platter for two that could easily have fed four. There was turkey and ham, cocktail sausages and lamb shank, all superbly roasted and served with champ (mashed potato with spring onions), the best roasted potatoes I have ever eaten (Ivy actually told me how they are made), roasted carrots, Brussels sprouts, and the most delicious sauteed beetroot I have found. I ordered Guinness to accompany my meal but Ivy, who was driving, sensibly stuck to water. It was truly a meal to remember and though we were both stuffed, there was plenty on the platter that we returned (as it appears that doggie bags are frowned upon in Northern Ireland’s polite society–pity!!!)

Glenariff Forest Park:
Further north we drove through the harbor town of Glenarm where Ivy informed me that her husband Darryl owns a boat that is permanently moored here. In the summer, they are ardent sea farers, sailing to neighboring islands and enjoying the outdoors. As a forest officer, Darryl spends a great deal of time in the great outdoors and climbing, trekking, walking, hunting and fishing are his passions, interests which he shares with his kids. Before long, we were in Glennarif Forest Park where we were joined by the rest of the Ridge family.

Then began one of the most memorable parts of my trip–a long and interesting trek through a forest trail that took us past gushing waterfalls and stunning autumnal scenery. There was dead fall on the paths and small patches of freshly fallen snow which made negotiating the pathway’s rather challenging, especially for those of us who did not have suitable footwear. Still, with a hand from Darryl and a lot of giggling from the kids, I managed well and as we climbed higher to the accompaniment of the thundering waters of the cascades, I felt as if I had left civilization far behind and allowed the arms of nature to embrace me completely. It was heavenly and I wished I could have stayed there forever. Unfortunately, night falls early and rapidly in these parts in winter and by 4. 30, we began to lose daylight.

It was time to return homewards to Ivy’s home in Ballymena where, at her kitchen table, we warmed ourselves with large cups of tea. By 5. 30, I got up to leave and Ivy dropped me to Ballymena station from where I caught a train back to Belfast. In the company of two sweet Irish girls who were returning to the city after spending the weekend at their parents’ home in the country, I found myself back on Great Victoria Street making my way to the hostel.

After a conversation with Llew, I joined up with my suite mates (Jaime from Malaysia and Jo and Lisa from New Zealand) for a drink at The Crown, a famed tavern that is run by the National Trust. There, over a half pint of Guinness, we got to know one another and talk about our travel adventures.

An hour later, I was cozily tucked away in my bunk getting ready to pull the curtain down on another memorable day in Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland, Here I Come

Dec10

Saturday, December 6, 2008
London-Belfast

After what was an ordeal at Stanstead airport, I was finally airborne. The light was shining at the end of the tunnel for I actually got the bulkhead seat, right in the front by the main door of the aircraft–a seat that offers a window and unrestricted leg room. Ah, thank God for small mercies, I thought, as I belted myself in and settled down to enjoy the flight.

As the shores of England receded, we flew over the Irish Sea. It wasn’t long before we were flying directly over an island which I could not identify. I made a mental note to look it up in an atlas (I discovered later through Ivy Ridge, my friend in Ballymena, that it is the Isle of Mann). A few minutes later, the hazy contours of Eastern Ireland came into view and we lost height as touch down began. We made it earlier than scheduled, much to Ryanair’s pride, and then I was hurrying out of the George Best Belfast City Airport to the Tourist Information Desk to buy a ticket for Bus 600 (1. 50 pounds) to take me to the City Center and the Europa Bus Depot. We were there in just fifteen minutes (unbelievably, Ryanair’s airport, for the first time since I can remember, was actually in the city center itself and not in some minor town dozens of miles away!)

The Youth Hostel was only a ten minute walk away along a rather deserted main road which was treacherously slippery as a few vestiges of an earlier snowfall were still evident. Walking gingerly, I took almost twenty minutes to arrive there, only to discover that check-in time was 1. 30 pm. I stashed my backpack in the luggage storeroom and decided to go out to meet Belfast.

Since it was cold, it made sense to do some indoor sightseeing. My first port of call was St. George’s Market which comes alive on Saturday mornings. This is a massive Victorian covered market, among the best preserved of its kind in the UK, that attracts a wide range of customers–serious buyers and browsers alike crowded the aisles as mothers struggled with babies in strollers. There were food offerings at the front and arts and crafts at the back as a Holiday Market was on when I arrived.

Almost as soon as I entered, a vendor offered me a sample of carrot cake. “Not yet”, I said to her. “Dessert later. I’m looking for lunch right now!” I soon discovered that I would not have to purchase lunch for the samples were thrown as me faster than I could say “Irish Stew”! In the course of the next hour, I sampled my way through cheese and crackers, olives, salsas and tapenades, jams. marmalade and chutneys, granola, curries, pies and tarts, candies, chocolate fudge, fruit cake as well as teas, wines and Irish coffee!!! It was just unbelievable! Though I was tempted to buy a few goodies myself, I had to keep in mind Ryanair’s severe luggage restrictions and overcame the temptation.

Lunch all done, I made my way towards the great Wheel of Belfast, a ferris wheel, similar to the London Eye, that gives rides to tourists to enable them to achieve bird’s eye views of the city. This is located right outside the grand City Hall building which is reminiscent of London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. Since it was a Saturday, I was unable to enter the building, but a Continental Christmas Market was in progress in the vast grounds that are peppered with memorial statues of all kinds: Queen Victoria, Harland of Harland and Woolf (shipping magnates) and a memorial to those lost in the tragedy of the Titanic as the liner was built in the shipyards of Belfast and counted among its crew many city dwellers.

The Market was packed to capacity as people shopped for Christmas presents or bought exotic lunches–paella and crepes, gaufres dipped in chocolate sauce, marzipan, chocolates. There was lots of hot mulled wine and other goodies and everyone was hugely happy as they circulated, kids in tow, despite the frigid weather.

When I couldn’t take anymore of the cold, I escaped into the Tourist Center to make inquiries about day trips to the Giant’s Causeway and found the assistants there very helpful. They suggested Paddywagon, a company that takes tourists not just to the Causeway but to
London(derry) as well. I figured that this would make a better day trip as I did want to see more of Northern Ireland than just Belfast. I booked a ticket for 18 pounds and also found out about the Hop On Hop Off bus tour that cost me another 12 pounds. This would take me around Belfast and show me some of the far flung reaches of the city that would be impossible to reach without a car.

With my tickets safely in my bag, I crossed the busy shopping street of Donegal Square and made my way to the calmness of the Marks and Spencer tearoom where I relaxed with a warm mince pie and a pot of ginger and ginseng tea. Ah bliss!!! As always happens, because I am alone, I got into conversation with a couple of ladies, a mother-daughter team out on a shopping spree, who helped me pass the time. I loved the sound of the Irish brogue on their tongues and the peculiar intonation that is decidedly Irish. I have now traveled extensively enough in the UK to be able to distinguish the Scots from the Irish accents and they are always fun to overhear.

Then, I headed home and found that my 6-bed female dorm was empty. I chose a bed on a lower bunk and decided to take a shower, only to find the water hopelessly tepid. Disappointed, I settled down to read Mary Beard’s The Parthenon that my colleague Karen lent me. I found in fascinating. After having visited Athens, both Llew and I were keen to read more about Elgin and his vandalizing spree and this book provided all the answers in an extremely readable style and with an ironic tone throughout.

About a half hour later, the door opened and Jaime entered–a Malaysian who is spending a year in London on what she described as a “work-holiday visa”. I had never heard of such a thing and she went on to explain to me that the UK government allows young folk between the ages of 18 and 28 to arrive in Great Britain to travel for a year while keeping a job. Later on, Jo and Lisa from New Zealand would also join us. They were on the same visa. In the course of the next few days, I came across several Australians traveling around the UK on these visas. How marvelous, I thought, for these young people to take advantage of such opportunities and to travel through Europe while earning a living. How adventurous! For folks like these, Ryanair and Easyjet and other budget airlines are a boon, not to mention the economy offered by the Youth Hostels. This one, for instance, came en suite, with a separate toilet and shower room and wash basins in the room that allowed multiple residents to use the facilities at the same time. I love an en suite hostel room and find it so much better than the ones that require you to use common bathrooms in the hall outside. Of all the Youth Hostels I have stayed in, the one in Barcelona (at Las Ramblas) was the pits (it neither had separate male and female dorms nor en suite rooms) ,but Jaime told me that a newer one in Barcelona is far better.

It was Jaime who offered to go outside and buy us a pizza to share. She returned with a Chicken and Barbecue Sauce Pizza that was delicious. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I began to tuck into the pizza and at 3. 50 pounds each, it was a steal.

My first day in Belfast had been spent fruitfully and I looked forward to the arrival of Ivy Ridge who had promised to arrive from Ballymena to show me the Antrim Coast and glens.

The Ordeal of Contemporary Flying

Dec10

Saturday, December 6, 2008
London

My cell phone alarm actually worked! I had only recently learned how to set it and I was thrilled when it woke me up on cue (I know this is not rocket science, but I am digitally challenged!). At 4. 30 am, I jumped out of bed, thrilled to be launching out on another new adventure. I had kept everything ready the previous evening. All I needed to do was add my sandwiches from the fridge into my backpack, wash, dress, slip a Thank You note for Tim and Barbara under their door and leave.

Just by chance, I glanced at my Easybus ticket that would take me to Stanstead airport from Victoria, when I discovered, to my horror, that my bus wasn’t leaving at 6 am as I had thought but at 5. 30! Panic set in big time, but I took a deep breathy, calmed myself down and figured I still had ample time to get there if I left right away. So, I flew into the kitchen, retrieved my sandwiches, dressed in no time flat, slipped the Thank You card under my neighbor’s door and was off.

The N8 (Night time) bus arrived almost as soon as I reached the bus stop. It was full of sleepy Friday might revelers or those just getting on for another day of work. With streets that were practically empty, we flew down them and I was at Victoria in less than 20 minutes. Another brisk walk took me to the Coach Station, five minutes later. I had worried that I would miss my bus only to discover that it hadn’t arrived yet! My relief was palpable. A few minutes later, the coach arrived and I settled down into my seat and calmed myself down.

We arrived in Stanstead by 6. 45 am and since my flight wasn’t leaving until 8. 15 am, you might think I had ample time to kill before I boarded, right? Wrong!

Ryanair personnel swooped down on me as soon as I entered and asked to see my ticket. You need to proceed to one of the self-service machines, they said. When I got there, the machine told me that I owed the airline 8 pounds for airport check-in. But I’m not even using a traffic assistant at a counter, I thought. Why am I paying 8 pounds? To use a self-service machine? Well, I had little choice in the matter. If I did not pay the airport check-in fee, I would not get a boarding card and without it, of course, I could not board the flight.

Now the reason I had to pay this 8 pounds at the airport was because I had opted for airport (instead of online) check-in when purchasing my ticket online. Only EU members are allowed to check in online. The rest of us need to use airport check-in facilities and, therefore, are charged this amount. It appears that we are entitled to a refund, but to obtain this, we need to write to Ryanair in Dublin providing them with our flight details. So the airline’s policy is ‘pay up first and request a refund later’. How idiotic is this? Isn’t this discriminatory? And how productive is it to have personnel at the Dublin office process these refund requests? Perhaps Ryanair hopes to collect and not have to refund because, let’s face it, how many passengers would go through the hassle of writing to the airline once their journey is done? Well, let me tell you, it made me more than determined to get every last pence of my 8 pounds back. I carefully preserved by receipt and the company will be hearing from me, you can be sure!!!

The lady then directed me to a Ticket Sales counter that had a queue of about 30 passengers waiting patiently in line. I joined in and made the awful discovery that there were only two elderly counter assistants, each of whom were taking about 15-20 minutes to process each passenger! At this rate, I thought, I am certain to miss my flight. When, eventually, I did get to the counter, a good 40 minutes later, the payment of my 4 pounds took just five minutes. I realized that the passengers before me had taken ages because they were actually purchasing tickets at the airport, a process that would take 15-20 minutes, I suppose.

So with my receipt in hand, I proceeded back to the check-in machines and got a boarding pass that informed me that boarding began at 7. 25 and closed at 7. 35! I had just ten minutes to board my aircraft! Yikkkez!

With no time to spare, I raced to the Security Lines and discovered that my recyclable, reusable water bottle (to which I happen to be deeply attached) was half full. I drank up all the water while waiting in line and placed the empty bottle back into my backpack. Still, my backpack beeped as it went through the X-ray machine. Oh darn, I thought, it’s my cosmetics in my little ‘train case’. Now having gone to Greece only two weeks ago and having carried the same cosmetics and not having had them beep when my bag passed through Security, I had not bothered to place my cosmetics in one of those plastic bags. This kept me open to the scrutiny of the most ferocious banshee I have ever seen.

She pulled me aside and started to go through every single item in my backpack. OK, I thought, there goes my flight. I will have to kiss goodbye right now to the thought of getting to Ireland! While these thoughts were going through my mind, she came upon my empty water bottle.

“You’re not allowed to carry water on the flight”, she informed me, brusquely.

“I’m not”, I retorted.”My bottle is empty”.

She shook it violently and discovered a few drops in it. “There’s still something in here”, she said. “I’m going to have to take this away from you”.

“Can I drink up the last two drops left in there?” I asked.

“NO, you cannot”, she said, and firmly took the bottle away from me. Well, if I wasn’t kissing my flight goodbye, I had just kissed my bottle away.

And then the ordeal began as she opened every item in my bag and shook it out and tested it with an instrument. She held my brolly away from her as if it were a bomb; she opened my camera case and tested the camera with a wand she held in her hand; she threw all of my cosmetics and toiletries into a small bag (including the ointment gell I was carrying as medication in case my feet caved in on me again). After she had left my bag in total disarray, she took my cosmetics and camera away and told me they had to be tested inside! What? Hadn’t she done enough testing in my presence with her magic wand?

Besides, I was now left to pack my things and I threw them into my bag any which how. All the appeals I had made to her to hurry as I would miss my flight had fallen on deaf ears as she took her own sweet time going through everything with a fine comb. I was sweating bullets as I stood there and thought to myself, never again, am I going to give myself less than three hours once I arrive at the airport to the time I actually board a flight.

In a few minutes she was back, brusque and curt as ever. The days of courteous personnel are long gone, I thought, as I snatched my things, gave her the dirtiest looks of which my face was capable and raced off to my gate, not in the least expecting to be able to board the flight.

When I arrived there, I found that boarding was indeed in progress and that I would actually make it inside! So imagine my delight when I discovered that the bulkhead seat was still available though I was one of the last to board! I got the window and the ample leg room I wished for and though the flight was only an hour long, I relished the thought of these little comforts after the extraordinary ordeal that I had just survived.

Truly, I can remember a time, not too long ago, when flying for me was actually a pleasure to which I eagerly looked forward for days on end before being airborne. Today, I dread the thought of getting to an airport. The horrible procedures one has to go through before being permitted to board a flight has almost taken the excitement out of travel for me.

Next time I get to the Continent, I’m taking the Eurostar train across the Chunnel!!

Grading Final Exams and Preparing for Ireland

Dec5

Friday, December 5, 2008
London

It was a relatively uneventful day. But for the fact that I waited all day for the TV repairman to show up, I was very relaxed. I meant to go and see the Cabinet War Rooms this morning but decided that I have too much grading to do. I have taken on additional grading work for students writing a paper on ‘Issues in Contemporary British Politics and Culture’ and since I attended so many of the Monday evening talks on these subjects at the Brunei Gallery at SOAS, I was keen to see how much our students took out of them.

As it turned out, the papers were very readable and brought up some relevant facts gleaned from the talks, newspaper articles and their own observations of London life. I enjoyed their perspectives and was amazed at how observant they are about their environment and how varied are their views, depending, of course, on whether they are themselves conservative or liberal in the own outlook.

I spent a while cleaning too–my bathroom and my kitchen. I also fixed myself some sandwiches for my breakfast tomorrow (I will be on a Ryanair flight on which no food is offered and I know I will be starving by 7 am.).I also spent a long while downloading pictures from my camera, editing and captioning them, making a backup CD and charging my camera for my trip to Ireland. All of that took an enormous amount of time, but I am delighted to see that my pictures have come very good indeed and capture rather well my last month in this country. I also started to pack for my trip to Ireland.

After lunch, I set a Final Exam paper for my Anglo-Indian course and having finished grading the British Issues papers, I set out for campus in order to hand them in as I will only be back on Wednesday, December 10 and these papers are due in on December 9. Since I was making the trip to campus, I decided to get my final exam papers printed out and photocopied as well as print out two of my Anglo-Indian interviews. Talk about multi-tasking! I made a To-Do List this morning as I wanted to stay organized and on track and make sure I did not leave anything unfinished.

So, despite my staying home all day, the TV man did not show up and when I called Virgin Media at almost 4 pm, they assured me that he had rung my bell at 12. 10 pm. I said that was impossible as I hadn’t stirred out of the house all day. Finally, after I insisted I speak to a supervisor, a lady called Carol came on the line, apologized and offered to send someone in tomorrow. When I told that I would be away for a few days, she apologized again, then set an appointment for me again with an engineer next Friday.

Then, just as I was leaving my building to get to campus, I ran into my concierge Arben. I asked him if a TV technician had come to my flat around noon. He said that he had seen no sign of anyone, but he volunteered to take a look at my TV himself. Ten minutes later, my TV was fixed and I had full reception again. It turned out that my cable box had frozen. When Arben disconnected a few wires at the back, it rebooted itself and, presto, everything was back to normal!

At campus, all went well. Having returned my papers, I did the printing and photocopying I wanted, then made my way to Lambs Conduit Street where Karen told me that a Christmas Fair was being held. The weather had turned surprisingly mild; but then just as I got to the venue, the drizzle began and it turned chilly again. So, I was delighted to find a stall selling fruity mulled wine for just 1. 50 pounds a glass. I bought some of it, sipped it gingerly (as it was rather hot) and found it to be absolutely delicious. It was richly spiced with loads of cinnamon and cloves and flavored marvelously with citrus. It was just what the doctor ordered on this weepy evening and I clasped the glass tightly allowing the heat to warm my fingers.

Back on the bus, I headed to the Tesco Express at Holborn Viaduct to pick up some goodies for my Christmas party for my students next Thursday. Since they have never eaten a Christmas Rich Fruit Cake and we had read an essay about it in class by Dolores Chew (from The Way We Were: Anglo-Indian Chronicles edited by Margaret and Glen Deefholts), I decided to buy one. I also bought a pack of Christmas crackers as I thought I should introduce my American students to a British tradition. With bottles of fizzy wine (mock champagne) and a box of Indian appetisers (samosas, bhaji and aloo tikki), I think I am set for my contribution to the party. I am sure we will have plenty of food and wine and a truly fun evening and as I am all ready for it now, I don’t have to stress about getting organized for it after I get back from Ireland.

I will be in Belfast for a few days where the weather is dreadfully cold and snow is threatening to make my trip a rather challenging one. But I am not allowing it to dampen my enthusiasm. I am expecting the worse but hoping for the best…and that is the only way to be!

My next contribution to this blog will be on Thursday, December 11, 2008.

Last Classes, British Museum, Handel’s Messiah and British Comfort Food

Dec5

Thursday, December 4, 2008
London

Hard to believe that we have reached the end of the semester. I arrived in class today with a heavy heart as it was the last time I would be meeting the students of the Fall semester 2008. This was my last class with them and in the Anglo-Indian seminar, I covered “Diasporic Anglo-Indians in the UK”. So many of my students have had personal encounters with Anglo-Indians through the ethnographic profile I had assigned. They were asked to make contact with a real-life Anglo-Indian (preferably in the UK) and ‘talk’ to him/her (preferably in person, but failing that, via email) and then prepare a profile based on the impact of the Anglo-Indianness in that person’s life (both in India and as an immigrant in Great Britain). So, as I lectured about Anglo-Indians in the UK (my observations, of course, based on my own real-life encounters with a number of them here in the London area), I found them nodding their heads in agreement with me or joining in with comments and observations of their own. It was a fun class.

They were so sorry to be leaving London. As Sophomores (or Upper Classmen, as they are called here–second year university undergraduates), they are only allowed one semester of ‘Study Abroad” and in less than two weeks time, their semester in London will be just a memory as they return to the States. I developed a great liking for these students in the course of this semester. Maybe because we were all in the same boat–attempting to discover London and our place in it–we bonded in a rather special way. I found them extraordinarily receptive to the information I shared, to the various assignments I gave them, to the uniqueness of taking a course about an ethnic minority in their own milieu. They were also a very mature group of students who were vocal and articulate and always impeccably behaved. So, I will be hosting a party for them at my flat, next Thursday, after they’ve taken their final exam. They will pool in, bringing appetisers and desserts. I will provide the space, the paper goods, drinks and Christmas pudding with brandy butter (as none of them have tasted it). We have many things to celebrate–one of my students has a birthday that day, another will be removing the plaster cast on the ankle she broke a few weeks ago, and all of them will be celebrating the successful completion of another semester in their eventful college lives. At a time when I did not have my family close to me, these students became my extended family and I have grown fond of them.

At lunch time, in my office, I met Karen’s husband Douglas and her mother who has arrived from the States to spend a week with her. Karen has very thoughtfully planned all kinds of interesting activities with her, not the least of which was dinner at the National Portrait Gallery that she invited me to join. I would have loved to, but had to bow out as I told her that I would be at St. Paul’s Cathedral, enjoying Handel’s oratorio, The Messiah. Then, I set off for Birkbeck College to teach my last afternoon class, the Writing one.

These Writing students are Freshmen, permitted to stay in London for a year. After Winter Break (when most of them will be returning to the States), they will come back to London for the Spring semester. Many of them have registered for my Writing II class so I shall be seeing them again in January. Because they do not have a final exam, this was the last time I would see them this year but I did not feel that same sadness in their class. After I issued all sort of instructions pertaining to their final assignments, we left Birkbeck and headed straight to the British Museum for our final ‘field trip’ of the semester.

It is still awfully cold (at least too cold, I think, for this time of year in London). So, it felt good to escape into the British Museum. I told them a little bit about the history of the British Museum and showed them a few Highlights: Antony Gorman’s marquette for The Angel of the North that stands in the lobby, the Millennium Rotunda, the Rosetta Stone and the Parthenon Marbles. My recent visit to Greece causes me to gaze upon them with newly enlightened eyes, as it were, and bring to my presentation new nuances.

When my tour concluded, we said our goodbyes and I headed home on the bus. I still had no internet connectivity at home and was disappointed. However, I had a chance to have a long chat with Llew on the phone before I caught the bus and headed for Amen Court where Michael and Cynthia Colclough live. They had presented me and my next door neighbor Tim with tickets to witness a performance of Handel’s Messiah in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Tim and I got to their home separately by 6pm and we started to make our way to the cathedral that is just across the road.

I was so excited. This was another first time for me. I mean, who hasn’t heard “The Hallelujah Chorus” and not been stunned? But I had never heard the entire oratorio and to be able to do so in such august surroundings was just too much of a privilege. Then, when we entered the cathedral, we found it packed to the rafters. Hundreds, if not thousands (I am awful at estimating audience numbers) were already in their seats and I hoped we could at least all sit together.

And then, to my astonishment, as Michael led us to the very front to the accompaniment of the ushers who knew him well, we were taken to the very first row and seated virtually at the feet of the musicians! It was just fabulous! The best seats in the house! Seats were actually reserved for us and Cynthia introduced me to the people she knew all around us.

And then the oratorio began. The City of London Sinfonia provided the musicians who sat in the front with large choirs of St. Paul’s Cathedral behind them–an adult choir and a Boy’s Choir. As the musicians and choir filled their seats and stands, a hush fell over the audience. One of the priests introduced the tradition of ‘staging’ The Messiah at St. Paul’s and informed us that we would be standing during “The Hallelujah Chorus” in a tradition, that Tim informed me, had begun in the reign of King George–he didn’t specify which one) who first stood up when he heard it. The priest added, in a humorous vein, that standing up would provide the opportunity to reach into our pockets and contribute generously to the collection baskets that would circulate at that point. Then, after they had tuned their instruments for the last time, the three male soloists arrived on stage together with the conductor and the music began.

The Cathedral had presented each of us a booklet with the words from the Bible that form the lyrics and I was able to follow the entire work. It was stirring, to say the very least, and I felt fully ‘in the moment’ as the phrase goes. Towards the end when the trumpeters and the drummer joined the musicians on stage, we found ourselves seated only a few feet from them and received the full blast of their prowess. There was a brief interval and then part Two began and, of course, at the end of Part Two, we stood for “The Hallelujah Chorus”. Right after this, a collection basket went around. And then the third and final section began. The very last chorister was outstanding. I had heard him at the Advent Service, a couple of days ago, and I had been so impressed by his virtuosity that I knew as soon as he arrived at the front of the stage that I was in for a treat. He truly has the voice of an angel and his clear, liquid notes floated up to the dome of St. Paul’s to the utter astonishment of the audience.

And then, it was over and we were thanking the Colcloughs and filing out and Tim and I were walking the short distance back home in the crisp night air. He had invited me to supper at his place right after the performance and informed me on our walk that he would be cooking Liver and Bacon, the cornerstone of traditional British comfort food. Barbara was home by the time we arrived at their flat next door. She had been unable to attend the Messiah performance as she had an important lecture to go to. Over a few nibbles and a glass of beer (and Merlot for them), Barbara and I caught up as Tim pottered around in the kitchen from which the most enticing aromas began to waft.

And then we were seated a table. In addition to the Liver and Bacon that looked superbly appetizing on this cold evening, there was a mound of mashed potatoes and steamed zucchini. And every morsel was just delicious. Tim, being a former chef, knew that some foods must be served straight off the pan and brought to the table and his Liver and Bacon and Mashed Potatoes fell in that category. I understood as I savored each bit why Seigfried in James Herriott’s All Creatures Great and Small had felt torn between keeping a hot date and staying at home for dinner as his housekeeper was cooking Liver and Bacon that evening! Though I am not, generally speaking, a lover of liver, I enjoyed Tim’s offering as did Barbara and while we showered him with compliments, he sat back and lapped them up!

Then, it as time for dessert–Lemon Ricotta Cheesecake served with tiny little glasses of Eiswein, a German dessert wine that was just fabulous. With chamomile tea to round off our meal, we’d had ourselves a memorable evening indeed and I felt so fortunate, once again, to be blessed by such incredibly friendly and generous neighbors here in London.

We joked about the fact that I had such a long way to get back home as I left their flat and turned my body around to place the key in my own keyhole! It had been another wonderful day for me in London filled with all the pleasures that I most enjoy in my life–enthusiastic and affectionate students, a visit to one of the greatest museums in the world, a once-in-a-lifetime performance of one of the world’s greatest musical compositions and a dinner to remember served by the most gracious and welcoming of hosts.

I am lucky indeed!

Thrice in Three Months! More Glimpses of the Queen!

Dec3

Wednesday, December 3, 2008
London & Harrow

There are a few lines of an English nursery rhyme that I learned as a kid and have never forgotten. They go:

Pussycat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to see the Queen…”

And that’s what I did. I became that feline this morning–I went to London to see the Queen. You see, BBC’s Breakfast Show informed me at 8 am that today was a critical day in the Royal Calendar—The State Opening of Parliament. In an interesting feature that explained the coalescence of historical events, tradition, pomp and circumstance, the reporter took us from Buckingham Palace at the point where the Queen leaves her residence and along the track known as the Royal Route to Parliament Square and the entrance to the House of Lords. The country pulls out all the stops in order to make this occasion special. Parliament is officially declared Open for the year and the Queen makes an annual speech, addressing the Members of Parliament and commenting on the affairs of state—a British version, if you like, of the American State of the Union Address.

I watched fascinated, the Anglophile in me surfacing immediately and I figured, since I am free today and Parliament Square is not twenty minutes away and I will probably never have an opportunity like this to rub shoulders with royalty, why not go and take a peek at the pageantry for which British tradition is so reputed? Every American loves a parade and I am no exception—so off I went to witness one of Great Britain’s most important annual parades!

So I showered, stepped briefly into my Holborn Public Library to pick up some Travel books on Ireland for my forthcoming weekend trip to Belfast, got on the Tube and sped off. I arrived at Westminster Embankment to find the entire area cordoned off with metal barriers, dozens of policemen and women in their spiffy uniforms (love those bobby helmets and those smart black and white checked pillbox hats!) and security personnel in those fluorescent green vests that have become a permanent feature of all public celebrations. I inquired of a policewoman as to the best vantage point for viewing the parade. She told me (duh!) to stand where the crowd was thickest!!! I decided to do no such thing. For one thing, I do not have height working to my advantage. For another, I had my trusty camera and intended to take pictures of items more interesting that a bunch of heads in front of me! Thirdly, while I did want to be a part of it, I didn’t intend to be right in the thick of it!

So, I found myself a spot right on the fringes of the crowd and there I stood awaiting the arrival of the Monarch and her entourage. It was 11. 10 am and the royal procession was expected to arrive at 11. 20 as the Queen’s speech to the House of Lords was scheduled for 11. 25. It wasn’t long before the pageantry began. Two tall riders wearing shiny gold helmets and breastplates and carrying sabers rode on black horses from Whitehall towards Parliament Square. A large cohort of about fifty riders, similarly uniformed, on black horses, followed them. Two more cohorts of fifty horses each followed. I had never seen so many black horses in my life and it was a rather strange sight–so many horses on tarred city streets. The carriages then followed—the first one, a closed carriage—black all over and lavishly decorated with gold. It was pulled by six white horses and in it, as clear as crystal, I saw the Queen wearing an off-white hat and an off-white coat, her well-coiffeured curls matching her outfit. Then, within five seconds, the carriage and the Queen disappeared from my view. I had, of course, readied my camera and my telephoto lens to get what I thought was the best shot with the towers of Westminster Abbey in the background. (Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the bells of Westminster seemed to have gone crazy. All morning, they rang out merrily and provided magnificent sound effects to accompany the glorious visuals.) Several other carriages followed, each one more striking than the next—some open, some closed. They carried people whom it was too difficult to recognize. Some were attired in what looked like military uniforms, others wore elaborate hats. More cohorts of horses followed, more orders were shouted, more pomp and ceremony followed though the crowd remained quiet and courteous. The Save Iraq, Save Iraqis Brigade of protestors were in their usual spot right opposite the Tower of Big Ben, but even they remained quiet as the Queen’s carriages passed by. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared out of sight. From the chinks in the railing that separate the street from the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament below, I could see the frenzied, if very organized movements of men and animals.

Most of the crowd had started to leave, by that point, but a thought suddenly struck me. If the procession had passed along the route at the beginning of the pageantry that marks the State Opening of Parliament, then surely it would have to go along the same route to return to Buckingham Palace, wouldn’t it? So there would yet another opportunity to see royalty pass before me.

I asked a policeman standing nearby what time the procession would return to the Palace. “By mid-day”, he said, glancing up at Big Ben. I wondered, for a few minutes, whether I wanted to stand for a half hour (could my feet take it?) braving the cold on what was another frigid day. Then, I decided, what the heck? I’m right here now and with the crowd diminishing, I found a spot far ahead of where I was, not fifty feet from the intersection where Whitehall meets Parliament Square. I decided to stand there and edit the pictures in my camera as I had only a few shots left.

During the waiting period, I began a conversation with a couple that had missed the first parade and hoped to catch a glimpse of the Queen on her way out. They turned out to be from Belfast on vacation in London for a few days. Of course, I then told them that I would be in Belfast this coming weekend and obtained wonderful insider tips from them on where to go and what to do (the Christmas fair in the City Hall is a must, they said, as is the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum). The Giant’s Causeway and the Coastal Route, they said, was also something I should not miss—but I had intended to make a trip there anyway.

And then it was close to noon and the first couple of horses passed us by, indicating that it would not be long before the procession of carriages would begin on its return journey. This time, I was so close to the front that I had a clear view and, of course, my excitement mounted. Who would have thought that in three months, I would see the Queen three times? Llew and I had been not more than three feet away from the entire Royal Family when we were at Balmoral in Scotland in the month of August. At that time, we had both thought it was a unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And now here I was, three months later, looking upon the royal visage of the Queen twice on the same day! It was truly unbelievable!

And while all these thoughts went through my mind, her carriage passed by again—a closed carriage, thankfully, for the cold would have frozen the most stoic of monarchs. Since the policeman had informed the crowd that she is always in the first carriage, they knew what to expect. There was their Queen, the longest reigning monarch in British history, sailing majestically by, seated besides her husband Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, to the accompaniment of carillon bells from Westminster, and a battalion of horses and riders, footmen and attendants. Before me appeared a scene, like an illustration in a fairy story, whose characters had names like Snow White and Cinderella. As each carriage passed by, the shutter clicked on my camera. Then followed the large troupes of bear-skin hatted guards, looking very different from the pictures one sees of them in tourist brochures—for they were all clad in gray overcoats to combat the cold and seemed to have arrived in London via the Kremlin! It was the stuff that television drama is made of and I was as excited as a kid in a candy shop as I took it all in. I could not resist calling Llew, despite the fact that it was only 8 am in New York, to tell him that I had been to Parliament to see the Queen. Of course, he exclaimed and I giggled and gushed, and then it was all over and I had another adventure to write home about.

The nursery rhyme continues:
“Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair”.

I did not, of course, frighten any mice under her chair, but I could visualize it clearly—the chair, I mean, which is, in fact, an opulent gilded throne, for Llew and I had visited the House of Lords only a couple of weeks ago and in the sanctum sanctorum of the British government, we had sat in the “Stranger’s Gallery” on the third floor and watched at local MPs debated the hottest issues of the day. Having been there, having done that, and now having seen the Queen three times in my life, I felt like a veteran Londoner to the core.

Then, I was on the Tube hastening off to Harrow to spend the afternoon with my classmate and dear friend Bina Samel Ullal. I had not visited her since I arrived in London in September and I was keen to see her kids Alisha and Dhiren and her husband Navin. I had told her that I would arrive there around 1. 30 pm and from the Circle line at Westminster, I changed to the Bakerloo line at Paddington, then took the 186 bus to her place from Harrow and Wealdstone Tube station (she had told me that her stop is called the Belmont Health Center and I am now so familiar with the use of buses that I can hop on and off them without batting an eyelid).

Within an hour, I was seated on the sofa in her living room watching events unfold in Bombay in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks as Bina gets NDTV coverage directly from India. Naturally, we spent a long time discussing the awful destruction of our beloved city and its people before we broke for lunch. Bina had cooked an Indian meal that morning—Chicken Curry with Peppers and Potatoes with Aubergine. With a delicious salad and naans, we had ourselves a delicious lunch with a mince pie to follow for dessert.

So there it was, another first for me–my first mince pie of the festive season. This is a British holiday delicacy of which Americans are unaware—tiny pies, each baked individually in a muffin pan. The pastry is almost like a cookie—it is sweet and crumbly and delicious and the inside is filled with a mixture of dried fruit soaked in rum and flavored with orange rind. Served with single cream, it was simply scrumptious and I enjoyed every crumb.

By 3. 30pm., we got into Bina’s car so that she could pick up her son, Dhiren, from school. I had the chance then to meet Sheila, one of Bina’s friends, who had visited me together with Bina, in Southport, Connecticut, a few years ago. We chatted for a while before Dhiren joined us and then drove back to her place at Beverley Gardens. Navin had left work early to keep a dentist’s appointment and I had a chance to greet him briefly before he left. A few minutes later, Alisha, her daughter, returned from junior college and we spent the next half hour in amiable conversation. It was a lovely evening and I was delighted to have seen the kids—all grown up now and fun to be with. Of course, I told them all about my encounter with royalty that morning and I know I will get a great deal of mileage out of this adventure as the week goes by.

Then, I was on the Tube, headed home to Holborn. I spent the evening catching up on email as my server is playing up and I was unable to access the Web this morning. I spent a while on my blog before I called it a night, ready to awake tomorrow to teach my last two classes of the semester. Where, oh where, has the time gone?

Return to Oxford!

Dec2

Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Oxford

On another day on which I felt as if I was in the North Pole rather than in London, I headed at 7.15 am to catch the 8 am Megabus to Oxford. I was excited. I hadn’t returned to Oxford since I arrived here in September as I was waiting for some official meetings to fall into place before I made the trip. As it turned out, I discovered, on visiting the Oxford Tourism website, that the famed Ashmolean Museum was due to close for a year on December 23. This meant that if I didn’t grab a look-see while I could, I would not have the chance to review its collection at all. There was no time to be lost. I hastened to make the arrangements that would ensure that the people I wanted to meet were free to see me and then before you could say ‘Elias Ashmole’, I was booking a ticket to get going.

I was a little apprehensive about finding the Megabus terminus; but then when I stopped to ask the Oxford Tube driver where it was, he informed me that Megabus and Oxford Tube were partners in the Stagecoach company and I could hop into his bus with a Megabus ticket. Well, that took the stress off my mind and into the bus I went, climbing to the upper deck and making myself comfortable on the front seat while it wasn’t quite dawn yet outside that huge picture window.

I had the upper deck almost to myself for the length of the two hours it took us to get to Oxford. I cannot recall having made a visit in the autumn before and the farms and fields we passed en route looked almost forlorn in the watery sunshine. Because–thank God for little mercies–the sun was actually trying valiantly to poke through the clouds and often did succeed, the landscape was prevented from appearing completely desolate.

That same forlornness dogged me throughout the day for Oxford’s trees without their foliage are a rather sad sight indeed. The bus dropped me off at the High and without wasting any time at all, I walked through Radcliff Square to the Tourist Information Bureau on Broad Street to find out if there were any special activities in the town that day that I ought not to miss.

Then, I hastened to the Ashmolean Museum having just two and a half hours in which to take in the Highlights of its collection. Though it is an imposing Neo-Classical building, the Ashmolean has none of the grandeur of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge and when I walked past the doors, that lack of splendor became even more evident. For the lobby of the Fitzwilliam is jaw-droppingly opulent while the Ashmolean is far more subdued. The lower floor still holds the Greek and Roman works, but you need to climb a curving staircase to get to the first and second floors for the bulk of the collection.

It was with feelings of disappointment that I discovered that construction work had already begun, which placed the items in disarray. But rather quickly, that disappointment turned to relief for I made the discovery that the ‘Treasures of the Ashmolean’ had all been grouped together and were on display in just four rooms. This meant that instead of having to search through the vast expanses of the building for the highlights, all I needed to do was focus on those few rooms and I could see them all.

Of course, I started with the Alfred Jewel which inspired an entire episode in the Inspector Morse series entitled ‘The Wolverhampton Tongue’. This item, said to be at least a thousand years old, is smaller than my little finger. It is the ornament that would have adorned a small instrument used to point to letters on a manuscript when one was reading from it. It is truly exquisite in its detail, featuring the head of a man holding a few flowers in his hand. I was then taken by a mantle that once belonged to Powhatan, father of Pocahontas. How that item arrived from the New World to the Ashmolean is anyone’s guess…but there it was, made of deerskin and adorned all over with tiny white cowrie shells. In terms of paintings, there was Pietro di Cosimo’s The Forest Fire which Marina Vaizey enumerates among her 100 Masterpieces of Art and it is remarkable because in its depiction of animals, it is the first significant painting in the history of Western Art that does not make man the central figure of a canvas but places him in a rather minor role. Another very important work was Paolo Uccelo’s The Hunt, a rather detailed and very lovely painting on wood that was meant to adorn the side of a marriage or dowry chest. The portraits of Elias Ashmole (who donated his collection to the University to start the Museum in the 18th century) is placed in an elaborate frame that was carved by the great Grinling Gibbons himself whose work I have admired ever since I saw his mantle carvings at Hampton Court Palace a few years ago. There were several other exquisite pieces featuring textiles, glass, jewelry, sculpture, furniture, etc. and because they were all grouped together, it was so easy to view the collection. I felt extremely fortunate to have been able to see these works especially since I cannot recall having seen any of them even though my journal entries of 22 years ago tell me that I did spend one morning at the Ashmolean.

At 12.30 pm, having satisfied myself that I had seen everything of importance, I walked along Woodstock Road towards St. Antony’s College where I had a 1.oo pm appointment with Julie Irving who administers the Senior Associate Member Program at the college. I hadn’t met her before though we had been in email contact for a long while. She volunteered to introduce me to Dr. Nandini Gooptu, a historian at the college with whom I had recently made contact. We met at the Buttery and I spent an hour with Nandini over a beef casserole and pecan pie lunch talking about her work and my intended research project on Anglo-Indians on which I intend to work when I take on the position of Senior Associate Member at St. Antony’s next summer.

An hour later, I was taking a tour of the college in the company of Julie who introduced me to a number of the senior staff such as the Warden, Margaret McMillan and her assistant Penny. I also saw the Library, the dining hall, the computer facilities, the Porter’s Lodge where SAMs have their pigeon-holes for mail, and a lot of other places of interest. Though I will be working at St. Antony’s as an independent scholar next summer, I will be in contact with a lot of administrative staff and it was nice to get to know them.

When my work at St. Antony’s was done, I decided to seek out Norham Road where I would very likely be staying for a few weeks in a bed and breakfast while I am attached to St. Antony’s. The owner of the B&B, a lady by the name of Elizabeth Longrigg, had been in correspondence with me and I thought it made sense to check out her house while I had the opportunity. Norham Road looked particularly deserted on this freezing December afternoon and with rain having fallen while I was in the Ashmolean, the streets were slick and shiny.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth Longrigg who happens to be a retired Oxford academic, an expert in Anglo-Saxon, Old and Middle English, was giving me a tour of her home and showing me the two rooms I could have if I decided to stay at her place. It had the old world feel of a Victorian home, was filled with all sorts of family memorabilia, furniture that looked as if it had been in the house forever, a very large and spacious dining room where a Continental breakfast was served every morning and two small rooms–a tiny sun room with a delightful view overlooking the main street and a larger room on the second floor. Both rooms had lovely roll top desks and good reading lamps because, as Elizabeth informed me, she only takes on academics as lodgers–academics whose research interests bring them to Oxford on short or long stays. After I had taken a peak at the garden which looked extremely bleak on this sunless afternoon–for the sun had hidden itself away by then–I walked towards Wellington Square with the idea of looking up Lisa Denny, an old acquaintance I had known when I had attended an international graduate program at Oxford 22 years ago.

Liza Denny is still attached to the Department of External Studies which now calls itself the Department of Continuing Education. I had found her name and telephone extension through the Oxford University Directory and though she did not remember me, she was warm and welcoming and introduced me to her colleague in the department. She also gave me information about next summer’s program at Exeter College and suggested I get in touch with the current director. When I told her that I would be resident at St. Antony’s, Oxford, next summer, she invited me to get involved in the program as a participant perhaps by giving a lecture. I was quite delighted and told her that I would follow up with her suggestion.

By the time I got out of Rewley House, semi-darkness had wrapped itself around the city. Since the colleges are open to visitors between 2 and 5 pm, I decided, for old times sake, to go to Exeter to tour the college. I don’t know whether it was nostalgia, the dreadful weather or the fact that I do not feel like a student any longer…but suddenly, I was gripped by the most fervent longing for my Oxford friends Firdaus, Annalisa and Josephine and, as I strolled through the Fellow’s Garden, for Brigita Hower with whom I have completely lost touch.

As I walked through the Margary Quadrangle and saw the room I once occupied bathed in light , I felt such an aching for those unforgettably beautiful Oxford days of my youth. It certainly did not made me feel any better, when I passed through a room on the ground floor, and actually saw Jeri Johnson who used to be a Tutor to both Annalisa and Firdaus. She was seated in the midst of a meeting with another lady and a gentleman whom I did not recognize.They were all clothed in the academic garb of Oxford dons and were deep in conversation. There she was, looking for all the world as if I had just turned the clock back 22 years. But for the fact that her hair has silvered entirely all over her head, she does not look a jot different from the way she did more than two decades ago.

It was very difficult for me to meet up with these ghosts from the past–first Lisa Denny, then Jeri Johnson. Because she was in a meeting, I could not, of course, make contact with Jeri, but I did step instead into the chapel where an organ rehearsal was on and as I allowed the deep sonorous tones to wash over me, I recalled those days when I had sat there enthralled by a concert that had been put on by so many talented young American musicians so many years ago. Where were they all, I wondered? How had the years treated them? Had they become academics as Annalisa and I had done or had they strayed into varied fields as Firdaus and Jo had?

With my friends in my thoughts, I stepped out into the quad and sat for a while on a bench, overlooking the lawn upon which I had once sprawled, taking in the familiar sights of the steeple of the chapel, the clock on the walls of the Dining Hall, the doors leading to the Undercroft and the Junior Common Room. Then, while I was in the midst of my reverie, darkness descended upon the medieval city and the occasional high pitched cries of modern-day undergrads reached my ears from afar.

But the cold made it impossible for me to tarry much longer with my memories. Though it was only 5 pm, I decided to try to catch the earlier bus back to London. It would have been impossible to see anything else by that point. There was no evensong service at St. Mary The Virgin Church that I could have attended. I had intended to browse through Blackwell’s Bookstore for some literature on the shooting of the Inspector Morse mysteries. But, by then, my feet were aching and I’d had enough. When, coincidentally, the same driver from my morning’s ride, pulled up and agreed to take me on the earlier bus, I sank into the same upper deck front seats rather gratefully and tried to doze off on the ride back.

Something was missing about my visit to Oxford and for the longest time I wasn’t sure what it was. And then it dawned on me–it was the presence of my friends that I missed so much. For all of us, those days at Exeter had been some of the most memorable ones of our lives and it is impossible for me to return to Oxford without dwelling on those precious moments of our youth. How marvelous, I thought, that the one thing we gifted each other all those years ago has lasted unbroken over the miles and over the years–the gift of our friendship.

A Touch of Frost at Somerset House & St. Paul’s

Dec2

Monday, December 1, 2008
London

Jack Frost nipped at my nose all day today as London slipped down to a numbing 1 degree–that’s Celsius, of course, in which scale the figures always sound scarier than they are even to North Americans accustomed to more frigid winters. However, it was with a twinge of jealousy that I noticed that it was 11 degrees Celsius in New York and Fairfield today–December 1, 2008, Chriselle’s Birthday. I can only hope that we will be released from this Freezer Box soon and return to more seasonal English temperatures.

Still, I cannot complain because when I awoke, the sun–that elusive thing–was out, shining gloriously upon the city. The pull towards the outdoors is so strong especially when this happens after three straight days of slickness and gloom. I finished grading a batch of essays, showered and left my flat. I bussed it to Bedford Square and arrived at my office, rather unusually on a Monday, in order to print out a bunch of things on which I had worked through the weekend–not the least of which were my Megabus tickets for my trip to Oxford tomorrow. Karen even remarked about how strange it seemed to see me on a Monday.

Then, all work accomplished for the day, I set off to have some festive fun, catching the bus to Trafalgar Square from where I caught another one to Aldwych to see Somerset House which wears a dressed-up air at Christmastime. The grand Neo-Classical mansion is the backdrop for holiday festivity sponsored, this year, by Tiffany and Co. There was a small snack bar all painted in the signature robin’s egg blue and tied with a bow to resemble a typical Tiffany present–it called itself the Tiffany Tuck Shop and sold cup cakes decorated with robin’s egg blue icing and a tiny white bow, blue and white candy canes and gingerbread cookie men wearing robin’s egg blue scarves. All very cute but all very pricey!

On the skating rink, dozens of merrymakers slid around, some proficient, others obvious beginners. The Christmas tree that stood in another ‘Tiffany present’ stand sported ice-skates in blue, huge silver snowflakes and strings of blue lights. In the adjoining cafe, hot mulled cider and hot chocolate were being sold in robin’s egg blue Tiffany paper cups. So there you had it–a crassly commerical American Christmas exported to London, courtesy of Tiffany, in these days of global credit crunches and economic downturns. I had hoped to see a festival market all set up on the sidelines, but was sorely disappointed. A look in the Somerset House Shop was equally disappointing, for there was really nothing that shouted out my name.

By then it was 3 pm in London (10 am in New York), a good time to call Chriselle who would have arrived at her office desk. We ended up having the nicest chinwag. She had received the yellow roses I sent her via Llew and was looking forward to dinner that evening at a Thai restaurant with Llew and Chris and, somewhat unexpectedly but very pleasantly for her, the presence of my brother Roger, who happens to be in New York on a flight.

I then hightailed it back home on the bus, but not before I passed by India House at India Place which intersects Montague Street (he, I suppose, of the Montague-Chelmsford Reforms) and was attracted to a sculpture of India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru perched on a pedestal in the alley where visitors to India queue for visas at the adjoining consulate offices. I took a few pictures but with the light fading fast, I’m not optimistic about the results.

On the way back, I tried so hard to find one of the old red Bombay-style double deckers but though I just missed one that sailed off majestically as I arrived at the bus-stop, my resolve was shattered in the freezing cold and I caught the first bus that came my way and dropped me off on Fleet Street from where I walked home. I did spent a few moments in Waterstones browsing through the new coffee table books being offered this season, including Steven Fry’s Tour Across America and Nigella’s Christmas. It’s funny to see how one can become a vicitim of one’s own success. Indeed, success has completely changed Nigella’s natural persona. I was warching some of the episodes from her earliest TV series shot at the time when her first husband was still alive and her kids were still kids (and not the pre-teens they are now) and I found her so natural in front of the camera. In the newer series, she behaves like a sex kitten, flashing come-hither bedroom smiles into the camera and keenly playing up her sex appeal. I have to admit that at times I find the current series’ almost embarrassing.

I had enough time at home to get myself a quick slice of pizza and a coffee before I left again and took the bus to St. Paul’s Cathedral to Amen Court, the home of my new friends the Colcloughs, Cynthia and Michael. Bishop Michael is Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s Cathedral and has invited me to a bunch of Advent and Christmas services at the Cathedral. The service was by invitation or pass only but the place was packed. For the next one hour and a half, I lost myself in the prayerful interior as I listened to a number of readings, superbly articulated by several different Anglican prelates and a couple of choirs, including a Boy’s choir that was simply outstanding. Their angelic voices rose to the towering domed ceiling and made me feel as if I were in Heaven in the midst of the hosts of angels all singing their hearts out. It was idyllically beautiful. Since it was Chriselle’s birthday and I like to attend Mass on her birthday when I am far away from her, this was the ideal service to dedicate to her and she was closely in my prayers all through the evening. I made the discovery that very day that Chriselle shares a birthday with my friend Mary-Jo Smith from Connecticut and, so MJ was in my prayers too. I am looking forward now to Handel’s Messiah this coming Thursday in the same venue.

I continued watching Far From the Madding Crowd over dinner when I got home. I did not realize what a lengthy movie it is, but I was relieved that it did have a happy ending unlike most of Hardy’s novels that are lachrymose and dripping with tragedy. Gabriel did win Bathsheba’s hand in marriage, at the very end, though there were some rather morbid scenes that I was afraid would keep me awake at night. As it turned out, I was ready to drop by the time I cleared and washed up and went to bed.

Tomorrow, I will be catching the 8 am Megabus from Victoria to Oxford where I have a couple of meetings at St. Antony’s College, so I set my cell phone alarm to 6.30 am and fell asleep. Since I am using the cell phone as an alarm clock for the first time, it is my fervent hope that it will ring on schedule!

Rochelle's Roost

Welcome to Holly Berry House!

Archive | December 2008

Belfast–Northern Ireland’s Capital

Giant’s Causeway and Londonderry by Paddywagon

In Ivy’s Company–Carrickfergus to Glennarif

Northern Ireland, Here I Come

The Ordeal of Contemporary Flying

Grading Final Exams and Preparing for Ireland

Last Classes, British Museum, Handel’s Messiah and British Comfort Food

Thrice in Three Months! More Glimpses of the Queen!

Return to Oxford!

A Touch of Frost at Somerset House & St. Paul’s