Tag Archive | France

Seeing Judi Dench on Stage, Another Interview and Springtime In London’s Parks

Wednesday, April 22, 2009
London

Another glorious day in the city made me understand why the English tolerate their notoriously dull and dreary winters–it’s for days like this, that appear like the light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel. Being outdoors in Spring makes all those ghastly weeks worthwhile. I heard a giddy teenager, this morning, say, “Summer’s here, isn’t it?” Well, it certainly seemed like summer had arrived with a vengeance. I wore a T-shirt for the first time this year, if that can be any indication of a season’s change.

My day began in Notting Hill where I had an appointment to interview Susan Lynn, an Englishwoman who preceded me in having spent a great deal of time interviewing Anglo-Indians in Great Britain about fifteen years ago. While her focus was on the lives of the Anglo-Indians in India before World War II, mine, of course, is on the lives of Anglo-Indians in Great Britain since the War. Still, I felt as if she would be able to offer me a fund of information and anecdotes and, indeed, she did not disappoint.

First of all, her home which is in the basement of a terraced building in Kensington, one of London’s poshest residential neighborhoods, is the kind of English home I have inhabited in my fondest fantasies. You reach her front door by descending down a spiral wrought iron staircase and arrive at a landing filled with potted plants. Inside, there are all the props of the typical English home: countless photographs, loads of delicate china and porcelain ornaments, furniture that looks as if it has seen a happy lifetime in the service of image-unconscious owners, books–hardbound, old, well-thumbed.

Susan settled me down with a mug of coffee and biscuits (which I declined, tempting though they were) and we began our conversation. Though she was not “country-born”, her father was a member of the old Indian Civil Service and she spent long periods intermittently in India, a country she remembers with the sweetest nostalgia and to which she returned recently with the deepest affection. Her own research, documented on audio tapes, has been donated to the Empire and Commonwealth Museum and I know that they will make fascinating listening.

We spent almost two hours together, at the end of which we discovered that we had one more thing in common–we are both avid gardeners and when she gave me a tour of the lovely gardens that she helps maintain in the high-class neighborhood in which she lives, I was charmed. We realized that our mutual love of gardens and gardening ought to have led us outdoors to do the interview. Pity neither of us had thought about it. Still, I enjoyed sitting in her very ‘homey’ living room talking to this wonderfully articulate woman who is one of the Last Children of the Raj.

Then, because it was such a gorgeous day, I decided to do something I have been waiting for a long while to do: explore London’s Parks. Since Holland Park was so close to Susan’s place, that’s where I headed. I had carried a pile of student essays to mark and I decided to make real another one of the fantasies I have long entertained: sitting in the parks and grading them. In less than ten minutes, I was entering Holland Park, a place that became known to me through the TV series As Time Goes By, for Lionel Hardcastle and Jean Pargiter (played by Geoffrey Palmer and Judi Dench), the show’s protagonists, own one of these sought-after terraced houses in Holland Park. I haven’t yet been able to find the exact location of the street on which their house stands, but before I leave London perhaps I shall. The garrulous Web makes all such trivia so easily accessible now, doesn’t it?

And then I saw signs pointing me towards The Kyoto Garden. One of my students had made a presentation in class on ‘Japanese London’ and had mentioned the existence of this Japanese Garden in the heart of London. Well, here it was. I began to follow the signposts directing me to the garden when, lo and behold, a magnificent peacock strutted right past me! I couldn’t believe my eyes! Peacocks in a London garden!!! It walked right by me, tame as ever, crossed a pathway and went over to join its buddies on the other side–a half dozen of them! You could have struck me down with a feather. I was so annoyed with myself for not having recharged my camera last night. Here I was in the midst of a glorious London spring garden in which peacocks paraded nonchalantly by and I wasn’t able to capture the images! It frustrated me no end.

And then I found it–the lovely Zen calmness and serenity of the Kyoto Garden. Landscaped around a pond in which huge golden koi swam lazily and a short waterfall tumbled in a swirl of soapy foam, the garden curved around sweeping lawns, vivid magenta azaleas and coppery maples. It was a miniature Paradise and I was pleased as Punch when I found a vacant bench. It was not long before I whipped out my students’ papers and began marking them. Soon I started to feel hunger pangs tugging at my insides and I pulled out my packet lunch (containing my chicken salads) which I ate contentedly as squirrels scrambled around and birds chirped in the bushes. Truly, spring is good for the soul and I am so blessed to be able to enjoy this season so early in the year in this country.

At 1. 20 pm, I reluctantly left this idyllic spot to go out in search of the nearest Tube station. Passing by the cafe, my heart leapt with joy for there in front of me was the brick red structure that is featured in As Time Goes By as the spot where Lionel and Jean first met as a young soldier and trainee nurse respectively. He had asked her the way to Curzon Street and the rest became their personal history! Again, I rued the fact that I could not take pictures and decided that I simply would return again before all the scarlet tulips have disappeared. I know I shall never look upon that scene in the TV show again without seeing myself walking through the same boxwood pathways of that formal garden.

Then, I was in the Tube headed to Leicester Square to arrive at the Donmar Wyndam Theater where I had matinees show tickets to see Judi Dench (yes, what a coincidence that I had been to Holland Park in the morning where her huge TV hit show had been shot) in Yukio Mishima’s play Madame de Sade. I had been to this theater just a month ago to see Derek Jacobi play Malvolio in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, but I was still taken by its fabulous interior. I had fairly good seats and gave myself entirely to the beauty of the production. For that’s exactly what it was–beautiful, no exquisite, in terms of set design and costumes which were the best parts of the shows. Christopher Outram outdid himself in creating a color palate that was monochromatic from one scene to the next and blended perfectly with the set design. Set during the years preceding the French Revolution, the recreation of the period must be a costume designer’s dream–what with those enormous silk skirts, towering hair-dos and fluttering fans. All the satorial grandeur of the period was spread out before our eyes in the most delectable colors that matched those of the walls. How ingenious a set design was that???

As for the performances, it was a pleasure I have waited long to experience: the opportunity to see Judi Dench, one of my favorite actors or all time, in the flesh, on the stage, emoting live, projecting her lines. Only, oh dear, because this legendary actress is also human, she did forget a line and for a very noticeable ten seconds at least, paused then got right back in her stride without so much as batting an eyelid. Still, the performances were exceptional, Dench’s stage presence alone giving her tons of marks. And then there was Madame de Sade (Rosamunde Pike) who was extraordinary and Frances Barber who, in my opinion, just stole the show getting better and better with each scene that she completely whisked away from right beneath Dame Judi’s nose! Mishima is verbose at the best of times and this play was no exception (many many moons ago I had actually acted in a play by Yukio Mishima called TheLady Aawee under the direction of Hima Devi in Bombay); but at least his lines are more poetic than prosaic and make magical listening especially when enunciated as expertly as these actors have been trained to do.
The play was only an hour and 45 minutes long which actually left me enough time to get back home to catch up with email and compose two quizzes for a gathering that my Dad is organizing in Bombay. Then, I was off again, headed to the same venue at Charing Cross to meet my friend Loreen and her daughter Alicia who were going to the 7.30 performance of the same play. We met in Chinatown at a restaurant on Little Newport Street where I nibbled on some greens and sipped green tea and caught up with them. Loreen has arrived in London for a week from Westport, Connecticut, to spend time with Alicia who is also posted in London for work. I took my leave of them about an hour later and headed back on the Tube to explore yet another park: Regent’s Park.

It was a long hike from the Regent’s Park Tube station to the Queen’s Garden where the roses in the summer are supposedly spectacular. While it was too early in the year for roses, tulips were everywhere in brilliant colors and the trees were in full bloom–pink, mauve, white. I saw a rhododendron so tall it was like a full-grown tree with the most startling magenta blossoms. Babies enjoyed their evening out in their prams, dogs appeared wild as they darted about energetically, Muslim women in headscarves and long skirts played badminton and kids rolled with abandon in the grass. It felt so good to be alive.

I did some more grading on a park bench before I took the Tube back home. It was almost 9 pm and darkness had fallen by the time I reached home to eat my dinner, watch a bit of TV, write this blog and get to bed on what had been a very productive yet very relaxing day for me.

Belgium’s Art Treasure Trove.

Apr18

Saturday, April 18, 2009
Brussels-London

I had a really harrowing last night at the youth hostel in Brussels as the place was taken over by a pre-teen French group of school children who created such a racket you’d think the house was on fire. Despite my attempts to quieten them down, they resisted and, having left my ear-plugs at home, I stayed awake half the night. What’s worse, one of my suitemates came in at 1 am and left the room at 6am–disturbing me at every juncture and making me feel quite harrassed indeed.

I ate well at breakfast and checked out, left my bags in the storage unit and went out in search of parts of the city that I hadn’t covered on my first day. In fact, I headed straight for the grand Palais de Justice, a massive Neo-Classical building with an impressive dome that occupies several city blocks and is visible from most of the city. Much of it was behind scaffolding, however, which made the taking of pictures impossible.

On I pressed down Rue du Regence towards the Musee des Beaux-Arts which opened at 10 am, stopping en route to visit the Church of Notre-Dame au Sablon, a magnificent piece of architecture with a white Gothic exterior but a rather plain interior. The gardens right outside called the Place du Petit Sablon were superb, however. Though rather small, they are beautifully manicured with formal severity in the curving boxwood edgings in whose midst hundreds of tulips were about to burst into bloom. The most striking feature about it were the dozens of sculpted figures that march around the gates, each one representing a different medieval guild. There is a great sculptural group in the center that is accentuated by a flowing fountain and the whole confection is set right below the Palais d’Egmont which is not open to the public but whose solid quadrangular building are admirable indeed.

The Musee des Beaux-Arts:
A few mintues before 10 am, I was at the entrance of the Museum of Fine Arts which stands adjacent to another one of Brussel’s more impressive buildings–its Royal Palace. Again, tours are available only during the summer, but the Neo-Classical exterior set in a cobbled square and emphasized by a statue are all so noteworthy as to make a very fulfilling walk indeed.

My main aim, however, was to tour the major works of Flemish art to be found in the museum which actually combines two separate collections: Ancient Art and Modern Art. Armed with an audio guide, I began my discovery of this museum and was delighted by its fine collection. Though the paintings I loved are too numerous to note, I especially enjoyed seeing so many works by Rogier van der Weyden who is one of my favorite painters of all time–ever after I saw his Deposition in the Prado in Madrid, I have been a die hard fan. The Brussels’ museum contains many significant works of his, some small, others larger in scale and conception.

Of course, one cannot leave Brussels without feasting upon the works of art of the Breugels–the Elder and the Younger, father and son, who produced so many unforgettable scenes from Belgian rural life in a style that is truly distinctive. It is to see these works alone that it is worth making a trip across the Channel to Brussels; but pride of place in the collection goes to Jacques-Louis David’s The Death of Marat which occupies a wall all its own and draws the most curious visitors. An extraordinarily realistic canvas, this scene captures the moments soon after the death of the Marquis de Sade (from whom we obtain the word ‘sadism’ by the way), who is said to have masterminded the guillotine as a method of killing France’s aristocracy during the Revolution. He was murdered in revenge in his bath by a woman whose husband had been killed leaving her to look after their five children. Finding some pretext to enter Marat’s home, she stabbed him while he was in his bathtub where he did a great deal of official work as he suffered from a condition called plurisy which was relieved by hydrotherapy. David’s work is so powerful that he draws the viewer right into the scene and forces him to imagine the horror of Marat’s end. His arm hangs over the bath tub still holding on to a note that he was in the process of writing. Simon Schama in his History of Art series has covered this painting in detail and I was thrilled to have been able to see it in one of the least-visited museums of Europe.

In the Modern section, which you reach by diving deep into the bowels of the earth, are a number of interesting paintings by the Pre-Raphaelites such as Edward Coley Burne-Jones and his imitators. The collection is known for the works of Belgian modernist Rene Magritte, but most of them were off the walls as they are to be installed into a new museum that is under construction to exclusively feature his work. Still, I enjoyed seeing some of the work of the Belgian Symbolists such as Rik Wouters before I made my way back to the surface.

A Typically Belgian Lunch:
I next went out in search of the meal I had promised myself before leaving Belgium–moules-frites. En route, I passed by the Old England department store with its interesting Art Nouveau facade and arrived at the Place des Herbes where I expertly found my way to the Rue des Bouchers and to Leon’s which is reputed to serve the best mussels in the city. Though more pricey than the rest, Leon de Bruxselles has established a name and a faithful clientele and I decided to partake of his bounty. Ordering the “traditionelle”, i. e. a large bowl of moules (mussels) made with butter, celery, parsley and white wine and served with bread for dunking into the jucies and a bowl of fries with a blonde Belgian beer, I had a truly memorable meal and was glad that I bravely entered the restaurant and ate alone-something I don’t usually do when I am traveling solo.

Lunch done, I had just enough time to wander at will through the Grande Place one last time. It was taken over by tourists. Indeed, the sun was shining warmly down upon the city after two freezing days and the passers-by had taken to the streets with delight. I bought myself some bars of Belgian chocolate and returned to the youth hostel to pick up my bag and begin my return journey home.

Back on the Chunnel Train:
I arrived at the train station after a 20 minute walk, went through check in, security and immigration procedures before boarding my 6.00 pm train back to London. It was far more crowded than the one I had taken into Brussels, but the jouney was very comfortabe eindeed and after my big meal, I felt a trifle sleepy and very tired. This time, it was obvious when we entered the Tunnel as it turned dark suddenly and we emerged into the sunlight a good half hour later. Soon the train was eating up the miles in Kent, past the Medway once again and arriving at St. Pancras where I caught a bus and was home within a half hour.

I rang the doorbell of my neighbors Tim and Barbara to give them some Belgian chocolate when they invited me to join them for dinner at Cafe Pasta right down our road. I was very grateful for the invitation though I wanted something light to eat and after I had showered, we strolled downstairs. Over a very delicious pizza and beer, I caught up with them and then we were home again. I unpacked and downloaded my pictures and after doing a batch of laundry, I went straight off to bed at the end of what had been a very interesting if rather tiring trip for me.

In Bruges–On a Day for Ducks!

Apr18

Friday, April 17, 2009
Bruges, Belgium

What a dreadful day! Truly, one for ducks! This wasn’t the kind of day that tourists can take in their stride—when sudden downpours wet the streets but pass quickly away. This was a steady continuous drizzle that went on all morning and turned the temperature way down low. It made us feel generally miserable especially after we had stayed out for a while and our fingers started to freeze. “We”, was my pal Taraney and myself. She decided to join me on the third walking tour and proved to be great company. Travel writers/travel lovers/bloggers probably just gravitate towards each other. I discovered, before long, that she is also blogging and maintaining a journal based on her travels in Northern Europe. To reach her blog, do click on: http://itinerantaraneh.blogspot.com/

I had awoken at 7. 30 am after a very restful night. For the first time ever since I began slumming it in youth hostels around Europe, I actually slept in a 6-bedded female dorm that did not contain a snorner! You have no idea how merciful that luxury can be! Little wonder that I dressed, packed and got right down to breakfast where Taraneh joined me for muesli with milk, and a bread roll that I filled with salami, cheese and good European butter—indeed a very filling breakfast for a youth hostel. But then, the Benelux (like the Scandinavian) countries do awesome breakfasts—yes, even in the youth hostels.

The Burg and Beyond:
The weather did not stop us from taking George McDonald’s last suggested walk in Bruges entitled “The Burg and Beyond”. With these three walks, I pretty much had all of Bruges covered—minus, that is, the museums. But then I had decided that I would go to the Fine Arts Museum in Brussels and would skip the ones in Bruges (which, by the way, did not recognize my Metropolitan Museum ID card and would not give me a free ticket to enter—which the Musee Royaux des Beaux-Arts in Brussels did!).

We left our hostel at 9 am (after I had checked out and stashed my bag in the unlocked storage area and hoped it would still be there when I returned to pick it up). Within 10 minutes, we were in the Market Square where Taraney went out in urgent search of an ATM machine. When she drew a blank, we began our walk hoping to find something subsequently. I found a flexi-magnet of Brussels in a small souvenir store where I also picked up a postcard. With that search out of the way, we started to read up about the Burg—another large cobbled square ringed by important buildings. As in Brussels’ Grande Place, these were built mainly during the Middle Ages, destroyed by the French, and then rebuilt during the Flemish Renaissance.

The Basilica of the Holy Blood and the Liberty Hall:
Our first port of call was the ornate blackened church with gilded figures adorning its façade—the Basilica of the Holy Blood. This is really two churches in one: on the bottom floor is the Romanesque St. Basil’s Chapel built in 1137-57 and wearing its age on its sleeve—it was small with low fan-vaulted ceilings and some very striking statues inside. I particularly loved the Pieta , a medieval Madonna and Child and a version of Ecce Homo, each of which occupied its own atmospheric niche.

The upper floor, reached by a spiral stone staircase had a really spectacular painted altar. In the beautiful Baroque chapel on the right side in a silver receptacle is kept a Relic of the Holy Blood in a rock crystal phial. This is occasionally brought out and displayed in the hands of one of the church’s officials who sits up on an altar where the congregation can go forward and venerate it. I had a chance to climb the stairs and kiss the relic. In the phial is a small scrap of cloth stained with the blood of Christ obtained after the Cruxificion by Joseph of Arimathea. Count Thierry of Alcase who received it as a reward for acts of bravery during the second Crusade brought it to Bruges from Jerusalem in 1149—says McDonald in his explanatory notes in his book. For me, both, seeing the relic and being able to kiss it, were uniquely blessed experiences and I was very happy indeed to have had such an unexpected opportunity.

Then we stepped inside the adjacent Town Hall (also in the Burg) where we entered the Renaissance Hall of the Liberty of Bruges. There was an entry fee that allowed visitors to walk through the well restored rooms, one of which included the main hall filled with elaborate sculpture and carvings. Since we had decided not to spend time indoors, we walked out of the Parliament Hall but not before we had a quick and quite stunning glimpse of the splendid black marble Dinant mantelpiece and fireplace with a superb carved oak-chimneypiece from 1528-9 by Lanceloot Blondeel celebrating Emperor Charles V’s victory in 1525 at Pavia over Francis I of France. This wooden sculptural group, featuring among others European monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, is so grand and so elaborate that it is said to be one of the finest in Europe.

Canal-side Bruges:
After enjoying these highlights of the Burg, we continued on our walk, which took us through Blind Donkey’s Alley and over a bridge across a canal to the Tanner’s Guildhall. A few short steps away was Rosary Quai, which affords one of Bruges’ loveliest sights—canals, waterside houses, and the Belfry. Despite the fact that it was still coming down in sheets, we enjoyed the ambience and soaked it all in.

When we traced our steps back to the colonnaded fish market where a few fishmongers were hard at their trade, we decided to walk alongside the canal, past two of the prettiest old stone bridges in the town—Meebrug and Peerdenbrug. This brought us to the almshouses named after the Pelican that adorns its front façade. I had begun to recognize these almshouses quite easily by this point: they are small, cute and have low gabled roofs.

At this stage on our route, we were tired and cold as the rain had continued incessantly. We came to the Coupure Bridge and saw the Marieke sculpture based on a song by famous Belgian signer Jacques Brel called “Ai Marieke”. A longish and then rather uninteresting walk took us past the vast Astrid Park with its gold and blue bandstand behind the Blessed Magdalen Church. Taraneh still needed an ATM that was proving to be rather elusive and it was at the Market Square that she finally found one. It was then that we decided to warm ourselves up with a bite at a cozy tea room where we shared a pot of Darjeeling.

Boat Cruise along the Canals:
A very tired Taraneh bid me goodbye at this stage to return for a nap to the hostel. It had, miraculously, stopped raining while we were at our impromptu meal and I began to think again of taking a canal cruise to receive a different perspective of the town. Making my way to the public library, I found a dry spot and ate my lunch there, then went out in search of the one of the jetties from which the boats are launched. Tourists had begun to resurface as if from under the downpour and when I did find a jetty and boarded a boat for just 6. 70 euros for the ride, it was almost 2. 30 pm.

The canal cruise was short (just a half hour long) but was one of the most delightful experiences I had in the town and one I would heartily recommend. Indeed, we passed through the same buildings, quays, islands, that we had seen during the past couple of days, but you see them from a very unique angle. I took so many pictures as I just couldn’t get enough of the charm of it all. In fact, I felt slightly at odds with the passing scenes and thought it might have been more appropriate to be dressed not in jeans and a hoodie but in a flowing black cape with hand made lace at my collar in the manner of the women in the 17th century Flemish paintings of Jan van Eyck, Van Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch! I made the discovery that in the course of my three walks, I had indeed covered every significant nook and cranny of the city and could have given a far more effective commentary than the boat driver did—he did a multi-lingual job (Flemish, French and English) but the information was far too sketchy for my liking. Indeed I had grown to love the medieval town so dearly that I began to feel rather possessive about it!

The cruise was over in half an hour and I alighted and started my walk back to the youth hostel to pick up my bags for my intended early evening return to Brussels—mainly because it was really too cold to linger outdoors for much longer. I found the consignment store again and bought myself a Burberry umbrella and then returned to the hostel where I picked up my bag and made my way to the bus stop headed to the train station—but not before I dressed more warmly and in layers—cashmere cardigan, silk scarf and warm denim jacket.

I was at Bruges station in about 20 minutes from where I boarded a train for Brussels, a ride that took an hour and wended its way deep into the heart of the Flemish countryside as seen in the landscape paintings of the Flanders School. Because it was too cold to venture out again, I opted for the 10 euro dinner being offered at the youth hostel, which consisted of a thick and very delicious vegetable soup, marinated sheesh kebabs served over wild rice and cauliflower au gratin with crème caramel for dessert. Very good value for money indeed. Well fuelled, I returned to my room to write this blog and since I was tired, all at once, I decided to do a bit of reading before falling asleep.

Bonjour Bruxelle! Arrival in Brussels.

Apr18

Wednesday, April 15, 2009
London-Brussles

I’ve wanted to visit Belgium forever—ever since my brother’s friend, when a little boy of nine, once informed us that he was going for a holiday to Belgium. He had meant Belgaum in South India! We’d all had a guffaw but I was never able to get Belgium off my mind. I had once passed through the country by bus en route from Paris to Amsterdam many years ago; but, of course, had seen nothing of the country then. In the years that have since relapsed, I’ve made friends with some Belgians in the States and some of my American friends spent lengths of time when their husbands were posted in Brussels for work. It was time, I decided, to actually get to Belgium myself, so it was with some excitement that I was off—though I had not quite recovered from my travels with Llew into the Ancient Worlds of Rome and Istanbul.

I was excited for yet another reason—this was going to be another first time for me–first time that I was going to travel on the Eurostar line, aka the Chunnel train between England and the Continent that actually travels below the English Channel! It is a feat of engineering that my mind still cannot quite wrap itself over. I intended to savor the experience.

I set my alarm for 5.15 am, was out of my flat at 5.45 am, in King’s Cross Station at St. Pancras which is the hub for Eurostar in London at 6 00 am, “checked in” (i.e. went through security and immigration—just as in an airport), was boarding the train at 6. 35 am and at 6. 59 am, on the dot, we were pulling out of the station and on our way to Belgium. The ride was very comfortable and in the two odd hours it took I did my ‘homework’, i.e. began to read the travel guides I had borrowed from the library with the idea of planning my next few days. It took me a few minutes to get accustomed to the enormous speed of the train as we sped through the Kentish countryside, crossed the River Medway and barreled our way into Europe. I had taken one really fast train, similar to this one, many years earlier—the French TGV (Tres Grande Vitesse) train from Paris to Aix-les-Bains and I do remember feeling slightly disconcerted by its speed at the time.

I have to say that I was a little disappointed as I expected some kind of indication when we launched into the Channel Tunnel, but there was nothing. Also since the train weaves in and out of tunnels all the way out of London, you don’t really know when you hit the Tunnel. (you have a better idea of this when traveling from the Continent to England as you travel over ground all the way until you come to the Tunnel at which point, you remain in darkness for about 25 minutes before emerging into daylight again—that’s how long it takes to cross the English Channel).

We made one stop in Ellsfleet and then in Lille in France before the train changed tracks, left the Paris bound track behind, and headed towards Brussels. Spring had arrived in these parts for the fresh green grass of the cow-studded fields easily indicated that the seasons had changed. It was just a half hour later that we pulled into Brussels Midi station on an exceptionally warm day. As I hauled my backpack/strolley along cobbled streets towards the Youth Hostel where I had made a reservation, I had to peel off my denim jacket because it was so uncomfortable. I was glad I had bought myself an enormous bottle of water from a supermarket at the station, as, for some odd reason, I felt hugely thirsty. Using my map, I found myself at the hostel some twenty minutes later and since check in was not until 2pm, I stashed my bag in the rather high-tech storage room (for 1. 50 euros) and left. Again, armed with my map, I headed out at 11 am for the Grande Place, which was only a fifteen-minute walk away from the hostel.

Discovering Manneken Pis:
Along the route, I was delighted to come upon the famous sculpture of the peeing little boy called the Manneken Pis, which has become an icon of the city. And I was startled to discover how tiny he is! Not more than a foot tall, this little sculpture was the center of so much attention as tourists posed for pictures besides the stone pedestal on which he is propped way up. I have to admit that I joined the throngs and had my pictures taken against the copious jet. And then, a few feet down the street towards the Grande Place—a street lined with lace and chocolate shops galore, I also rubbed for good luck, the right arm on the brass-covered statue of Everard t’Serclaes (I heard a young teenage girl look at it and squeal, “Oh look, Jesus Christ!) who was murdered while defending Brussels in the 14th century. In fact, the brass on his right arm has so worn out that the stone beneath it peeks through, so often has it been rubbed by avid visitors and the city’s own dwellers each time they pass by it.

In the Grande Place:
And then, there it was—the Grande Place of which I had seen so many pictures over the years. It is really a huge cobbled medieval market square, one of Europe’s largest. Surrounded by the most ornate historic buildings, most of which were built during the Middle Ages and then rebuilt after destruction by the French, during the 17th century Flemish Renaissance, they were the headquarters of the various medieval guilds that controlled all artisanal trade in the country during those Dark Ages. As such, they are each crowned by the various symbols of these trades (the Boatman’s Guild House, for instance, is topped by a huge 17th century frigate’s bow). The square also serves today as a daily flower market which brings wonderful color to the center, especially now that spring is here.

It was at about this time that I started to feel deeply exhausted. Occasionally, only occasionally, in the course of my travels, I am assailed by the kind of inexplicable malaise that finds me suddenly dragging my feet. Whether this was because Llew had left only a day previously and I missed him sorely, whether it was because I had spent the previous two weeks with him traipsing through castles, cathedrals and museums and was so worn out that I could not really ‘see’ anything any more or whether it was simply exertion that was taking its toll on me was hard to say. But all I wanted to do was sit somewhere quiet and watch the world go by. And for a while that was exactly what I did in the Grande Place.

The Area Around the Grande Place:
A little later I used my DK Eye Witness Guide to Brussels to follow a road that led towards the Neo-Classical edifice called the Bourse—the country’s Stock Market. Very different from the ornate gables of the Flemish Renaissance upon which I had feasted my eyes in the Grand Place, this building features Corinthian columns, Greek pediments with carved friezes and sculpture by some leading lights including August Rodin. At the Bourse, I joined other tourists and sank down on its grand steps overlooking the main traffic-filled boulevard, and found it impossible to get up. That malaise was still haunting me. En route, I had also visited the Church of St. Nicholas and then I arrived at the Halles St. Gery, which is considered the birthplace of the city as a chapel to St. Gery has stood on this site since the 6th century.

Lunch at the Grande Place:
Then, still lacking enthusiasm, I traced my steps back to the Grande Place, stopping en route at a convenience store to buy myself a bottle of chilled Belgian Duvel beer. I ate my homemade sandwich and chugged my beer while watching tourists take pictures of the guildhalls as I sat on the stone steps of one of the buildings (noting, with dismay, that Belgium seems to be singularly lacking in seating along its sightseeing trails). It was almost 2 pm by this stage and as I ate and drank, I began to feel seriously buzzed. It was only later, reading in my guidebook, that I discovered that Belgian beer packs a heavy punch. Since I wasn’t sharing the bottle with Llew but had drunk it all myself, it packed a wallop and it was with the greatest difficulty that I launched myself up to my feet to continue my exploration of the city.

Window-shopping in the Galeries St. Hubert:
Using my map, I went in search of the Galeries St. Hubert, which comprises a grand shopping arcade that was inaugurated by Belgium’s first king, Leopold I, in 1847. Today, dominated by luxury merchandise shops selling designer clothing, leather goods, lace shops and expensive chocolatiers such as Leonidas, the shops are still fun to peek into and I had a good time though only window shopping. By this stage, I had eaten a great amount of chocolate as the attendants were eager to pass out samples. Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies, however, hadn’t yet dropped to half price in Belgium even though Easter was long past!

Just past the Galeries St. Hubert is one of the city’s most interesting streets—the Rue des Bouchers. This is a Foodie’s Paradise as it is lined on both sides by a variety of restaurants, most of which entice the visitor with a stunning array of appetizing arrangements of fresh seafood, fruit and vegetables. I walked its length, passing by the famous Leon and promised myself that I would not leave Brussels without feasting on its most famous culinary offering—moules-frites (mussels with fries).

It wasn’t long before I found myself at the Places des Herbes where I occupied a seat on a bench and promptly plonked down! It was a good hour before I stirred again, by which time I had myself a wonderful hour-long nap (or a drunken sleep, if you prefer!). But it proved to be incredibly refreshing because it spurred me on to get back on my feet and look for Brussels’ best-known church—the Cathedral of Saints Michael and Gudule. This twin-spired church is somewhat reminiscent of Paris’ Notre-Dame and is truly gorgeous inside. Despite the fact that I had just returned from Rome where I was made to feel “all churched-out”, I was still taken by its grandeur. The Last Judgment stained glass window with its vivid shades of red, yellow and blue was truly lovely. An extraordinary Baroque carved wooden pulpit by Antwerp-born Henri-Francois Verbruggen matches this visual treat, the likes of which I have never seen before. Over the next few days, I visited many churches with Baroque pulpits, but none of them matched the splendor of this one. It was designed in 1699 and installed in the church in 1776. Two staggering beautiful gilded statues of Saint Michael and Saint Gudule also stunned me as did the larger-than-life sized statues of the twelve Apostles that stand high on stone plinths above the congregation’s heads throughout the length of the nave. It was these interesting and very unusual features that made this cathedral stand out for me.

When I emerged from the Cathedral after a brief but very heavy shower had suddenly wetted the streets, I picked my way along Rue Neuve for some retail therapy for this street is filled with every conceivable European high street store and was busy with shoppers. Recession, what recession? I thought as I watched them hurry by.

Since I lacked energy to do anything more interesting, I decided to postpone my visits to the fine arts museums for my return from Bruges when I intended to spend one more day in Brussels. For the moment, I’d had my fair share of urban exploration and decided to take another route back to the youth hostel. Along the way, I passed by the Hotel Metropole, which, my guide book informed me, had one of the grandest Art Nouveau lobbies and bar-cafes to be found in the city. Indeed when I did walk inside to see for myself, I was quite taken by the degree of opulence with which the ground floor was designed. Lavish use of gilding along walls and columns and the brilliant pools of light cast by glittering chandeliers made the place look like a ball room.

Then I was buying myself a gaufre—a Belgian waffle—topped liberally with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and walnuts. This made a very filling dinner indeed as I returned to the youth hostel, checked into my 4-bedded dorm room, took a very relaxing hot shower in the attached bathroom and then, still feeling quite drained of energy, climbed into my bunk to call it a very early night.

It had been lovely to hear the sound of French all around me and before long, I was eager to try some of my own rusty French on the locals. But everytime I spoke to someone in French, they responded to me in English! And I realized how multi-lingual the Belgians are as they switch with ease from French to English to Dutch in a single minute.

Footloose in Roma!

Apr9

Friday, April 3, 2009
Rome

There is simply too much to see in Rome and if you are addicted to churches or museums, as I am, you have to make certain choices. So, after another big breakfast in our hotel, we set out to view some of the sights that literature has made famous through the centuries, starting with the Spanish Steps.

Picking our way down the Via de Condotti:
On checking my map, I discovered that the Piazza de Spagna stands at the end of one of Rome’s most famous streets—the fashionable Via de Condotti which is the equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue in that it houses the showrooms of the country’s best-known couturiers. I picked our way across the map to the famous street and made the discovery that the shops get more expensive and the designer names more famous the closer you get to the steps. We stopped en route to see some of the goodies being offered by Furla and Valentino and Salvatore Ferragamo and marveled all the while at the fact that Italy seemed recession-proof as most of the locals were walking jauntily along the street, their hands laden with bags that announced their pricey buys.

The Spanish Steps and the Church of Trinita del Monti:
We spied the Spanish Steps long before we arrived there as the spires of the Church of Trinita del Monti, being located high on a hill, are easily visible all along the Condotti. As always, the Steps were filled with student groups and morning strollers with their dogs in tow soaking in the sun (for it had turned out to be a beautiful day). Unlike most of his ornate fountain sculpture that adorns the city of Rome and gives it a distinctive character, the little boat-like sculpture in front of the steps are Bernini’s most modest. It does, in fact, portray a sunken boat and lacks the opulent characters that decorate the rest of his work. After Llew and I had posed for pictures, we began our climb up the steps to see the church and receive stirring glimpses of the city of Rome lying in ochre splendor at our feet. The church contains several paintings and sculptural works but this was one place in Rome that was not soundly mobbed and I have to say that for a moment, at least, I enjoyed the seclusion.

Then, when we had descended the steps, we began our perusal of the Piazza de Spagna taking in the Babbington Tea Rooms which were set up in the 19th century for visiting Englishmen and women who, on their Grand Tour of Europe had passed through Rome and felt homesick for the English tea and clotted cream-filled scones of the Home Counties. The atmosphere inside (yes, we did peek in briefly) was warm and cozy like the cups of tea being sipped delicately by the well-heeled patrons.

The Keats-Shelley Memorial House:
Next, we walked to the opposite side of the Steps (still teeming with joyous humanity) to the Keats-Shelley Memorial House, which, for me at least, was like making a pilgrimage. Ever since I was first introduced to his work as an undergraduate in Bombay, John Keats has remained my very favorite poet of all time and on every occasion I try to trace the footsteps of his life. I have, for instance, been to his famous house in Hampstead where he wrote Ode to a Nightingale. And anyone who knows anything about the sad end of Keats’ life knows that because he was afflicted with tuberculosis, he made his way to Italy to escape the cold damp of the English winter, to arrive in Rome with which he fell fully in love. His diary jotting records his rapturous response to the city as seen from the windows of this house that overlooks the Spanish Steps and the piazza beyond. However, despite his sojourn in warmer climes, he barely outlasted that winter. By the following spring, he was too weak to even sit at the window and it was in a bedroom in this house that he breathed his last—at the tender age of 26—perhaps English Poetry’s greatest loss of all time.

Llew and I climbed the marble winding steps with its beautiful wrought iron curving handrail to the top, passing all the time, a number of framed portraits of famous literary men and women who have either made Rome their home for a while or have visited this house upon being inspired by the spirit of Keats and Shelley. When we arrived at the reception desk, a lovely young lady named Josie introduced the home to us and sold us a ticket for 6 euros each. Then began our thoughtful and very quiet perusal of the rooms that make us Keats’ last home—a home crammed with all sorts of memorabilia including bits and pieces of manuscripts of his famous odes, a multitude of sepia-toned photographs, any amount of fragments of letters he wrote and received (for Keats was a prolific letter writer) as well as the poet’s hair and other relics from a short but profoundly productive life.

One can see the bedroom that Keats occupied and in which he breathed his last. Though fully created to replicate the way in which he lived and died, every item in the room is a replacement as the entire contents of the bedroom were burned after his death in accordance with Italian law which decreed that since tuberculosis was spread by contact with the patient (a fallacy, of course), everything that had come in contact with him was destroyed by fire. In vain did Keats’ friends try to salvage some of the personal items associated with his last days. To read the notes was to be deeply moved and I was close to tears as I took in the room, peered out into the sun-soaked piazza to survey the view he once so enjoyed and contemplated the legacy he left behind—a wealth of some of my favorite poems.

The room on the other side of the house is devoted to Shelley and the other Romantics as Shelley and Keats were close friends and the former did provide Keats with companionship in his last weeks. It was not long before Shelley followed Keats to his death, drowning as he did in a shipwreck off the coast of Italy. The two are buried side by side in Rome’s Protestant cemetery, which, unfortunately, we did not have the time to visit. However, a visit to this house should be on the must-see agenda of every lover of English Literature and I was so grateful that I had the opportunity to visit it.

The Piazza Barberini:
Then, it was time to tear ourselves away from the Spanish Steps and pick our way towards the Piazza Barberini. Our excellent map of Rome made such sightseeing very easy and by the time we arrived at the Piazza made famous by Bernini’s wonderful sculptural fountain of Triton who blows a conch-shell from which water flows abundantly, we were ready for lunch. After we took in the frenzy of the traffic as it sped around the piazza and spied the endless grand windows of the Villa Barberini (so-called because it was built by a member of the Barberini family who eventually became the Pope and thought it prudent to use his position to build a grand mansion for his family-members—a bit like Pakistan’s politicians, what?) we settled down in a street-side trattoria called Pepy’s Bar whose cocktails are well-known and ordered (no, not a cocktail) but a couple of paninis and a cold beer. There is no better spot from which to do some serious people watching than this eatery that spills out on to the pavement and offers wonderful views of the passing city. Our feet felt well rested by the time we stood up to continue our exploration of the sprawling city of Rome.

Along the Via Veneto:
Using the lovely DK Eye-Witness Guide to Rome, I decided that we would walk along the Via Veneto taking one of the marvelous walking tours that loops around the area. But not before we climbed up a short hill to see Bernini’s Fountains of the Four Seasons that stand at the four corners of a busy intersection, each one representing a different season by the portrayals of an appropriate Roman god or goddess.

Then, we began our tour of the area taking in the streets made famous by Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, for it was along these streets that they had whizzed by in that famous Vespa. An exploration of the area requires a slow climb up a winding hill that allowed us to view the grand buildings and the grander shops that made the area so fashionable and so photographed—as in the films of Frederico Fellini, for instance. The US Consulate is in this area but though we tried to spy the star-spangled banner, we were unable to find it.

The Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria:
But coursing through the network of streets, all beautifully laid out and maintained and giving Rome its unique character, we arrived at the Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria that I was particularly keen to see as it contains the somewhat infamous sculpture by Bernini that depicts The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. Llew and I had watched Simon Schama’s series on the History of Art on TV, a couple of years ago, and had remembered his commentary upon this sculpture which is Bernini’s most controversial and it was for this reason that I decided that we should not leave Rome without discovering it for ourselves.

Upon arrival at the church steps, we discovered that it was closed in the siesta hours that commonly shut down Italian churches. This gave us the opportunity to rest our legs as we sank down on the steps and waited. In about 20 minutes, we joined the large number of fellow art-lovers who made their way inside the church for precisely the same reason.

And there was the little chapel on the left side of the altar, Bernini’s most controversial work. It is spell-bindingly beautiful. The angel who stands on her left with an arrow in his hand ready to plunge it again into her breast matches the depiction of Saint Teresa as an idealistically gorgeous young woman. Teresa’s expression is what causes all the controversy as generations of scholars have commented upon the sexual nature of the expression—far from being bathed in mystical ecstasy, she seems to appear to be in the throes of sexual passion. What is even more provocative (at least to my imagination) is the fact that her experience is being viewed from two balconies on either side of the chapel in which a bunch of men look upon the scene as if at a play or an opera! I do not recall Schama talking about this aspect of the scene but it is the one I found most note-worthy. After taking pictures (the entire chapel is very well-lit), we left the church and found our way to the Piazza della Republica which is a large circle dominated by a rather ugly fountain whose sculptural figures are badly in need of a cleaning. The fountain parapet afforded an opportunity for more rest and people watching and we did just that.

The Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli:
Then because the doors to the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli stood temptingly in front of us, we thought of exploring it—only to discover that it was designed by Michelangelo himself but has been largely reconstructed since his time. As we have often found, Italian churches are hugely deceptive because their entrances belie the majesty and greatness that lie within. Upon entering this church, we walked into an impressive rotunda and a spacious nave whose walls, floors and altars were filled with sculpture, pietra dura (marble inlay) everywhere and an abundance of frescoes.

And then because we were just a hop away from the huge central railway terminus called Termini, we decided to take a look at it tool. This was the station through which I had made my entry into Rome during my graduate school days while traveling on a Eurail pass, 22 years ago, and I recall eating one of the most delicious minestrone soups in its cafeteria! (Some things are hard for a foodie to forget!) This time, we found the station full of touts and hangers-on and after a quick stroll through its lobby, we hopped into the bus that would take us back to our hotel—but not before we stopped at a supermercati to buy some Lavazza coffee to carry back to London (as I have grown addicted to it) and some large packets of Baci chocolate!

Dinner at La Francescana:
That evening, we had our meal at La Francescana, a very family-friendly trattoria that lay very close to our hotel and which was recommended by the receptionist. We enjoyed a pitcher of Chianti and then Veal and a plate of pasta both of which were superb. Since we always fill up on the lovely Italian bread that is brought to the table (lovely dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar), we were too full for dessert and on a rather stuffed note, we returned to our hotel for the night—so pleased that we had traversed some of Rome’s lesser-known parts and had fully enjoyed our travels.

Treaures of the Vatican Museum and Attending the Pope’s Mass at the Vatican.

Apr9

Thursday, April 2, 2009
Rome

The Vatican Museum:
I had been looking forward to this day in Rome for a very long while. This was the day I had devoted to a perusal of the Vatican Museums and after fortifying ourselves with a good breakfast at our hotel, we set out to the entrance of the museum on what turned out to be a fabulous day, weather-wise. As we drew closer to the museum, the crowds thickened until all roads led to the main entrance. Once there, we saw a serpentine line and our hearts sank. Were all these folks waiting for tickets? Well, they were, but we weren’t required to join the queue as I had the good sense to make online reservations and all we had to do was waltz up to the counter and pick up our tickets with the appropriate identification.

And so by 10. 15 am, we began our marvelous forays into the treasures of the Renaissance. To our enormous good fortune, we were able to join a tour in English and in the company of an extraordinarily competent docent, we were led to the highlights of the collection where we received some deeply perceptive and very informative insights into the works. The crowds were thicker than flies on rotting meat and I have to admit that I often felt overwhelmed by them. However, I tried hard to focus on the works of art and to blot out the annoyance of jostling high school kids and the mutterings of a plethora of foreign languages all around me.

It is impossible for me to recount the wealth of information I received on this tour but here are some gems that resonate in my memory:

–the most precious marble in the world is a deep purple color. It is called porphyry and is quarried in the heart of the Egyptian desert in an area so inaccessible and inhospitable that the marble was more precious than gold in ancient times. 90% of the world’s porphyry is in the Vatican. In fact, so liberally was it used during the Renaissance that it became extinct and there is no more porphyry available anywhere in the world today! Who knew???

–the two most important pieces of marble sculpture in the Vatican Museum are the Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoon. Both were stolen by Napoleon from Italy and stayed in France until the disgraced emperor was made to return the treasures to the various museums he had looted after his military campaigns. Part of the Laocoon’s arm had remained missing for centuries and was only found early in the 20th when its exact position was ascertained–a position that had been predicted by the genius that was Michelangelo as early as the 1500’s–a prediction that had been disregarded until the finding of the arm proved it (and him) correct.

–the Raphael Tapestries, commissioned by Pope Leo X, cartoons of which are in the V&A Museum in London, are no longer in the Sistine Chapel where they were intended to be placed. They are in the long Tapestry Gallery through which visitors pass en route to the Sistine.

–so many of the characters depicted in the nude in The Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo later had clothing painted on them by his students as the nudity offended the sensibilities of contemporary visitors to the chapel.

–my very favorite character on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is called the Delphic Sibyl. She has the most angelic face and expression and seeing the Sistine Chapel ceiling again after 22 years during which time it has been so brilliantly refurbished made me fall in love with her all over again.

–Raphael originally painted The School of Athens as a fresco in a neighboring room while Michelangelo was hard at word on his back on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. When, seven years later, his work was ready to be revealed to the public, Raphael was feverish with excitement as he could not wait to see what the master had produced. When he saw the Sistine ceiling, he was so overwhelmed that he ordered a part of The School of Athens to be plastered afresh. He then painted in the character of Michelangelo seated at the base on the steps–his small tribute to the ingenuity of the Master.

–the Swiss Guards who form the security corps for the Papal community must be: Swiss, born legitimately to two Catholic parents, under 25 and unmarried at time of recruitment, celibate for the rest of their lives.

Llew and I were so completely exhausted visually by the glories of the Renaissance as spelled out on the walls of the Vatican Museum that we were speechless for a long while after we had studied its most famous works. We were also starving and were delighted to come upon Dino and Tony’s Hosteria in the vicinity of the Vatican where we ordered pizzas and beer and chatted over all we had seen that morning.

It was about 3. 30 pm when we were done and we were sorely tempted to return to our hotel for another siesta but I was afraid to do that as the crowds of the previous day had hinted to me that it would be difficult to get seats to the Pope’s mass later than evening despite the fact that we had tickets. I suggested to Llew that we should walk to St. Peter’s Piazza to get a grip over the situation. And what a good thing we did just that!

St. Peter’s Square had a long line of people winding all around it and it was only then that we realized that the 6 pm Mass was not going to be said in the open air but inside the Basilica! And if we wanted to get anywhere inside we’d have to join the line though it was not even 4 pm. I have to admit that I almost chickened out at the prospect of having to stand in line for over two hours–not after having been on our feet for four hours already in the Vatican Museum! Well, here too, we were lucky, for somehow Llew made friends with an American man who invited us to join him in the queue rather close to its beginning and at about 4 pm when the security gates opened, we found ourselves at the very top. Within no time at all, we were seated inside the Basilica in choice seats about twelve rows from the front in the midst of an international congregation that was jabbering in every language under the sun.

A Papal Mass at the Vatican:
It was with deep excitement, then, that we took in the spectacle of St. Peter’s interior. Bernini’s genius was evident at every turn in the mortuary sculpture, the bronze baldachino or altar canopy and in the grandeur of the marble columns and inlay wherever your eye would rest. It was very comfortable indeed on the chairs in the company of the serene Swiss Guards who swarmed all around us.

At exactly 6 pm, the priestly entourage walked down the aisle with Pope Benedict XVI at the very end of the troupe. He is a stately figure, tall and very elegant and has a very pleasant and rather benevolent smile. He was roundly cheered by the congregation and I even heard a few “Viva Il Papas” around me as the Italians in the congregation greeted his arrival. Llew and I were really pleased to be part and parcel of such a unique and privileged moment when our beloved Pope JPII was remembered and prayed for by his flock who, four years after his death, have grown in affection towards him. Most enthusiastic of all were the Polish contingents who had traveled across the continent to be present on this occasion. They made their presence felt with banners and their voices raised in song.

For Llew and me, the greatest joy was to be able to listen to Holy Mass celebrated by none other than the Holy Father in the very seat of Roman Catholicism, St. Peter’s Basilica. Never in our wildest dreams did we ever think we would be in such a fortunate position on our travels and we thanked God for granting us this unique opportunity. Of all the many wonderful memories we have accumulated in our travels together around the globe, this one will remain right at the very top forever.

Then, the Mass was over and the Pope was filing out and giving us more opportunities for good photographs. Llew and I left St. Peter’s and returned to the streets of Rome where so many enthusiastic throngs were setting out in search of dinner. I was exhausted to the point of keeling over and, deciding to forgo dinner to return to our hotel where I badly needed to stretch out, we made our way home on what had been a red letter day for us.

Padua–In The Footsteps of Galileo

Mar22

Thursday, March 19, 2009
Padua, Italy

The sun rose over another beautiful day in Northern Italy as I prepared myself for the lecture I had to give that afternoon at the University of Padua. Annalisa introduced me to Grancereale biscuits studded with dried fruit that she dipped into her coffee and ate for breakfast. I have always loved Annalisa’s coffee and I sat on the armchair designed by Le Corbusier but made by her late father as I sipped it and enjoyed the sunlight that streamed almost blindingly into her living room. Corbusier, of course, is the famous French architect/designer (and creator of the city of Chandigarh in India which, I remember my mother was so keen to see that she took us all on a family summer trip one year to this modern Punjabi city.

At 9.00am, we were ready to leave the house for Padua (Padova in Italian) and with Annalisa behind the wheel, we took the country roads that led us to the ancient city. It was exactly a year since Amy and I had spent a day in Padua on our Italian travels. I had included Padua on the itinerary at that time mainly for two reasons: to see Giotto’s marvelous frescoes in the Capella Arena or the Capella degli Scrovegni as it is also known and to visit the pilgrimage site of the Basilica of St. Antony of Padua. We had ‘done’ both sites last year but had not found the entrance to Pallazo Bo which is the main and oldest building of the University of Padua, the second oldest university in Italy after Bologna. So, this year I was keen to see it.

A Guided Tour of the University of Padua:
Annalisa had arranged for me to take a guided tour of the University with her graduate assistant, a lovely young lady named Francesca whose wonderfully fluent English made her an efficient interpreter during the tour. My own Italian was growing by the day and I was able to add to the few vocabulary items I had picked up last year. However, there was no way I could have understood anything the guide said, were it not for Francesca.

As Annalisa’s department of Modern Languages was a ten minute walk from Pallazo Bo which is in the heart of the center of Padua, we walked briskly there to make the 10. 15 tour. It happened to be graduation day in Padua and the university area was crowded to capacity with parents and well-wishers who had participated in the formal events. By the time we arrived there, the informal part of the day’s celebration had begun. I have never seen anything like it anywhere in the world. Young grads were covered in eggs and flour, their hands and legs taped with bands of thick cello tape and each one was made to stand in the midst of the mess and read out the poems that their friends had composed for the occasion (most poking fun of them). It was a wonderful lesson in Padovan Cultural Studies and I enjoyed the crazy spectacle. Many of them were posing for pictures with their family members with large laurel wreaths hung around their necks while others were placed up on a stand and were being feted. I stood to watch this for a while after the tour, of course.

The tour itself took us into the oldest part of the university which was founded in the 1200s. It’s most illustrious professor is Galileo Galilei who taught here for 18 years and did most of his own research here (leading, of course, to his discovery of the telescope which led, in turn, to his discovery of the motion of the earth around the sun, which led, in turn, to his feud with the Vatican and his imprisonment and later recantation). I recalled both Bertolt Brecht’s play entitled Galileo as well as the fabulous film of the same name that was made by Joseph Losey and which I had watched at least thirty years ago in Bombay (Sir John Gielgud had unforgettably played the Pope in that film). The guide took us to some of the most beautiful rooms within the Pallazo whose walls are covered with family crests made of plaster of Paris (hence very heavy) that celebrate the presence of very prominent alumni in the University).

In particular, the tour of Pallazo Bo took us to the Anatomy Theater which was used in the Middle Ages for the dissection of cadavers to allow medical students to increase their understanding of the body’s systems. This tiny room which is built like a Roman arena in concentric circles allowed students to stand in tiers and look down into the crevice at the base where the body would be placed for dissection. It is a most unusual room and certainly I had never seen anything like it. Famed for its medical and law faculties, the University of Padua made pioneer attempts to further the cause of medicine and I felt privileged to see this medieval space which is no longer in use.

Next, we went to the Aula Magna, where the university officials met regularly to discuss matters of policy and, for a while, to award degrees. Today, the university’s students number in the thousand which makes it necessary for them to find new spaces for the commencement ceremony. However, this was a room in which Galileo sat and discussed matters of policy and the walls and ceilings are covered with frescoes that feature the celebrated astronomer as well as Petrarch, the Italian poet who was also a professor in Padua.

The highlight of the tour was the visit to the lecture hall in which Galileo used to address his students together with the podium on which he stood while delivering his words of wisdom. It had a great deal of age to it–that was easy to see–and a carved marble bust of the renowned teacher in placed on it out of respect for his prodigious contribution to Modern Science . It was 11 am by that time and Llew had taken to calling me at that hour. His call came as I was perusing the podium and I did speak with him for a few minutes before calling off.

Meeting Anja at Cafe Pedrocchi:
Once the tour ended, Francesca and I made our way to Cafe Pedrocchi, a famous Paduan institution, where I had made plans to meet my German friend Anja who is currently on a Fellowship at a university in Venice and would be arriving on the train from there to spend the day with me. I had last met Anja a few weeks ago in Berlin which is her native city. She was the friend who had arranged accommodation for me with her friend Anneke in her wonderfully bohemian flat in the West end of Berlin. Anja’s train was late and she text-messaged me to convey this, but she did arrive by 11. 45 am. We had a lovely affectionate reunion and then decided to walk to the Basilica of St. Anthony of Padua as I wanted to get there to make a special petition for my complete cure from plantar fascittis.

A Visit to the Basilica of St. Anthony of Padua:
Francesca and Anja were more than happy to accompany me to the spot and we arrived there about 15 minutes later while strolling along the medieval cobbled streets of Padua’s historic quarter in which no traffic is allowed. It was nice to see the grand basilica again with its many domes that give it almost an Eastern mosque-like air. We did not have too much time to linger but I did visit the Chapel of the Relics which contains many parts of the saint’s body including his tongue and I did see again the remnants of his brown cassock which is in rather a tattered state at the base of the altar that is decorated in Renaissance style with a profusion of carved marble angels and a multitude of paintings. It makes for a very ornate space indeed and a fitting setting for the gold containers that house the relics of the saint. I also had a chance to pray at the Tomb of St. Antony while Anja studied the frescoes in St. James Chapel which were very recently restored. Anja is an art historian who is working on her Ph.D. on a Renaissance Venetian artist–hence her interest in the chapel’s frescoes (which I had seen last year).

Out on the main square, we posed for pictures by the striking sculpture of Guatamelatta, an equestrian statue by Donatello which looks down upon the bus loads of visitors who make the pilgrimage to the shrine. By this time, it was past 12. 30 and we needed to stop somewhere for lunch before returning to the university’s Department of Modern Languages for my 2 pm lecture. We did find a very nice restaurant in a square near the Pallazo dei Raggioni and over a lovely pasta with zuchhini and prawns in a light and delicious tomato sauce, we sat on the pavement in the warming sunshine as I caught up with Anja and all her news. It was marvelous of her to come from Venice for my lecture and when she informed me that her partner Andrea would be joining us for dinner later that evening, I was even more pleased.

My Lecture at the University of Padua:
Then, we walked briskly back to the building where Annalisa was awaiting our return past the lovely old stone bridges and the cobbled streets with their oodles of medieval atmosphere. Padua is indeed a beautiful city and I was pleased to have the chance to visit it again. However, it was time for me to turn my attention to the official part of my visit and with the computer set up to screen the film 1947 Earth, I began my lecture on Bapsi Sidhwa’s Cracking India and its migration from page to screen through the hands of film maker Deepa Mehta. The classroom was crowded with Italian graduate students (over a hundred of them) who are taking Annalisa’s course on ‘Post Colonial Literature, Film and Culture’. They are fortunate indeed that Annalisa’s contacts with eminent faculty members of Post-Colonial Literature around their world allow them to have many guest lecturers who bring their own brand of teaching and scholarship to these students’ curriculum. For most of them, English is a foreign language and I was instructed to speak slowly.

The lecture took about an hour and went well with the students listening attentively. It was followed by the screening of the film and we decided that after the movie, we would break out into a discussion. All went well with the session and after the screening, Annalisa suggested a five minute break. The Q&A session that followed was interesting as Annalisa joined me at the podium and brought her own insights into the points I had raised about the impact on the Partition of the Indian sub-continent on the weakest and poorest sections of the population, most of all its women. By using fiction–albeit based greatly on her own life and memories of the violence that arose in Lahore–Sidhwa was able to articulate the idiocy of the political decisions that caused so much upheaval in the lives of ordinary people and destroyed forever the communal harmony that had existed on the sub-continent before the British policies of Divide and Rule brought distrust and hatred to the masses.

Spritz and Italian Dinner at Day’s End:
Right after the session finished at 6 pm, Annalisa, Anja and I headed off for a drink–or a spritz as they call it in Northern Italy. At a small cafe, we sat down with very refreshing and energizing Camparis and Aperols that were mixed with club soda and served with small hors d’oeuvres which we nibbled. It was a very relaxed start to our evening and at 7. 30 pm, we made our way to the restaurant where Annalisa had made a reservation for us. It had started to rain by this time and under Annalisa’s huge umbrella we found our way to the spot where Andrea was waiting for us.

I had a really wonderful Italian meal in their stimulating company. We started with a small glass of white wine but ordered a carafe of house red wine with our meal. Annalisa suggested I go for a crespelle which was a large crepe filled with a pumpkin mousse that was scrumptious and served on a small bed of cheese sauce. Andrea opted for spinach filled ravioli while Annalisa chose a rather unusual dish of local grilled cheese with bacon and a creamy polenta.

Conversation flowed easily as Anja told us about being stopped at Padua station and being interviewed by a television crew on her views about the current Pope. It turned out that all of them (who have been following the news about the Pope’s visits to African nations) are riled about his conservative comments everywhere and his interference in Italian politics and affairs of state. Since I had no idea what they were talking about (as I have been traveling so much that I am out of touch with global news), I merely listened but as I have not warmed to this Pope, I could understand where their outrage was coming from for this Pontiff seems to have Foot in Mouth Disease and makes outrageous comments wherever he goes.

Then it was time for dessert and Anja and I stared a bowl of tiramisu while Andrea chose a panna cotta. Dinner was an extremely enlightening meal for me as I understood how my Italian intellectual friends perceive this Pope (very badly, I might add) and how averse they are to his stance on crucial issues.

By 9pm, it was time to say goodbye to Andrea and Anja who were taking the train back to Venice and to thank them to making the journey to Padua to meet me. I settled the bill (having decided to treat all my friends to dinner at the end of a very successful day) and we left the restaurant in a light drizzle and made our way back to Annalisa’s car. We arrived at her flat within a half hour and since both of us were rather tired by that point, we were straight to bed.

In Western Cornwall—Penzance, Mousehole and St. Michael’s Mount.

Mar8

Thursday, March 5, 2009
Cornwall

I had a rather restless night. High winds blew fiercely against my windowpane and I was very cold. Grabbing another comforter from a neighboring bed at the hostel, I tucked it around me and tried to return to sleep. It is a relief to have the 10-bedded dorm room with en suite bathroom entirely to myself. This is the sort of luxury for which you pay pennies and get massive returns.

Room with a View:
The sounds of the Atlantic’s breakers reached my ears and when I sat up in bed and turned slightly to take in the view, I was dumbstruck. Dawn was just breaking over the eastern skies that were tinged a pale orange. Soft jade waves lightly bordered with creamy surf flowed lazily towards shore. I could have gazed upon this scene without moving a muscle for hours. But though it was only 6.45 am, I decided to get ready to face my day as I had a lot of ground to cover.

Breakfast was a delightful affair as the sea kept me company outside my window. Over muesli, toast with butter and apricot jam and instant coffee (the only discordant note), I de-stressed as I watched the relentless waves make their journey to the sand-covered rocks of the cove. I took it really easy, savoring each bite, relishing each sip, but all too soon, it was time to pick up my backpack and rain slicker and leave for the bus station to start my long journey to Penzance.

Off to Penance:
I caught the bus an hour earlier today (at 8. 55 am) after purchasing an Explorer ticket for 6. 50 pounds. The journey to Truro was the same as yesterday’s except that the sun was out, shining full and glorious upon Cornwall, and bringing into sharp focus the lone stray horses in pasture, so similar to the ones I had seen in Ben Nicholson’s paintings in the Tate St. Ives yesterday—and I understood afresh the sources of his inspiration.

Exploring Truro:
When we arrived in Truro, I decided to explore the town a bit and my rambles took me towards the lovely Cathedral with its five spires. I got some beautiful shots of it from a bridge that forded a shallow stream en route to an antiques store in which I browsed. A flea market selling vintage items also caught my attention, and then it was time to catch the 10. 35 bus for the long ride to Penzance.

I enjoyed observing my traveling companions en route for they spanned many decades. The high school kids and the college students (most from Truro College) gave way to the elderly (loads of them) out on shopping jaunts into the bigger cities from their tiny pastoral villages. There is a uniformly polite interaction between them and the driver (Pleases and Thank yous every single time) and a tremendous patience as the driver waits for them to hop on and alight—the likes of which would be unseen in London where life is so much quicker paced. I got talking to a nice man who summed it up when he told me that in Cornwall everything can be achieved tomorrow and he said that when you have lived in such a place for a while, you grow accustomed to its lifestyle.

The Fabled Cornish Landscape:
I found the passing scene outside my window so fascinating that not for a moment did I doze off. Indeed, I can say that I saw Cornwall from a double decker bus and a better way to see it would be tough to find. The buses take rural routes that pass by villages that Time forgot. You see fields lying in fallow, daffodils blooming along wayside hedges (surely they can’t be wild, can they?), horses in pasture, the remnants of tin mines and their smoke stacks, occasional towns with their familiar high street retailers and everywhere the inevitable bakeries selling Cornish pasties and luxurious cream teas. This is the quintessential Cornish countryside and viewing it in this fashion was a dream come true for me. And then, of course, there is the sea that is never too far away. It is like being on New York’s Long Island where you are always just a stone’s throw away from the North or South shores.

First Glimpse of St. Michael’s Mount:
And so it was that we turned a corner en route to Penzance and there was Mount St. Michael looking for all the world like its French counterpart–Mont St. Michel–that sits in the English Channel just off the coast of Brittany. Llew and I had been there many years ago in the company of our friend Patrick LeClerc and the memory of that sunny day was strongly with me as we approached the bustling township of Penzance made famous by Gilbert and Sullivan through their opera The Pirates of Penzance.

On to Mousehole:
But I did not linger long in this area deciding instead to take the bus to Mousehole (pronounced ‘Mowzall’). Of course, by this time, it was 12. 40 and I had spent the entire morning on a bus…but what better way to see Cornwall on a relentlessly windy day than through the heated interior of a comfortable bus? I mean the sun was gorgeous but the wind made me miserable as it whipped around me in icy gusts flinging my hair all over my face and tugging on my hat. When I realized that a bus to Mousehole would follow not too much later, I decided to board it and off I went.

None of the books I had read had mentioned anything about the drive along the coastal road from Penzance westwards to Mousehole; but though short and brief, I would rate it as one of the best I have ever taken and in this category I include such world-famous rides as the one along the Italian Amalfi Coast from Naples to Sorrento, the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to San Diego and along the Hanna Coast on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. I mean it was breathtakingly staggering. The sea was a much deeper blue–almost aquamarine–than it was at Newquay and I understood for the first time why they call it the Cornish Riviera; for the blue of the water was as startling as that of France’s Cote d’Azur at Cannes or Nice!

I could not get enough of it as I kept my eyes peeled. The bus wound slowly along the low-lying hills past neat sea-facing cottages but each was more modest than the next and there was nothing showy or ostentatious about these homes that hugged the waterside as might have been expected of similar homes in Malibu or Carmel in California.

Along the way, we passed by the town of Newlyn, almost as famous as St. Ives for its own artists’ colony that led to the creation of the Newlyn Artists’ Circle. Their works are also on display in the renowned museum in the town whose cove is full of colorful fishing boats that bring in the famed Cornish seafood.

Within twenty minutes, we were in Mousehole, the tiny village in which the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”) spent his honeymoon and called ‘the loveliest village in England’. Now I know that a lot of English villages claim this distinction. My own particular favorite still continues to be Castle Combe in Wiltshire. Thomas’ new marriage must certainly have lent enchantment to his view! Though undoubtedly pretty, in that it clings to the softly rising hills in tiers and overlooks a jeweled ocean, I cannot imagine why Thomas was so taken by this place. It is very similar to all the Cornish villages I had traveled through all morning and can boast nothing to distinguish it so spectacularly from the rest.

Still, I decided to stroll at random through its ‘town’ and discovered that there wasn’t much of a town to explore. The few stores that dotted its narrow winding streets were mostly closed. At Jessie’s Dairy, I bought a take-out Steak and Potatoes Pasty for 2. 60 pounds that was made to Grandma’s recipe and was scrumptious. Not only was it gigantic but also it was stuffed to the gills with a very tasty stew-like stuffing that was hot and peppery and very satisfying. I felt so invigorated that I almost walked along the Cornish coastal pathway from Mousehole back to Penzance but then decided that I would save time and take the bus to allow myself to get in good time to my next destination—the village of Marazion from where I intended to reach St. Michael’s Mount. Already I could see it in the distance in Mount’s Bay and my desire to get there was suddenly fierce.

So I hopped on to the 1.25 bus and was back in Penzance at 2.00, which left me enough time to buy a few souvenir postcards and find my way down the High Street back to the Bus station for the 2. 15 bus to Marazion.

Marazion and Mount St. Michael:
The bus arrived at Marazion at exactly 2. 30 pm. I had stopped briefly in the Tourist Information Center in Penzance, obtained a map and was told that the Causeway that linked the island with the mainland and would allow me to walk across Mount’s Bay to get to where the castle and the Cathedral of Saint Michael were perched would be accessible by foot only after 3.30 pm when the tide receded. Not to be daunted, I boarded the bus and enjoyed the uninhibited view of a rainbow that painted itself magnificently against the cloud- filled sky. A passing storm had generated this natural wonder; but then the clouds had parted leaving the rainbow to stain the sky as the sun bore down upon us again dispelling the awful feeling of discomfort which the wind continued to create.

Marazion is tiny, a very small one-horse town (if that). At Marazion Square, I tried to find a few stores that would allow me to while away the time until 3. 30 (for I did want to give walking across to the Mount a try) but there were none. It seemed sensible to make my way down to the waterfront and finding a few stone steps very conveniently located, I began my slow descent to the pebbly beach, much in the manner of Louisa in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. The wind did not stop whipping itself around me, much to my annoyance.

I climbed a small rock called Chapel Rock and kept waiting for the tide to recede. It was almost
3 pm and I wondered whether I really ought to chance it and try to ford the chasm between mainland and rocky island. What kept me dithering was the fact that the entire island was closed (it being the off-season, it is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays). I wondered if it was worth making the trip only to have to walk along the quay on the other side and do nothing more exciting.

While I was debating my options, I sat down on the rocks and enjoyed the mild afternoon sunshine and the cries of the seagulls. This was the Cornwall for which thousands of tourists descend upon this southwestern corner of England each year. And here I was–having the panorama all to myself. I hugged the scene closely to my heart and stored it in my memory…St. Michael’s Mount rising sharply not a few hundred meters in front of me, a couple of children playing with their dad on the shore, a black Labrador chasing a ball obligingly for its owner and those perpetually encircling seagulls whooping lustily at the sky. I soaked it all in as I sat in tranquil meditation thinking how fortunate I had been to undertake this journey and to arrive at so enchanting a destination.

Then, it was almost 3. 30 pm and I decided against the walk to the island—not because I was tired but because I felt that being unable to climb to the cathedral or the castle made the entire excursion pointless. I nipped into the Post Office instead, back at the bus stop, where I found postcards and a Cornwall magnet (featuring a Cornish cream tea!), then hopped on to the 4. 05 bus and made it back to Penzance in time to catch my 4. 20 pm Bus Number 18 back to Truro.

Savoring Cornwall:
It had been an amazing day, filled with sights that would stay with me, I was sure, for the rest of my life. In the summer, humanity must be converging upon this part of the country in a manner than can only be oppressive. So, I was grateful to be able to savor these spaces when I had them entirely to myself. For me, these spots are not just venues that I have visited, but stops on a journey that have served to make me conscious and appreciative of life’s simplest blessings.

Along the long ride to Truro, I continued to enjoy the Cornish countryside. After a ten-minute wait, I caught Bus Number 90 back to Newquay that entwined itself around tiny villages as we lost light rapidly. I was at the Newquay bus station by 7 pm and I spent the evening transcribing an interview (I knew I would use my laptop after all and get some work done) as I sipped Cornish cider in my room, munched Thai sweet red chilli crisps and then hammered out this blog as I relived my day.

The sound of the Atlantic’s breakers still echo in my ear as I get ready for bed. I can think of no better location for a writer than a room that overlooks the Atlantic in this most idyllic of fashions and I felt blessed that, for a few days at least, this was my room with a view!

Lecturing at the V&A, Visiting the Royal Academy of Art and a Posh Private Club

Mar8

Tuesday, March 3, 2009
London

Today was a day for museum hopping. Awaking, as usual, at 5 am, I did a lot of writing in bed, then called my nephew Arav in Bombay and spoke at the same time to his mother, my sister-in-law Lalita whose birthday it was. I also caught up with my brother Roger and told both him and Lalita that I had a new understanding of the kind of life they have led for over 20 years as cabin crew members with Air-India, for I have often felt like a stewardess myself this year as I have lived out of suitcases on my many jaunts and awoken in strange beds wondering, for a few seconds, in which part of the world I was.

Then, I had my yogurt and muesli breakfast at 7. 30am, showered, and left my flat by 9.15. Instead of bussing it, I took the Tube to South Kensington and arrived a little too early to start my 10 am gallery lecture at the Victoria and Albert Museum for my South Asian Studies students. I decided to explore the area that is fashionably known as “South Ken”, a stronghold of London’s French community, according to my Parisienne student, Julia Anderson.

And she was quite right. I passed by Jolie Fleur, a tres chic florist whose window displays were as beguiling as the ones you see all over France. There were any amount of cafés trottoirs (pavement cafes—yes even in the chill of late winter) selling filled baguettes and cafes au laits and even a delicatessen with a stock of typiquement French ingredients such as pate and saumon fume and cornichons, not to mention Proust’s famous madelienes! It was fun indeed to wander around this little corner of Gaul and I did wish I had more time especially to browse in the vintage stores—another time, perhaps.

I arrived at the V&A a few minutes after ten, but my students were nowhere to be seen. I settled down in the lobby (as that was our meeting spot) and awaited their arrival while admiring the stunning Dale Chihuly chandelier, which is one of my favorite pieces in the museum. It is funny but after having spent only a few days in this place, it feels like home to me—in the same way that the National Gallery and the Metropolitan Museum in New York do!

When at 10. 15, there was no sign of my students, I began to worry. Did I not make myself clear that we were to meet in the lobby? Had I make a mistake with the time? We were meeting at 10 and not at 11, right? With all these worries floating through my brain, I took a deep breath, decided to stay calm and wait patiently. It was possible that they were stuck in the Tube, wasn’t it? A few minutes later, they burst upon me, laughing and apologizing and sighing with relief, all at the same time. It seems that they had been waiting for me at a side entrance, not the main one. When we failed to connect, they had begun to panic!

Well, all was well, fortunately, that ended well, and we made our way to the Nehru Gallery of South Asian Art which I had studied a few weeks ago and where I took them through a brief history of Modern India as manifested by its art and craftsmanship. We examined Mogul and Rajasthani miniatures, Indian calico cottons, marble and wooden (jali) carvings, gold (jari) embroidered sarees and sheraras as worn by Muslim nobility, gold and bejeweled ornaments including turban pieces worn by men that were studded with emeralds, rubies and sapphires, wooden furniture inlaid with ivory (gifts from Indian royalty to East India Company officials), bidriware, enamelware, ivory furniture, a golden throne, Tipu’s famous Tiger, the jade drinking cup of Shah Jehan, and a host of other marvelous items that had them exclaiming and asking all kinds of very relevant questions. I also took them up to the museum’s jewelry galleries where they did some more exclaiming and finally, I led them to the café where the restaurant rooms featuring the work of William Morris, Poynter and Gamble are showpieces in themselves.

We parted company as they returned to campus for their next class while I took the bus home. While eating my lunch (Pizza Paradiso’s pizza), I finished watching 1947 Earth as I do want to start work on the lecture I am giving in Italy later this month based on this movie. Despite the fact that I have seen it so many times before, it never fails to brings tears to my eyes and I was deeply saddened, once again, by the end of the film in which the author Bapsi Sidhwa herself makes a cameo appearance.

Meanwhile, in the midst of all these things, I was also trying desperately to reach the Podiatry Clinic as I had finally received my letter in the mail informing me that a referral had been received on my behalf and that I was required to call and make an appointment. Except that though I tried more than 50 times (I know because the number of tries I made are recorded on my cell phone), I always got the message “User Busy” back! All day—I mean from 9. 30 am (when they opened) until 3.00 pm—it said “User Busy”. I am convinced that something was wrong with that line. But, get this, at 1. 10pm, when I finally did get through, I got Voice Mail, informing me that they were closed between 1.00 and 1.3 0 for lunch! At 1. 45, I got “User Busy” once again. It was enough to make me want to tear out my hair by the handful in frustration! I was keen to make the appointment as I would be in Cornwall for the next few days and wanted to get the business of fixing an appointment over with!!! In the end, I simply gave up. I guess I shall try again tomorrow.

Next, I turned to packing—or rather re-packing. Having decided to take my laptop with me, my backpack was inadequate and I had to move all my stuff into my duffel bag. This was swift work and by 3. 45 pm, I was heading out the door again, this time to the Royal Academy of Art to meet Rosemary who is a member there. She is privileged to use the museum for free and to take companions along as well. We had planned to meet there at 4. 15 and since I did not want to be late, I took the Tube again—as buses are very unreliable and do not work if one has an appointment to keep.

Though I have passed by the Royal Academy dozens of time in the bus, I had never been to this gallery and I have to say that I was floored by the splendor of the building. Its Neo-Classical quadrangle is grand in every sense of the term and the rather contemporary fountain in the center is the only element that clashes, I thought, with the dignity of the place. Like Rosemary, my taste is much too traditional and both of us would have preferred a cascading fountain in the center rather than the kind that spouts water sporadically from the ground (as also seen at Somerset House). A wonderful bronze sculpture of Sir Joshua Reynolds at the entrance is a very appropriate touch for, undoubtedly, he had much to do with the setting up of this venerable institution.

Rosemary and I were there to see the special exhibition on ‘Byzantium’. It is funny how I have learned to pronounce the word “Byzantine” the American way—I now say “Biz-en-teen’. It sounded odd to hear the very English Rosemary pronounce it as “By-zin-tyne”. Yet before I moved to American that was exactly how I would have pronounced it myself! While we were in the midst of the exhibition, I realized that I had seen quite a few of these pieces before in the Treasures of Saint Mark’s Basilica in Venice last March. In fact, the signature piece that is used on all the publicity posters–a very ornate censer in three different metals—silver, brass and copper—I do remember seeing with my friends Amy and Mahnaz when we were in Venice last year. Some of the pieces reminded me so much of the staggering beauty of the Pala D’Oro especially in the precious stones that were studded in the gold settings that formed the frames of some of the work.

The last rooms contained some magnificent icons that had arrived in London from the Benaki Museum in Athens, Greece, and from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia. They were superb and very exciting to examine as I have never really had the chance to study icons so closed and in such a large number. For me, this was certainly the highlight of the exhibition. I told Rosemary that I would like her to take me to the special exhibition that has just opened on Andrea Palladio, as coincidentally, I am, later this month, going to be staying in Vicenza, Italy, the city of Palladio, with my friend Annalisa Oboe, who lives there. While Llew, Chriselle and I have visited Annalisa in Vicenza before, this time I really do want to take careful notice of his ‘Palladian’ architecture that is showcased all over this city.

The museum closed at 6 pm and Rosemary suggested we go out for a drink as the evening was still young. It had started to drizzle by this time and since I had no umbrella, we shared her’s. Instead of hunting around for a pub in the rain, at her suggestion, we made our way down St. James’ Street towards her Club—The Royal Overseas League Club–where she has been a member for a while and her partner Christie Cherian is on the Board of Directors.

Indeed, the building was another one of those posh London residences that have been converted into private clubs or into hotels and in the lovely interior with its ornamental staircase, its portrait of the Queen and its beautiful flower arrangements, we ordered our drinks (a white wine for her, a Guinness for me) and settled down to one of our cozy chats. Rosemary ran into a friend called John Edwards to whom she introduced me as “her friend from New York” and John suggested that I take a look at a special exhibition in the foyer of oil paintings by an artist from New York.

Soon, it was time for us to leave as I had to wake up at 2. 15 am for my flight to Cornwall and at about 7. 30, we parted company and went our separate ways. Back home, I finalized the packing of my duffel bag, ate my dinner of Thai Green Curry (Chicken) with Tiramisu for dessert before I got ready for bed at 9 pm.

I called Llew and told him to call me at 9. 15 pm which would be 2. 15 am (my time), just in case my cell phone alarm did not go off, and on that note, I hit the sack.

Goodbye Oslo, Hello London!

Mar1

Saturday, February 28, 2009
Oslo-London

Day Three–Tying up Loose Ends:
The Oslo Opera House:
I awoke to another hearty Norwegian breakfast and having packed my backpack for my 6. 20 pm Ryanair departure from Torp airport, I decided to spend my last day seeing a few things that I did not want to leave Oslo without covering.

Breakfasting with Katya, I discovered that the Oslo Opera House is a masterpiece of contemporary architecture and she urged me to take a look at it before leaving. She also told me that it was very easy to access it from the Central Train Station if I walked along a bridge that connected me to the waterfront where the building is located. I followed her guidance and did see the Opera House for myself. It is not as unusual as the Sydney Opera House in design but I am sure it has superb acoustics in addition to a very interesting design. With that item scratched off my list of Must-See Items, I headed to the next attraction.

The Baldishol Tapestry in the Museum of Applied Arts:
Reading my guide book, I had discovered that one of Norway’s greatest cultural treasures is the Baldishol Tapestry that hangs in the lightly-frequently Museum of Applied Art. This lies a little off the beaten tourist track and took some finding.

But when I got there, I discovered that it did not open until 12 noon on Saturdays. I was crushed. I really was determined to see it, especially as my ignorance of its existence had prevented me from seeing France’s famous Bayeaux Tapestry, about fifteen years ago, when I was only a few miles away from it in Normandy! If ever I have to return to Normandy some day, it will be to see the Tapestry at the Cathedral at Bayeux that tells the entire story of the conquering of England by William the Conqueror in 1066.

Now that I was here in Norway and was only a few feet away from the Baldishol Tapestry that dates from between 1040 and 1190 and is the only Nordic tapestry from the Middle Ages that uses the Gobelin Techniques, I was bent on seeing it. I am not going to detail the ways and means I used to get into the museum to see it, but suffice it to say, that see it I did and what a sight it was! The colors are so vivid, the detail so minute, the workmanship so fine and so breathtaking that I was so pleased I had braved hell and high water to cast an appreciative eye over it! Though it is only a fragment of a larger piece, this one showing the months of April and May, give only a small indication of what the entire work must have looked like!

The Tapestry is named after the Baldishol church in Hedmark, Norway, which came to light after the demolition of the Baldishol church in the late 1870s. I was delighted to have had the chance to see it and though I wasn;t able to take a photograph, I will carry its image in my mind forever.

Vigeland Park:
This left me enough time to take a tram to Vigeland Park, another great show case of fine art—this one the work of Norway’s most famous sculptor, Gustav Vigeland. Indeed, if Parc Gruell in Barcelona provides a showcase for the work of Antoni Gaudi, then Vigeland Park, which serves the same purpose, is a must-see for any visitor to Oslo. Though I clearly would not be seeing the park at its best (the green expanses must be awesome in summer), the snow-covered lawns were no less uplifting and I was stunned repeatedly by the size and the vision of this artist of whose work I have never heard until I set foot in Norway!

The park, which is right in the heart of the city, contains 212 sculptures by Vigeland done in the 1920, 30s and 40s in a variety of materials, though the most common are stone and metal. The visitor follows the path that leads to the Monolith, a tall obelisk that is covered quite splendidly with human nudes. All around the monolith are more stone sculptures. To get to the monolith, one needs to walk upon a granite bridge, both sides of which are full of sculptures (similar to Karlovy Most or Charles Bridge in Prague and I often felt as if I were there with Llew and Chriselle who followed me in my imagination of my discovery of these moving masterpieces). Of the sculptures on the bridge, the most famous is that of the Little Angry Boy and while most visitors take pictures of this animated baby in the midst of a tantrum, the little serene girl on the other side sadly goes unnoticed! I had to take her picture, of course, as I am sure the two were meant to be viewed together! The bridge leads to another colossal sculpture of six giants holding up a gigantic bowl on their shoulders. In the summer, this also serves as a fountain. At this time of year, it is invariably filled with snow which is also a pretty sight.

Return Journey Home:
One could, doubtless, spend hours in this park, and had I leisure enough and time, I would had lingered. But I needed to get on the bus and then the metro to return to the Oslo Bus Terminal to take my bus back to Torp—a good two hours away. Almost all Ryan air flights land at remote airports and the journey to the airport from Oslo took me more time that the flight across the North Sea from London to Oslo! But this too is something to which I have become accustomed and I do choose my flights accordingly.

All went well. I enjoyed another lovely drive through the heart of Norwegian winter landscapes as I took in the beauty of lakes, hills, mountains and meadows all draped uniformly in thick fluffy mounds of snow. It had been a very interesting experience and though I did not return filled with a sense of historical awe as I had done from my visit to Berlin, Oslo was so full of fascinating surprises that it kept me completely under its spell for three full days.

As I returned home on the Easybus coach, I couldn’t help thinking that this past year is like a Gap Year for me—the kind of year to which students treat themselves between high school and college when they leave their familiar environment behind to launch into the unknown. It is a year filled with discovery–of themselves and the world they inhabit. In every respect that is exactly what this year is proving to be for me. And I cannot help but feel deeply blessed that I had this incredible opportunity to explore our world in this carefree fashion.

Rochelle's Roost

Welcome to Holly Berry House!

Tag Archive | France

Seeing Judi Dench on Stage, Another Interview and Springtime In London’s Parks

Belgium’s Art Treasure Trove.

In Bruges–On a Day for Ducks!

Bonjour Bruxelle! Arrival in Brussels.

Footloose in Roma!

Treaures of the Vatican Museum and Attending the Pope’s Mass at the Vatican.

Padua–In The Footsteps of Galileo

In Western Cornwall—Penzance, Mousehole and St. Michael’s Mount.

Lecturing at the V&A, Visiting the Royal Academy of Art and a Posh Private Club

Goodbye Oslo, Hello London!