Portage, also called a carry, is a place where boats are carried over the dike from one canal into another. Something, which is quite hard to imagine, till you actually see it.

Broek op Langedijk, literally means the bridge on the long dike. The village, about 50 kms north of Amsterdam, consists of houses built on the dike that was built to protect the land from the vagaries of the North Sea. The region around this is called the “Realm of the Thousand Islands”. In actual fact, the number of islands dotting this area is close to 15,000.

Around the year 1000 AD, the North Holland of today was mainly a peat area dotted with peat rivers. Houses were built on the banks and the surrounding sands were used for agriculture. However, during the 11th century there were several dry summers, which rendered the land unsuitable for agriculture. In the ingenious Dutch way, ditches were dug around the land, resulting in a lot of water ways surrounding numerous islands. The small islands were used for cultivating vegetables and fruits. The proximity to water kept the plots relatively warm even during the cold Dutch winters. The size of the island was determined by what one man could cultivate by hand. The reclamation continued for centuries and ultimately, the “Realm of thousand islands” was born.

Before 1887, the island gardeners sold their vegetables and fruits directly to the boatmen and traders. However, the negotiations took a lot of time. The solution was to set up an auction. On 29 July 1887, the world’s first vegetable auction was held here, at Broek op Langedijk. The auction was first held as an open air auction, but over the years, a jetty was built, then a roof and then an auctioneer’s high chair and thus the auction house slowly evolved.

1903 saw an important development in the evolution of the auction house — the auction clock. Till then the auctions were held orally, and sometimes led to misunderstandings.

And in 1912, the whole auction was moved to the sail-through auction house as we see it now. 1900 wooden piles were sunk into the water and they support the beautiful auction hall. Just outside the auction house are the mooring halls, where the farmers would wait their turn in their vegetable boats. In its heydays, there would be around 100-150 boats waiting on a typical auction day.

When it was their turn, the farmer would sail into the auction house. The auctioneer would then facilitate the auction, Dutch style. Did you know that the Dutch auction, made popular in recent years thanks to the Google IPO, was first started by a trader here in Broek op Langedijk? In the traditional Dutch auction the auctioneer begins with a high asking price, which is lowered until some participant is willing to accept the auctioneer’s price, or a predetermined minimum price is reached.

If you are ever in Broek op Langedijk, you must attend one of the highly entertaining auctions. Admittedly, they are no longer real auctions and is a part of the museum, but the good news is that, now you can pretend to be a trader from the seventeenth century and bid your way to glory.

The auction starts with the auctioneer quoting the minimum price. This shows up on the auction clock face, and steadily starts dropping till one of the buyer indicates his willingness to pay the price by pressing the button in front of him. But be careful what you press for, thanks to my trigger-happy husband, we almost walked away with 65 kilograms of onions. Thankfully, the Dutch auctioneer took pity on us since we did not understand the language, and instead just decided to nickname him the Onion Trader for the rest of the session.

There are many auction houses all over North Holland — Enkhuizen, Grootebroek, Medemblik, Hoogkarspel, Broekerhaven, Opperdoes, Avenhorn, Noord-Scharwoude, Warmenhuizen, Hem and Obdam were all sail-through auctions. But the one at Broek op Langedijk was the first and the last, closing its doors finally in 1973.

Related posts:
Aalsmer flower auction
Holiday list 2008 (10)

References:
Lonely Planet Netherlands
The Undutchables

More pictures:

1) Marrakech: I know this is cheating, since I have already been there this year. But still counts as part of 2008 travel list. And if I may recommend, definitely a place to go to. Desert, mountains, culture, food, arts crafts, the old, the new - everything in one place - that’s what you have with the magic of Marrakech. You can read more on it here and see the pictures here.

2) Libya : Putting Libya on the list is a leap of faith - I am right in the process of trying to get a visa, and I must say the whole process has been difficult, to say the least. But if the Visa Gods be kind, I will be there - to see the beautiful Roman ruins at Leptus Magna and Sabratha, to camp out in the great Saharan deserts, spend some time in Tripoli and hopefully get some good Mediterranean sea air.

3) Prague: Prague was on my 2007 list, but I didn’t make it. Hopefully 2008 will be different. Situated on the River Vltava in central Bohemia, it is supposed to be is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. As if to drive home the point, statistics show that it is one of the most visited cities in Europe.

4) Heidelberg: How could I have lived in Germany and missed Heidelberg? I know I know. But then, the cities closest to you are the ones you often end up not visiting. Now that there is a five hour drive between me and Heidelberg, I think I will make a weekend trip to this city of castles. Heidelberg is also a beautiful university town and the difficult part of this trip will be deciding whether to go there in March for the Heidelberger Frühling Music Festival or in June for the fireworks display Heidelberger Schlossbeleuchtung or in September for the Altstadt Autumn Festival. Tough choice.

5) Budapest & Bratislava: Eastern Europe is the general theme for the year. What with the opening of the borders of 9 more countries to the Schengen area, for those like me who have always found visas a hassle, the options have just dramatically increased. I can hardly wait to visit the beautiful cities of Buda and Pest and soak in the steamy healing waters Hungary is famous for. Bratislava may not be the most beautiful of cities, but there is something about the sound of the name that makes me want to visit it - may be it reminds me too much of Baklava, and just makes my mouth water.

6) Warsaw & Krakow: Ah, Poland, here I come! Krakow is supposed to have one of the most beautiful city squares in whole of Europe. I have seen quite a few impressive ones, the last one being Djmaa El-Fna ( I know, it is not in Europe, but still), so I am curious to see what is so impressive about the Krakow square. Curious I am to see Warsaw too - popularly known as the phoenix among cities - rising literally from the ashes, every time it was obliterated.

8) Tallinn & Riga: Four hours apart, I probably shouldn’t club Tallinn and Riga together. I would most likely do them in separate trips. Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, is one of those hidden gems that escape the eyes of the regular tourists. And I hear it is Europe’s newest party scene whatever be your inclination, though I am very far from being a party tourist and am much more intrigued by the history and beauty of the place. As for Riga, I have no idea what you could see there, but wouldn’t it be cool to go to a place where everyone spoke Latvian. I have no Latvian friends, and I have never heard the language - sure, I could google up a Youtube video, but nothing beats hearing a language in its natural habitat, does it? And usually, exotic languages come from exotic places.

9) Milan : Non-exotic, main stream and borderline boring, I know, Milan is so last century. But I must go there to shop. A pilgrimage to the Prada warehouse and non stop shopping in the quadrilatero della moda is firmly in the cards. Girl friends willing to ditch their better halves and come armed with credit cards and shopping shoes are welcome to be my travel companion, especially if you don’t wear the same size of clothes as I do.

10) Holland the unknown: Last year, we did most of the usual suspects in Holland - Hague, Rotterdam, Gouda, a night trip to Maastricht, Aalsmere, Enkhuizen, the Friesien islands up north - we have exhausted most of the places you would find in a guide book. It is time to haunt some locals, fish out some hidden treasures in this country and explore!

So there, that’s plan for the year. It is not cast in stone, so any suggestions are welcome. And I hope may be the list, and eventually the travelogs when I get round to write about the places I visit, would help you choose your own travel destinations.

- Choose your time of travel carefully. It is best to choose the fringes of the peak season for your travels. Avoid the winter, because it’s just too cold, a lot of attractions may be closed and you may not have enough daylight to maximise your visit. In most countries in Central and Western Europe, the high tourist season tends to be June-August, which will of course be the best times in terms of weather, but the cons are that everything tends to be a lot more expensive, you will meet more tourists than locals and its hard to find good accommodation unless you plan very well in advance. So, the months of April, May, Sep and Oct tend to be a better choice.

- There are several backpacker inns, where you can get cheap bunk beds. A good place to look for them is Gomio. If you are traveling as a less than 4 person group and you need to share the room with strangers, don’t rely on the goodness of people - ask for a locker (a lot of the places have free lockers) to keep your valuables when you go gallivanting. And valuables on a backpacking trip are not just those that are expensive, but anything, if lost, would make the next legs of your journey miserable. However, if you are traveling as a couple, some of the low-end and mid-range hotels, can offer you a ’small’ double, which may be cheaper than two beds in a youth hostel. This is especially true in the off-season, because the youth hostel prices don’t vary too much across the seasons, but the hotel tariffs do. But that said, you meet less colourful people at hotels as compared to backpacker inns. You often get the best travel tips, adventure stories and fun times at these places - so make your own trade off.

- In many European countries, special fares are available for those below 26. This is true for trains, museum entries, hostel stays and so on. Ask for them, because even if you look your age, the person at the counter may just be absent-minded and forgetful. On some train routes (esp. Thalys and Deutsche Bahn), even if you won’t get a cheaper fare, you may get upgraded to first class for a marginally higher fare - and thats really worth it too.

- If you are from outside Europe, the easiest way to get around, is often to get a rail pass, available at Eurail . But if you reside anywhere in EU, you can’t buy that, and you have to resort to Interrail. But make sure you travel enough to make it worth it. I can’t say one is better than the other because it depends on individual itineraries. But in the last two trips we planned, it turned out to be cheaper to buy train tickets separately. This is especially the case if you are planning on night trains (not all night train routes are served by rail passes) and if you are planning to go off the beaten path (often the train routes in the places less traveled to tend to be sparse and infrequent), making it a convenient option to go by buses or to rent a car.

- Make the effort to learn a few words in the language of the place you are visiting. Even if the only words you can mutter are ‘Sie’, ‘Merci’, ‘Guten Tag’, and you come off as linguistically-challenged tourist, your efforts will be appreciated and you will be better off than a linguistically-indifferent tourist. And you never know when you will be in a place where you absolutely have no way out without some local language and some words are better than no words.

- Eat heavy breakfasts and lunches and save on dinner. May be this one is really for the shoe string traveler, but I firmly believe that the less I spend on a particular trip, the more places I can cover with my fixed travel budget and so every penny counts. Bed & breakfast places tend to be good value for money, with a decent (don’t expect the impressive breakfast spreads like they have in most Asian hotels) breakfast of breads, cold meats and dairy products. Most cities have good lunch menus which are filling and cheap. And dinners are just over the top! So, get to the local supermarket and buy a loaf of bread or some soup to keep yourself satiated till morning. And if you are a real foodie, a little research beforehand will ensure you find the best of any city’s cuisine.

- When you are booking hotels, first try the ‘aggregator’ sites that search several hotels. Good ones are allukhotels, activehotels and hotel.com. There are several others specific to regions or countries, which can easily found by a google search. Not only do they save you time, but also they tend to offer slightly cheaper deals than booking directly at the hotels. Internet booking usually tends to be cheaper, but there are sometimes hidden gems in most cities that have no online presence and hence can be known only through word of mouth. Best places to find them - backpackers’ travelogues and travel forums.

If you are still reading, I hope you could found at least one little tip to make all that reading worth your while!

We arrived at Marrakech on a bright sunny Christmas morning – the contrast could not have been starker – from grey wintry Amsterdam to bright sunny Marrakech, from Christmas décor at every street corner to a country which seemed collectively oblivious to the commercialization of Christmas, from bicycles and bakfiets on the streets to mule-driven carriages and old men pulling handcarts.

Marrakech is the capital of Southern Morocco. It was once the capital of all Morocco, a majestic city that could hold its own among the large Moroccan cities of Fes, Meknes, Rabat and Casablanca. The fortunes of Marrakech have risen and fallen over the last thousand years, as it was attacked, dominated, and then lovingly rebuilt by its many conquerors. From the Phoenicians to the Romans to the Byzantines to the Vandals and to finally the Arabs, this Berber metropolis has seen many visitors – wanted and unwanted – and yet managed to retain a culture and tradition that is uniquely its own – a splendid mix of its nomadic Berber roots blended with all that came after.

The Riad where we stayed at, Dar Ihssane, is one of the many old townhouses that have been converted into convenient accommodations for the increasing numbers of tourists, who come here in search of something old and something new. Unrivalled in their personable service, Riads also offer the tourists an opportunity to experience traditional Moroccan living, and to examine and appreciate at close quarters the colors and crafts that seem to adorn even an ordinary man’s humble abode. Dar Ihsanne, also provided us with the occasion to have an excellent home-made Moroccan meal, specially cooked for us by our housekeeper, Hanane, under a starlight Mediterranean sky.

Djemaa El-Fna
Just a stone’s throw away from our Riad was Djemaa El-Fna. The Djemma El-Fna is not a place to visit, but an experience to relish. A vast open-air square, with thousands of stalls, vendors and buskers active at any time of the day or night, the El-Fna is a pandemonium of every imaginable sound, sight and smell – Here, you can buy almost everything from rare spices to old quaint coins to herbal medicines in shady bottles; delight in any experience from snake charming to henna tattoos to belly dancing; savor whichever taste appeals your palette – from disconcerting lamb heads to innocuous salted snails and mouthwatering sesame sweets. The Djemaa El-Fna, flanked by the distinctive Koutoubia Minaret is undeniably the icon of Marrakech and probably the first image every visitor would conjure up when they think of their time spent here.

Koutoubia
The Koutoubia minaret, with intricately carved cedar wood steps and minute gold, silver and ivory marquetry, is supposed to be a jewel of Islamic art – unfortunately only Muslims are allowed inside the mosque. However, even the views from outside are well worth a visit. The three golden-brown globes on top of the minaret are said to represent the three principles of Islam – Faith, Prayer and Fasting. Legend has it that they were made by melting the gold jewellery of the wife of Yakun ul-Mansur, the Almohodan ruler who finished the mosque in 1189 AD. To ensure that they would never be stolen, a genie has been enslaved by a magic spell, and forced to keep watch over them. And anyone who attempts to approach the globes with less than noble intentions would have to suffer the wrath of the eagerly waiting genie. This is one of the many examples of Arabian and Berber folklore that are a part and parcel of Marrakech life.

Souks
Souks – the Moroccan equivalent of the bazaar – is the life blood of Marrakech. There are textile souks, leather souks, metal souks, wood souks – pretty much a souk for everything. Narrow shaded alleys, lined on both sides with shops crammed with wares manned by eager and often, charming vendors, the souks are a delight even to just walk through. And if you are the kind who takes particular pleasure in haggling yourself to an unbelievable deal, you are just in the right place – Haggling is as much a part of Moroccan culture as is tagine and mint tea

Arts and Crafts
Arts and crafts are a major part of life here - more than half of the people of Marrakech apparently earn their living from the crafts. Perhaps because of the Islamic tradition of never depicting the human figure, much of the ingenuity and creativity of the arts here seem to have been directed at depicting the world outside. Repetitive patterns, geometric shapes and multitudes of bright colors make the designs unique and surreal, often reminding one of infinity with all its grandiose. Apart from the souks, one place to buy the wares at fixed prices and to watch artisans at work, would be the Ensemble Artisanal, a state-run artisans’ complex, which is about 10 minutes walk from the El-Fna.

(To be continued)

Last week, we drove to the Aalsmeer flower auction house (below)- Bloemenveiling Aalsmeer - the largest commercial building in the world, covering a size of 1 million sq.m or 200 football fields. Every day, millions of flowers and cut plans are brought to Aalsmeer, where it is auctioned off to potential buyers all over the world, thus setting the price of flowers and effectively making it the wall street of flower trade.

Who would have imagined the complex journey each flower has made before it reaches our homes?

It is true that changes are afoot in a nation that – after the Asian Financial Crisis, and the terror caused by the spread of SARs – realised its government could never offer it complete protection. The bargain for freedom from want in return for silent cooperation was not legitimately struck. It was based on the false notion that Singapore was a nation in charge of its own destiny rather than a small sliver of land, smaller than the dot that represents it on the global map.

It made me think of my last trip to Singapore, a couple of months back. Every time I visit Singapore, I am surprised by the pace of change. I, in my nostalgia, try to seek out places I knew from before, and am constantly reminded that I am oh-so-outdated.

But this time, I was struck by the number of foreigners. I still remember the time I first came to Singapore. The year was 1995 - sure, there were some foreigners around, but we felt like foreigners - I mean, we felt like we were a minority - as I assume, foreigners in any country are supposed to feel.

I was in Singapore for just a day and had way too many people to catch up with - so I set up shop at a cafe near Millenia towers and as I had cup of coffee after cup of coffee with friends who managed to sneak off work for a coffee break, I indulged in one of my fav pass times - people watching - and I was more than amazed by the proportion of foreigners - almost every other person seemed to be a foreigner!! And for the first time, I heard murmurs of dissent among my Singaporean friends, and we had some lively discussions on the topic.

I don’t quite get it - why is the Singapore Government so desperate for foreigners? Do they really need so many foreigners - to perhaps, the extent, that you have to ask who is the minority here? I can only imagine the government has a plan - and a good one too - that is behind this mass import of “talent”. But none of my Singaporean friends seemed quite able to explain to me the rationale behind the policy. Which begs a bigger question. This is just one of the many policies that the Government makes on behalf of the citizens. I wonder, without due political participation and debate, why do the people assume that the Government will get it right every single time? What if they are wrong?

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
- W.H.Davies

Happy Easter, and hope you had a good break.

I know you didn’t ask, but yes, I had a good break too. I had not looked forward to a holiday as much as I had to this one, for a very long time. Not because I was off to the most fascinating place on earth, or because I had always wanted to go there, but because I really needed a break. I used up a lot of my vacation days last year when I went to India on holiday, but somehow, going home to India is never a “holiday” - it is that period of one’s life when you turn over your life for the fulfillment of everyone else’s whims and fancies. Here, take my life - now, think of it as an odd football - yes, I know its not really round, but who said I am not crooked - now kick it all you like - yes, that’s a good pass - now I will wait for that person to pass judgment on my life - and then off we go again, ouch! that hurt, but hey, who am I to complain, I am but an odd football - and then after the few weeks that feel both like an eternity and a fleeting moment, I salvage whatever I can of the worn-out ragged odd ball, and amble back - to live in nostalgia and regret, with annoyingly recurring questions of belonging and love - no more closer to the answer, but irreversibly moving along a path, undeniably helped by the deft passes and the cheering and the booing that now seem permanently stuck in my head like a broken record.

Well, this was not like that. This was three self-indulgent days when I could do whatever I wanted to do - no family, no bosses, no societal norms. Just me and the never ending canals. Yes, I went to Venice. I know, I am big on travelogues and I am supposed to love places and make a big deal about the beautiful sights I saw there, and I do intend to get to that eventually. But surprisingly, when I am back from a holiday, or when I am on holiday - the actual location does not matter as much as the fact that I am there. In the moment. Not thinking of tomorrow. Not regretting about yesterday. Just plainly living in the present. Staring at the lapping waves, and letting anything and everything happen. Just let it be. Don’t try to be in charge. Don’t try to be in control. Don’t be responsible. Just be a child again. With awe and wonder in my eyes. Feel the freedom of the wind as it brushes past my cheeks. Smile at the bird as it soars above my head, and decides to rest on a pole safely away from my reach. Tap my feet in tune to the bobbing of the boats, as they try to catch every wave.

Standing atop the Rialto, amidst the thronging crowds, staring into one of the most beautiful sights - The Grand Canal - which has the unique quality of being bizarrely busy and silently serene at the same time - enjoying the cool spring breeze and managing to tune out the clicks of a hundred cameras and loud voices in a multitude of languages - I felt blissfully alone. The century-old monuments staring back at me could have crashed down in a breathtaking avalanche, the gondoliers could have thrown down their oars, capsized their gondolas and joined each other in a triumphant synchronous dance, the water could have risen till all were submerged, just because it has been feeling cross at a world, where just about everyone has an opinion on the rising water level, even when no one has the slightest clue - and I could have still felt the peace. I would have still felt oddly detached, and not felt the need to react or to absorb, to witness or to wade in. It was just me. Alone, even in the maddening crowd.

And here I am, back at home, physically alone, typing away at the rigid keyboard of my new laptop which has not lent itself to familiarity yet despite the many hours I have already spent with it, kept company by the occasional cold blinks on my task bar announcing new mail and people signing into the various messaging systems from all sorts of time zones - and I feel strangely crowded - like everyone wants a slice of my life and a piece of my peace. Across the borders, across the miles - friends I love, family I adore, cultures I admire - I want to absorb all and be part of all. Ideas cram my head - its time to get up and act. The world is full of possibilities, things to be done, races to be run, mountains to be conquered - for after all, atop every mountain, there must be a moment of peace.

There is a reason we love traveling - its not the bustling boats on canal grande or the expanse of San Marco square or the golden mosaic at the Basilica - it is those stolen moments in our otherwise busy lives, where we indulge our desire to break loose of all the strings that bind us tight, where we pause to add in a new bandage or adjust an old one that keeps our weary souls together, where we can be alone to finally really be - see ourselves as we are, not through the eyes of others; to do those things we want to do, not those that are expected of us; to feel those emotions that come naturally to us, and not those we are conditioned to feel; to pen those words that can’t seem to stop flowing, without stopping to think what they mean and why they are and what will they mean to anyone else - to just be us, and connect, for once, not with everyone around us, but with our very own inner selves - and finally be able to be happy.

Just happy.

Maybe because two years is a long time, but it seems to me that this is the first time I could actually have an outsiders’ perspective on India. I found myself referring to “back home” many a time, and curiously enough, I was referring to my apartment in Amsterdam - strange when I am sitting at a place where I grew up and the place I referred to as home hadn’t even known me for more than a year. I have written many times about the concept of home, so let me leave that contradiction aside for the moment and focus on things that struck me during my trip.

There is optimism everywhere. From the fishmonger whom you can call on his cellphone to check whether he would be by your house in time for you to cook fish for lunch, to the financial advisor who can’t stop ranting about how the 8% GDP growth will make your mutual funds returns soar, everyone seems to be upbeat and ready to go somewhere. There is energy in the air.

Yet, there is also sadness and melancholy and fear everywhere I look. Maybe its just me, and the vulnerability that I feel in a country where I don’t feel like I am in control over my own life, but in the short time I was there, I heard many stories, most of them true ones, of horror and desolation - ranging from the murder of a young boy by his friends, all of them students at the college right behind my house, to the woman who drowned herself and her children after brutally killing her husband, to the never ending tales of corruption, to the soap operas on TV which can’t seem to have an episode devoid to melancholy and yet has everyone glued to them - they never stop coming. As soon as one thinks it can’t get any worse, there’s another one. Its amazing how these are mere snippets in conversation, which weave glibly between the soaring house prices and the execution of Saddam Hussein to the US presidential elections, and everyone just gets along with their life, as if they are everyday occurrences, which they probably are.

Talking about Saddam Hussein, things change so fast here, and if you take a moment to react, you had better have a plan B. No matter that Mr.Hussein was executed in a country far far away and perhaps a vast majority of the local population couldn’t care less, but we had to have what is fashionably called a hartaal - essentially, a shutdown of all shops and traffic. We were out of town, and had planned to head home at around 3pm. At 12:30, we get the news that you can’t be driving on the roads at 3pm. And we had a journey of about 2 hours to make. So what do you do - grab your lunch and run to the car! NOW! Yes, indeed that’s what we did. What follows is hold-on-to-your-dear-life kinda driving that barely manages to get us home in time. And every time we are stopped on the road by goons who had decided to start the hartaal earlier, there is a huge lump of fear in my heart. Whatever for, it makes me wonder. Why, I ask you, do I feel irrational fear in my own country? In a country which proclaims that I am as free as a bird, why would I think twice before walking the streets alone after 9pm? In a country where I blend in with everyone else, where I look like everyone else, where I speak like everyone else, why do I still find myself saying a silent prayer for safe return, every time I or someone dear steps out of the house? Because, for the many things that happen in India, there is no rationality, there is no logic, there is no real reason. And perhaps that’s why there are temples at every street corner and superstitions for pretty much every thing.

The one billion in India can be divided into two - those who help and who are to be helped. If it had been said that no man is an island, in India, it has to be changed to every man is a banyan tree whose roots are entwined with those of the next one and supports a teeming amount of parasitic plants on itself. If someone does well here, he is expected to be there for everyone else. By the same note, you can choose to be a complete loafer and there will be some guardian angel to pick you out of the dirt. The social conscience that makes everyone help each other makes up for the need for any welfare schemes. Yet, I am well aware that my observation doesn’t sit well with the growing distance between the rich and poor. Could it be that sometimes, a conscience just isn’t enough. Or perhaps the above mentioned phenomenon happens only in the communist friendly state of Kerala, where the wealth distribution is not so distorted. Helping thy neighbor is so inbuilt into the lives of everyone, it becomes more of a right of the helped one and less of a favor from the one who is helping.

Money rules here. If you have got enough of it, you get your stuff done. You are more likely to return home safely. You are more likely not to be stopped by cops on the street. You are more likely to jump the queue at your hospital list. Speaking of which, there are just so many hospitals here. A small town with about 300,000 people boasts of five multi-specialty hospitals. Surely, that is excessive. Given that insurance is still such a rarity, why do people run to the doctor for every small little thing? Or are there more sick people here than everywhere else?

Perhaps I went home with lots of expectations - after all, every thing I read about India in popular press seemed to indicate that the country has become radically different. Glowing success stories had been thrown at me from all possible sources. But the truth, at least as I saw it, is that though many things have changed, we are still light years away from becoming what we should be - A nation where I would feel safe. A land where all is fair and just. A country where people are more happy than sad. A place where my whole heart would scream, without a semblance of doubt, I am glad I am home.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action–
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

— Rabindranath Tagore

Disbelief. Confusion. Chaos. Realisation. Idea. Joy. Bliss.

I leave Waterloo place, and stroll towards St. James’s Park. Leaving behind the noise and bustle of mid morning London traffic, I make my way to the beauty and quiet of a well-kept garden. Even before I enter the park, I meet Sally - the lady whom I share a smile and brief conversation with. About the “bloody ungrateful pigeons“. She has been feeding them for the last twenty years. “And never asked for a thing in return. Can’t they just stop swooping down on my legs?” Her angry tone sap off any courage I had of asking her whether I could take a photograph of her. I retreat to the dark recesses of a shadowy willow and stealthily click away, and let my mind wonder whether I would ever be able to selflessly feed a bunch of ungrateful birds, every day, for twenty years. What makes someone do something like that? Love? Magnanimity? Routine? Boredom? Loneliness?

A gentle breeze, as it picks up and caresses the fallen autumn leaves, slowly nudges me towards the beautiful lake, where two swans are playfully pecking at each other. On either side of the lake, the trees are well into their fall avatar - with sparse leaves that are more red than yellow, as the last among them bargain with the wind, in a losing attempt to gain a few more moments with their companions, before they begin their inevitable descent to to the ground. It’s almost like the wind and trees are playing with each other, even as they ignore the sad pleas of the falling leaves. The boisterous wind whispers a joke to the tree. The tree giggles like a teenage girl and applauds, letting go of yet another large bunch of leaves. And looking on at this silly game, the water haughtily flows on, with no time for such childish antics.

As I keep walking along the Birdcage walk, I meet many Londoners along the way. Fluffytail, the squirrel, with whom I share a few moments of clicking glory. The photographer and the model. The artist and the muse. That lasts until she decides that it is very inappropriate of me to try and photograph her bushy behind - she jumps out from behind the iron bars and charges towards me, forcing me to retreat and move on to my next destination.

I come across a grandiose gathering of pigeons under the shade of a large oak tree. Sadly,they seem too busy to bother with me, as they attend their annual tree conference on the inconvenient truth - pigeon shit at city squares had passed the allowable limits, and may force the humans to pass laws against the pigeons, endangering the very existence of the domestic pigeon race. Who am I interrupt discussion of such weighty issues? An amazing variety of birds greet me as I continue on my trail. Geese, mandarin ducks, pelicans and black swans vie with each other for the attention of the doting cameras - some coquettishly tilting their heads from afar, some flirting precariously close to the iron bars and some even blatantly baring their behinds in a fan dance.

From the east and the west, the London eye and the Buckingham palace take turns in keeping watch on my intrusion into their beloved city, with the music from the house guards providing the perfect accompaniment. The rhythmic sound of hooves pulls me toward the Buckingham palace, where the changing of guards is well underway. In one of the oldest traditions of the Buckingham palace, a new guard, in his shiny fresh uniform of red tunic and bearskin, proudly takes over command from the old guard, under the sharp scrutiny of Queen Victoria, who gazes majestically from atop her memorial.

The phone rings. My cab has arrived. I panic as I need to retrace a twenty minute trail in two. Even as I prepare to sprint back, I steal a last glance at the beautiful tree-lined avenue, and smile knowing that this was a walk to remember.

It turned out to be a good idea that we had kept the museum visits for day 3 - because for once, the CNN weather reports were right and Saturday turned out to be a rainy and rather dull day.

Der Naschmarkt
Our first stop was at the Wien Flea Market - the biggest flea market in Europe. It is huge and has a lot of good deals IF you know how to look for good bargains and are good at valuating antiques. There are old paintings, silverware, glasswares, CDs, clothes - practically any sundry you can think of. The second half of the Flea Markt is actually a food and vegetables markt - probably not especially useful for non-residents, except that the pizzas and doners that they sell here seems much much bigger than what you would find elsewhere.

Kunsthistorisches Museum
From the fleamarkt, we headed to the Kunsthistorische Museum (KMH) at Musieum Quarter. Well, I dont think it is comparable to Louvre, in terms of its collection, as I had been told before. But in terms of beauty of the building, it is a marvel. It is one of the rare museums in Europe that is not a converted palace, but was built with the express intention of making it into a museum. The interiors are lavish and beautiful. In terms of its collection, the picture gallery has collections from Flemish, Dutch and German painters on one side and Spanish, French and Italians on the other. There is also a good collection of Egyptian and Roman antiques and an excellent coin collection. The audio guides come free, so remember to pick them up at the counter before you proceed - even if you are not into listening to the minute details of each painting, the audio guide is useful because some of the paintings have only German titles and the audio guide could give you the English version.

MUMOK and Leopold Museums
From the Historische Museum, we proceeded to the nearby Museum of modern art - MUMOK. The building gives you the space-age impression. I somehow didn’t like it - it was grey, glassy and impersonal. If this is the future and the KMH was my past, boy! I would go with the past anytime. Getting past the initial dislike of the building, there is a good collection of modern art - good as in it covers a few floors. I must not comment on modern art - coz frankly I am no fan. It doesn’t impress me in the best of its form. Suffice to say this one wasnt impressive enough to overcome my default indifference. But for some modern art affiniado, this might be interesting. There were a couple of pieces, including Picasso’s famous work Fermande as well a Derain’s sculpture of a Cowering Man that caught my fancy, but that was pretty much it. After that we headed out to Leopold Museum, which is not as modern as the MUMOK. An exceptional work that you should look out for here is ‘Life and Death’ by Klimt. It is an amazing representation of the opposites of life and death, in the typical Gustav style of linearity. Its one of those paintings that you can sit and stare for a very long time - not surprisingly, the benches in front of it are never free.

After an entire day spent in museums, both of us were exhausted and spent a fair amount of time in the German and apparently Austrian too - hobby of people watching. The Museum Quartier has a very bohemian feel to it and has several new-age “seats” where you can just sit and watch the world go by. There were a group of amateur sky boarders, who kept falling down while trying to pratise their devillish jumps, which kept us entertained.

After three wonderful days spent in Vienna, we headed back home on Sunday. Vienna is overall an excellent place - almost like Paris, in its imperial feel, yet down-to-earth and non-snobbish in a way that makes one feel comfortable and at ease- it could be just that French is so alien to me, while I can get by in German, thats made me feel slightly more at home here. Whatever it may be, Vienna will always be a special place - with its beautiful gardens, exquisite museums, imperial buildings, lively street performances and splendid coffee and cakes.

My previous posts on Vienna:
Wien the Wierd
Wien the Wise
Wien the Wonderful