Up and down the Arno

Paris. Wednesday.

And now for Florence. We much preferred this Tuscan city to Rome for a number of reasons, its size being one of them. Florence's concentrated historic center was far more navigable than Rome's sporadically located monuments. Furthermore, The Arno (the river running through the city) seemed to be more dynamic and in the middle of things, unlike its uninteresting Roman counterpart. We also found better food in Florence, but would put that more to chance, better research and the timing of our trip rather than hold the respective cities responsible.

Among the sights that stood out during our visit here was the Uffizi Gallery — even though we waited in line for more than an hour and a half. The gallery's corridors were adorned with portraits of various members of the church and the Medici family among others; as were the ceilings. Also, the Duomo was fairly impressive, especially the view from the top. The climb, however, was peppered with breathless tourists who seemed like they'd faint any second.

Another highlight was our meal at this restaurant (if you can call it that), Teatro del Sale. By far the best meal we had in Italy, the lunch buffet here consisted of cinnamon polenta (outstanding), three types of lentils, spinach and tomato salads, boiled cauliflower, pasta pomodoro (excellent once again), frankfurters, and a Florentine specialty — lampredotto. This was followed by another (nameless) meat dish, brownies, and coffee; a welcome cap to a lunch accompanied by unlimited trips to the cask of wine they'd tapped just for the occasion. Once begun, our lunch was punctuated by the excited yells of the chefs calling out to the diners with the arrival of each new dish. At the announcement, everyone would rush to the table to get a look and (hopefully) a taste of the newcomer while still hot from the kitchen. Quite an amusing concept, which we both rather liked.

While we didn't get to see David at the Accademia, we did get to these Donatello's version at the Museo del Bargello. All in all, Florence was far more pleasant than the Italian capital, and we're more likely to return there than to Rome. We weren't allowed to take pictures in the Uffizi, nor the Teatro del Sale, so here are a few of the Duomo and its surroundings.


The Duomo from up close, and afar.


Inside the Duomo.


A turret on the Arno, and the Arno by night.


On top of the Duomo, and the Uffizi by night.


Ponte Vecchio by night, and day.

A Roman Holiday

Paris. Tuesday.

First of all, apologies for our relative absence from the blog. December brought with it a slew of final papers, exams and perhaps the most important of all, our much-anticipated Christmas trip to Italy. We decided to head to the central part of the country, visiting Rome and Florence.

I've been to Rome once before, but that was just for a day and hence it barely counts as a proper visit. This time around, however, Cody and I walked around the city like no other. We yet didn't manage to see everything the city had on offer, but I think we'd need a month or so to cover all that. Furthermore, Italy around Christmas is far more subdued, and a lot of the places we did want to visit were closed.

During our various promenades around the city, we discovered that Rome is decentralized, not the easiest to navigate and imbued with far more history than it can handle. That said, highlights from our Roman sojourn include : Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve at the Vatican City — beautifully lit up with a massive Christmas tree in the middle of St. Peter's Square; the Parco Borghese — while we didn't get to visit the Villa Borghese, it was easily one of the nicer parks I've walked around; the Trevi fountain — impressive and larger than life; and Santa Maria della Vittoria —a tiny church near the main station with two stunning sculptures by Bernini as well as an impressive church organ.

My experience at the Parco Borghese merits a side-note: Cody decides that we need to enter the park from another entrance, not knowing that said entrance actually exists. Therefore, getting into the Parco Borghese required us to cross a freeway, jump over two sets of dividers, jump over another wall, climb up a flight of stairs, and walk through a hippodrome and back.

That little adventure aside, Rome disappointed me a little. I think my expectations for the Eternal City were higher than they should have been. Even the food wasn't outstanding. It was good, yes, but nothing to write home about. It also didn't help that every restaurant that was recommended to us was shut for the holidays. And lastly, I have to say the Tiber was one the most pathetic city-rivers I've laid my eyes on — slow, muggy and utterly unexciting. Check out pictures below, and read about Florence in the next post.



By the Tiber (l) and a statue on one of the bridges crossing it (r).


Parco Borghese (l) and St. Peter's at night (r).


In front of the Trevi (l) and in Santa Maria della Vittoria (r)


Monument to Vittorio Emmanuele II (l) and the Parco Borghese (r).


Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (l) and Cody in Piazza della Repubblica (r).


Nächster Halt, Bremen

Monday. Paris.

Located in the northern part of Germany, between Hanover and Hamburg, Bremen is a what most would expect to be a quaint German town. You may wonder why I visited this seemingly random town up North, when I could have easily gone to Munich, Frankfurt or Berlin to experience Europe's largest and most populous country. The answer — a simple (rather obvious) one — was to visit a friend from high school, Mitul, who goes to university there.

This weekend wasn't an easy one by any standard — both Mitul and I were glued to the news at any given instant, watching uneasily and anxiously as that 60-hour saga unfolded (read 'A Black Wednesday,' November 2008, for my immediate thoughts regarding that). It felt good to be with someone from Bombay during that time.

While we weren't keeping ourselves abreast of the events in Bombay, I did get a chance to visit the main town of Bremen. I was fortunate enough to witness the Christmas markets all around the Old Town, which are reminiscent of carnivals right out of the Brothers Grimm (interestingly enough, Bremen's mascots, the four musicians or Die Stadtmusikanten, are taken from a Grimm fairy tale). The Böttcherstraße and Schnoorstraße, two narrow albeit awfully touristy streets are lined with houses built any time between the the 1700s (Schnoorstraße) and the 1920s (Böttcherstraße - a blend of Art Nouveau and Gothic). Both, oddly enough, have a very similar air about them.

I also got to try some Christmas and winter specialties including feuerzangenbowle — warm spiced wine with burnt sugar; and caramelized almonds. Both were delicious.

Although the attacks back home proved to be a dampener, I thoroughly enjoyed my weekend in Germany, and hope I make it back there once again


The Weser River (l) and the Goethe Theatre (r)


Bötcherstraße (l) and off Schnoorstraße (r)


The town cathedral (l) and Cold War-era propaganda (r)


Die Stadtmusikanten (l) and the town cathedral (r)


The Schnoor (l) and feuerzangenbowle (r)


The Christmas markets

A Black Wednesday

Thursday. Paris.

Twelve hours ago, Bombay was once again assailed by a spate of terrorist attacks. I don't know what to say, and even if I do, I don't know how to say it. This is abominable. There's no other word for it. There's this anger bubbling inside of me - why do they keep on repeatedly targeting my city. In my lifetime alone, there have four instances of serial bomb blasts or terrorist attacks, which have altogether killed 500-1,000 people, and injured twice as many. Three of those have been in the last five years. And now I wonder, how many more?

How many more till these so called warriors of whatever religion they profess to follow (frankly, to do such things in the name of God is an oxymoron, because you need to be godless to be able to do such a thing) eventually destroy our city —MY city? I'm sure people from New York, London and Madrid might feel the same way.

People talk about the spirit of Bombay — one that's never truly broken. The spirit of Bombay which allows people to return to their normal everyday lives after such terrorist attacks. How many more attacks can the spirit of Bombay endure till it's eventually crushed? I'm not sure. While I'm a firm believer in the city I call home, and its resilience, part of me wonders if Bombay can withstand this without even a tiny bit of suffering. Bombay is perhaps the only city in the world that I will truly call home. People may argue that I'm not a true Indian; that my heart belongs to Paris (as I've heard much too often since coming here); that I'm Americanized and will never move back to India. Maybe they're correct. Maybe not. But one thing remains true : that no other city in the world — be it Paris, be it Sydney, be it Los Angeles — will ever occupy the same place in my heart as Bombay does.

I've already mentioned that this is the third set of terrorist attacks in the past five years. Why vent now? Shouldn't I be numb to it by now? Maybe. This time, however, the attacks hit close to home. They struck in South Bombay, my part of town. They occurred in places where anyone among my family and friends could very well be at, or have been at, that evening. Local trains, in which the 2006 blasts occurred, are less likely to stir a chord in me as I or anyone I know rarely use them. The Taj, Oberoi, Metro and Leo's however, are all places I go to at least once a month if not more often. If I were in Bombay right now, I could have very well been in any of those places at the time of the attacks.

I'm angry. Scared even. But what can I do about it? Take justice into my own hands and avenge the deaths of my fellow citizens? Not the most practical idea, but then what else could I do? Nothing. And I don't want to end on a pessimistic note, so cheesy as this may sound, people need to have hope, so here I go:
As someone who to goes to USC, I'm used to hearing "Fight On's" from people, occasionally using it myself. but not until now have I meant it with all my heart. Fight On, Bombay.

Post-scriptum (3 December 2008)

Wednesday. Paris.

One week after the attacks:
The attacks lasted 60 hours. Between 170-180 people were killed depending on the whims of the police. Among them, my high school chemistry and biology teacher and parents of several people I knew from school. The Taj's and Oberoi's interiors are gutted beyond recognition.
India's Home Minister, Maharashtra's Chief Minister and Deputy Chief Minister have all resigned amid the ensuing political brouhaha. People are angry and want decisive action. I sincerely hope that something is done about it.

The Family Bonnet

Saturday. Paris.

Having been in Paris for more than two months, I think it's time to give you a more detailed account (visual and written) of my host family and where I live. The family Bonnet, as mentioned in passing in one of the first few posts of this blog ("Papaparis," September 2008), lives in the 5th arrondissement, also known as the Latin Quarter.

Christian, the father and professor of philosophy at Paris 1 specializes in German and Austrian philosophy. A slightly eccentric character whose jokes don't necessarily come across the way he intends them to (be it in German, French or English), Christian is always in a good mood. He also considers it a personal triumph when he mentions some French word/concept that I don't know.

Cécile, the mother and researcher of Ancient Greek is currently translating the Alexandrian Bible from Ancient Greek into French. Not an easy job, with 26 volumes of said Bible. Like any mother, she frets and fumes over the three kids, and sometimes myself included. If you hear anything being whistled off-key around the house, you know it's her.

Grégoire, eldest son (28) and music composer, is the most grounded of the three Bonnet siblings. He's a musical genius of sorts — or so I thought when he showed me a 20 minute-long original composition using six different instruments.

Pierre, middle child (25) and journalist, is what I'd call a Parisian hipster — with his thick-rimmed glasses, skinny jeans and popped Lacoste polo shirts. He loves to hate Segolene Royal (like most of the family), as well as Christine Lagarde, the French finance minister; and he lets me know of that each time they're on the news.

Marie, the youngest (18) and aspiring doctor, is your typical baby of the family. She gets what she wants, when she wants. She likes watching MTV shows dubbed in French (which can be absolute torture at times) when she's not studying (which seems to be 24/7).

All said and done, I love my host family, and couldn't be happier. Check out the pictures below (not taken by me, as Cécile insisted that she give me some of their own pictures). You'll also find pictures of their apartment. Notice the shelves and shelves of books. Could it get any better?


The Family Bonnet


4, rue de Bazeilles, 75005 Paris.


(l-r) Marie, Pierre, Grégoire; Christian, Cécile


The dining room and sofa (where I'm currently writing this post).


My room.


Cécile and Christian's room.

Dans Paris À Velo..

Sunday. Paris.


I finally got a bike. Check back for some better pics and details. It's a fixie (pignon fixe), a track frame (cadre de piste) no less, light (léger), and fast (rapide). A no-name frame (marque inconnue), in yellow and blue (jaune et bleu), with stars on the handlebars (guideron étoilé)..superb. Ever heard of Joe Dassin? -  www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPyOWMTRA8

 

Bombay Calling

Thursday. Paris.

We're almost halfway through our semester, as unbelievable as that may sound. And my university, Université Paris III - Sorbonne Nouvelle, has kindly given us a week off for Toussaint, or All Saints. So, I will be heading back home to Bombay for a week, and hence will be on a brief hiatus from this blog. Be prepared for further chronicles of my Parisian adventures and experiences once I get back.

Till then, please keep on reading, commenting (and criticizing, if need be).

Score One for Cody: Obstinate Blogger Interface Vanquished Against All Odds

Wednesday. Paris.


I win.

It's 2AM here, but I've finally finished uploading pictures for my two most recent blog posts. Happy days. Go, examine my handiwork. It may intrigue you. For reference, 'City of Light and Speed' and 'Of Shoes, and Ships, and Sealing Wax' are the now powerfully visual, newly published posts on my behalf. Enjoy.  

Marseille, A Provençal Wild Child

Monday. Paris.

And so I return from a second sojourn down to the south of France. Consensus? I think you could call Marseille the bastard child of Provence - not as prim and pretty as Nice, nor as flashy and extravagant as Cannes, but wilder and meaner with a bit of a sting. Marseille is defined by the large immigrant population there, given its position as the gateway to France from North Africa, and perhaps the rest of the Mediterranean. Hence, one enounters an atmosphere vastly different from either Paris or Nice. I still can't say whether I like the city or not.

Among our stops on the tourist trail: Notre Dame de la Garde — a cathedral overlooking the city, with some stunning mosaics and views of the city (perhaps among my top five favourite churches of all time); the Calanques — grottos to the east of the city, which I thought too cold to swim in, but in which my friend Luke happily frolicked around; and the Old Port and Town — in which we saw a burnt motorcycle and some political graffitti amid the narrow streets (reminiscent of Tours, but with a Mediterranean feel).

I also had my first encounter with the flics or French police, while sitting with Luke near the Old Port at night. I was asked to produce my papers, had my bag searched and was frisked. The same happened to Luke, but he was also asked if he had any shit or hash. On the whole, they were reasonably friendly and once it was established we were clean, they bade us a bonne soirée. A charming highlight of our trip there.

Bienvenue à Marseille.


Notre Dame de la Garde; A Calanque


The Friouls; Notre Dame de la Garde


Vieux Marseille


Vieux Port