The Bicycle Thieves: Part II

One of my friends and compatriots bought a relatively new bicycle, paying through his nose, soon after he reached Ferrara. He would ride up to the bus stop, leave the bike there and board the 9 O’ clock bus to work. Three days into the new routine he came back in the evening and his bike was nowhere to be seen. The next morning, it reappeared in the same parking lot, secure in a brand new lock.

As luck had it, that day he picked up a conversation with the bus driver in faltering Italian and English. “Are you sure it is your bike?” he asked, “wait for me in the evening, we will find a way.” So as the evening grew dark, the duo returned to the spot where the bicycle was. "Perhaps he will help me explain the problem to the police”, thought my friend. Even before the thought was over the bus driver, with the skill of a seasoned thief, had broken the lock and the bicycle was returned to its rightful owner.

The Bicycle Thieves: Part 1

It is approaching mid- day. The stream of morning commuters at the Ferrara railway station has thinned into a trickle. Each morning a huge chunk of the population of this medieval town ride in to the station and board the trains that would take them to the nearby cities like Bologna and Padova for work. Secured to the rows of semicircular iron bars, over a hundred bicycles that brought them in from the centre and periphery of the town wait, to take them back home in the evening.

Among the small groups of people idling on the steps of the railway station and waiting at the bus stop are a young man and woman- leaning casually on a lamp post and chatting. As it is always with strangers in a space, eyes meet briefly and shift again never really taking in the faces, never really seeing. Then, at one moment with no gaze upon them, the couple, in one fluid motion, breaks the chain of a brand new bicycle parked near them and ride swiftly away.

The Kaleidoscope

It has been a month and a half since I flew out of Europe. My residence permit expires tomorrow. Perhaps I will never go back again. I thought when I returned that I had a bundle of stories to narrate. But I now realize that my bundle had been tied carelessly. I cannot find half of my stories; my anecdotes are neither with tails nor heads. Cities become stretches of streets and colours that run into each other and cannot be told apart. I wish in vain that I had paid more attention, had watched the fading murals on the church walls more closely; had lingered a bit longer in front of the street musician so that his music would be with me when I walk in a different city with different rhythms. I wish I had swirled the wine in my mouth for a minute more so its taste would have soaked into me and lingered. Yet there are bits and pieces that I have saved.

Napolitanos e Sicilianos

The fight broke out without much build up. Pressed against the sliding door of the metro cabin I could see nothing except the shoulders and necks craning to have a better look. Dani who is a head taller than me gave a running commentary. The loud boisterous group of young men had already shooed us off as we tried to board their side of the overcrowded compartment. There was a some small issue, which Dani thinks, concerning a girl in one of the groups and then people started beating up each other in earnest. In the moving compartment I swayed precariously and kept banging my head against the door as the momentum of the fight built up. The crowd was not impassive, rather they were active participants who were doing everything else than put an end to the fight.

Pompeii*

He sat in a crouched position. With his palms he covered his face, contorted in terror and disbelief. Two thousand years hence, from beyond the iron bars of a dusty locked storage room, we stared at him arrested by the frozen expression.

We, Dani, Cinthia and I got out from the Pompeii Scavi metro station into a burning sun. Cold drink and souvenir shops lined the street outside and vendors urged the tourists pouring out of the station to buy bottles of frozen water for double the usual price. The heat beating down upon us was so intense that we could hardly refuse their bid. Our backpacks heavy with water bottles we left behind the clamour and chaos outside and entered the gates of Pompeii and then the world changed

Wind of Change

I am leaving the chronological order of my narration now. For certain stories need to be told in the present.

Out of the Monastiraki train station Athens looks like any other city. Much more vibrant of course than an average European one.The Monastiraki square is always full. The colours and noises from the nearby Athens flea market spill out into the street.

If you look distinctly foreign, and moreover confused, you are invariably accosted by a trickle of peddlers and help-mongers.Each city has a rhythm of its own- a pattern amidst the chaos, that it slowly reveals to you as you pace its streets. And nothing seemed amiss in Athens.

A swig of Rome: Part II

It gets increasingly difficult to talk of a trip as the days pass. Impressions fade and emotions grow dusty. But as I stepped out of the train at Roma Termini almost two months after my first visit it was all different. Despite the sweltering heat I could still feel the slight chill in the wind that evening, see the bright colours the balloon man's cart halted at the traffic light and even the drop of ice cream falling on the pavement beside my feet from the strawberry- vanilla cone of a passerby. I never got to finish the story of that walk.

'Il vittoriano' was not in my plans for that day.

London II

I would give all my fame for a pot of ale- Henry the Fifth, Act 3: Scene 2

Day two in London was rain drenched and gray. It was almost noon when I finally ventured out into the cold streets from the warmth of Priyam's room. The moment I stepped out of Charing Cross, it began to rain in earnest! The unpredictable London rains. Clutching my soggy map,and dripping wet I half walked half ran across the embankment bridge, chancing another glance more at the West minister now shrouded by a veil of rain.

The Thames winds through central London touching many a famed landmark and familiar bridge names like the Waterloo and the London Bridge. Incidentally,the London Bridge has not fallen down yet (not that it would be a great architectural loss).I stood slightly shivering under the Waterloo bridge. A bunch on noisy school children dressed in blue blazers were drying themselves dancing to the rhythm of the music played on a tape recorder as refugees from the rain formed a scanty crowd around them cheering and clapping.

London I

I stood between platforms nine and ten in indecision. Piled in front of the barrier was rubble from the ongoing renovation work. The platforms were overcrowded by work men and women in blue uniforms and yellow helmets and the regular evening commuters. There was no way to get pass all those muggle eyes and get onto platform 9 3/4.

When Priyam told me that the way to get to her place was to take the train from London's Luton airport to King's Cross station, I swear my heart gave a loud whoop and jumped up and down a couple of times. For King's cross is where it all begins, where awaits the gleaming red steam engine of the Hogwarts express, that will wind its way into the hidden world of magic, often more real for us 'Pottermaniacs' than the world we (seemingly) occupy.

Marseille

As the bus took the winding road to Mação, the ghost of a familiar panic gripped me. I felt it each time I returned to Mação in the past two years- the urge to turn back. For ways out of the village were far and few.But this is a different trip altogether. In the next few days I will pack my bags and say good bye to the little village.Macao has not changed a bit since I left more than three months ago. Except that one of its handful of coffee shops has closed down. But hang on.. Macao is at the tail end of the trip. There was a thesis defense, an excavation and quite bit of of tourism sandwiched between. I met long distant friends,slept at many an airport lounges and hostels.

A swig of Rome: Part 1

The timing could not have been worse. I have a thesis to finish in three weeks. Exams are around the corner. The stone tools that I make in the lithic tools lab are enough to earn me an instant expulsion from any pre-historic community. Yet here I am on my way to Rome, still breathless after the ten minutes run to Ferrara station reaching just in time to catch the cheapest and ipso facto the slowest train to Roma Termini. There are some visa procedures that I cannot avoid.

I am perched on the edge of my seat caught between panic and thrill. I have left Bologna and Firenze behind. The landscape has turned slightly flatter and a bright shade of green. A happy spring sun shines bright over the low reaching hills.

Padova II: 'rEsistere'

Rains are frequent in Ferrara. After brief intervals of sunlight and warmth, they invariably claim the town back, gentle, yet persistent. On Monday, I walked to my early morning class accompanied by a rain- drenched wind. It was good bye to a weekend, which commenced rather early and stretched on lazily over four sunny days.

Padova was a spontaneous decision. the city lies an hour by train from Ferrara, en-route Venice. Along that one hour, the flat country transforms as solitary hillocks rise here and there as sudden surprises upon the landscape.

We spent the morning wandering among the ruins of the Roman arena, and the many side streets that branches out from the Piazza Cavour, lined on either sides by an assortment of medieval and modern structures. In front of the famed Cafe Pedrocchi, a small group wearing large crosses across their chests stood holding hand written placards. An old man with long white beard, painstakingly explained to Dani why it was imperative to stop sinning!,if possible then and there.

Padova I

They protect me from unfortunate results by locking it away page by page.
--Life of Galileo; Bertold Brecht

We walked through the narrow winding roads of Padova (Paduva), stopping here at the ornate arches of a medieval house and there to read the charcoal graffiti scored over the flaking paint of an old wall. On our way we passed a raised sarcophagus in stone and realised too late that it was a memorial to Dante.

The poet is believed to have spent a few years of his career in the city. Passing by the medieval Zabarello palace and further along the via San Francisco we turned into a small stone paved side street. There a few hundred feet down the lane, we saw what we were looking for.

Repose

One evening, twenty- seven years ago, my father took my brother to watch a movie by the name Hercules. As a baby, Mathew hated cinema halls and invariably one of my parents had to stand outside the hall holding him, as he threatened to bring down its walls. So this was a fresh attempt to make his peace with the silver screen. Appa told him the story of Hercules in all detail and by the time they reached the cinema, Mathew seemed for the first time positively inclined to the general idea of cinema. Then the movie started. There were bangs and explosions and robots and aliens filled the screen. Before five minutes, the father and the son were out in the street, pondering on the mysterious transformations that mythology acquires.

Berlusconia

A few months ago a Portuguese friend of mine insisted that Europe is neither Islamophobic nor racist. And if a foreigner feels he/ she is an object of prejudice, it only reflects the growing frustration of the populace in the face of their crumbling economies. He was responding to my narration of an incident of mistreatment at the Lisbon airport. Only a few days ago in Macao I heard and old lady rant on and on as to why she thought Indians were a dirty uncivilised lot who ate with their hands and never took bath.

But I have so far had a better deal than many others. I hear of a school mate, who dreads each assignment in Europe that his multinational software company puts him on, for his last name is Mohammed. As a rule he is harassed at each airport . Every time , my brother Mathew flies to Europe, he is stopped and questioned at the airport and a couple of days ago was accused of carrying a fake visa. Incidentally Mathew has a beard. But, says my friend, Europe is neither Islamophobic nor racist!

My stay in Italy has till been smooth. There are no overt signs of prejudice. But like the rest of Europe, perhaps at a greater pace, Italy is changing. That was why I was waiting with Cecilia and Archie, a student from Indonesia at the immigration section of the police station on the morning of the second day of my arrival.While the Schengen agreement is said to have opened the borders of Europe further, with my Portuguese permit of residence, I am still required to register before 9 days into my arrival in Italy with the police. And the maximum period of stay is to be three months, with its reasons validated by documents.

The First Impression

I love the first day in a new city.You get out of your place of stay and you can turn and walk to any direction. Every single street is a 'road not taken.'And if you have come to live in the city, what catches your eye are different from what you would see as a tourist. You notice the supermarket, sees the post office, looks at the bus numbers and memorize their routes. And from the centre of Ferrara I noticed at least three buses that could take me to the railway station, which in any case is a one half hour walk from my first floor studio apartment in via Ragno; and I relaxed. I am a born claustrophobic. Lifts scare me. so does closed windows.I realized that all through these months in Mação there was a knot in my chest that has now come undone. And, it had to do with the fact that it is not easy to get out of the place.

Soggiorno Italiano

Alvega-Ortiga

Journeys invariably unsettle me, especially the ones undertaken alone. I am thrilled at the prospect of travel, excited with the anticipation of seeing new places and meeting fresh faces.And if I am forced to stay at one place for a few days at a stretch like it was in Mação, I grow morose and dull. But invariably, the night before the trip panic sets in. And I wish I could stay on where I am and not budge.

Sure enough, after the first half an hour into the trip things are back to normal. But here I am at the beginning of the half an hour pulling my bag across the rails on to the platform of Alvega- Ortiga station on my way to Italy. The mood is enhanced by the wind and the cold. The platform is deserted, there is an eerie silence except for the distant barks of a dog. The moon is so large today that it looks artificial and the platform is bathed in moonlight.

The One- way Street : Part III

At five o' clock it was already dark in Wasserburgh. We, Daniela, Elisa and me wrapped our shawls over our faces against the bitter cold as we walked along the bank of the dark still lake on our way into the town centre. Betty and Bruno walked alongside magically insulated to the cold and feeding us in with tales from the town. Betty told us how one day from inside a shop she heard someone on the street speak in Portuguese in a Brazilian accent that was endearingly familiar to her. And how she rushed out to meet them just as I would in the unlikely event of hearing someone speak in Malayalam on a street in Macao. It was one of the grandson of the Maikafers' who had come in search of his grandfather's story.And Betty joined the search.

The One- way Street: Part II

(Story of a man who left)
There never is a story of one man alone.There is a family gathered for dinner around a few meager plates, there are friends and beer glasses and the bar man across the counter,there is a sister who has long grown out of pillow fights. And in Franz's story 700 miles further north there was a young woman.

If Maria loved anything rather more than her fiance it was her homeland. For her that was where life was meant to be. So when Franz left in search of a new world, on board a modest vessel, with a cheap passage which meant he had to work his way through the voyage, Maria was in a struggle of a different sort. In the end she realised she could not choose between the two and set out on the same road herself, resolving to bring back the man she loved to the land she loved.I am rather more in awe for Maria. Over eighty years ago, for a young woman to undertake such a journey, required something more than ordinary will.

The One- way Street: Part I

(Story of a man who left)

The time was the 1920 s. There lived in the Bavarian town of Wasserburgh a young man named Franz Maikäfer. Franz strongly disliked his surname; for, Maikäfer was the name of a bug. Its picture was drawn into the red walls of his modest house in the heart of Wasserburgh. But the name was at the time the last of Franz's worries.

Post World war I, Germany was plunged into a deep economic crisis . The nation experienced hyperinflation in 1923 and chronic high unemployment throughout the 1920's.The death knell of the Weimar republic was ringing. And, Franz could hear it from the first floor window of his family house in the quiet town. I imagine him sitting with his unemployed friends in a pub downtown, where they met each evening,worry lining their prematurely old faces. One evening, banging his fist on the wooden counter in frustration Franz shouted "I need to get out".

Beering in Bavaria: Part II

In the second decade of 17th century, Europe was caught up in a series of wars.Faith, territory...the reasons were manifold.Like a curse unleashed it spread over Europe, one war leading to another and that to another.Half way down the mad lane, young Gustavus Adolfus of Sweden, 'the Lion of the North',invaded Bavaria. In the face of imminent plunder and loot, the Bavarians sought for settlement. And the accord was reached, the city left in peace, for 600,000 barrels of Hofbräuhaus beer.

The Hofbräuhaus am Platzl, was where we stopped next.The Hofbräuhaus is state owned and was founded in 1589 by the Duke of Bavaria. Over the years its brew has passed through many a famous and infamous lips. There was Mozart and Lenin; but also there was Hitler (although they say he never drank the beer).The huge public beer hall can seat over a thousand guests.So we sat down, waiting for our beers and thumping on the table to the rhythm of the dance performance onstage.

Beering in Bavaria: Part I

I flew to Munich amidst fears of blizzards and airport closures.The television screens of my Air Berlin flight played in unison, Sting's "Rise and fall" which was not exactly reassuring.But all went well. Daniela picked me up at the Munich Hauptbahnof(Central station). Along our short walk to the hostel, I realised a few things. One was that snow was beautiful. Second, that it is not always cotton soft and fluffy, but is wet and crystalline as well. Third, and a few more steps down the lane, that when the temperature is in the negative, the chill creeps in through your fingers and your nose and freeze your insides.

So bless Dani for taking me a few minutes into my arrival to the warmth of the little underground pub of our "4 u München" hostel and introducing me to the magics of German Weißbier.Weißbiers are wheat beers which mix at least fifty percent wheat into barley malt achieving a light golden brown coloured smoothness. That half litre glass was the first among many such that guided our two days in Munich.

Immaculate Conception

I will start from the very end of our trip. Dani and me reached Porto yesterday around midnight.From Zurich we flew to Palma de Mallorca from Palma de Mallorca to Barcelona and finally from Barcelona to Porto.So why did we take this strange angular route almost tracing a 'V'in the air, covering a lot of useless nautical miles, hoping off and on at airports? Well that is how it is when you have to fly cheap.

So after over eight hours of wait at the Barcelona airport, we moved to the Ryan air counter. To be fair, Ryan air offers the cheapest flight options within Europe. But then its like a hurdles race where any time you might trip over of a thousand carefully set rules of law. You fall down and end up paying through your nose.

Snow-ward bound...

I had never known snow. For me it was settled on the picture post card roof-tops and trees.Snow was the cotton fluffed over plastic Christmas trees behind shop windows.Snow fell onto the pages of the novels I read and melted over poems. But I still had never known snow.So it was mostly to see snow that I was travelling this time. A tour charted out carefully by Daniela, through Bavaria, Vienna and Zurich over which the year would pass and the new one would begin.

The trip began in the Bavarian capital of Munich on a night when the railroads and streets were covered with snow.It ends today in Zurich, where contrary to expectations, the sun shone bright over the city. We never knew any city in depth, but skimmed through their surfaces. Sometimes we strolled aimless along the streets, sometimes went for the strict routes of tour buses. We traveled to the Bavarian interiors, got caught in the Viennese new year. We went into drunken excesses and fell into the temptation of unknown flavours at expensive restaurants.

After the Christmas Eve

1.
There was an incessant downpour all through the Christmas day. The day turned chilly and the breeze blew off the umbrellas from passers-by. All I could do was to just hold on to the handle of my fragile black "made in China" umbrella as I was constantly blown off the course by the winds that the Tagus carried.

One unusual thing about Lisbon is that it announces elevators among its modes of public transport. I was heading to one of them, Elevador Santa Justa. This 45 meter tall iron structure was built in 1902 in the neo-gothic style and connects the streets of the Baixa to the Largo Carmo area. I did not think much of the architecture. But I had to appreciate it for its sheer height. All the more after finding out that the lift was closed for the day. So i climbed all the way up, panting,clutching my sides, my face frozen, as raindrops like pinpricks fell. The view in offer was however worth the effort. So, even with the rain like a curtain caught in wind, blocked my view. The Baixa neighbourhood, the Lisbon castle and the Rossio square lay around and below in a spectacular spread.The spectre of the Igreja do Carmo (Carmo church) destroyed in the 1755 earthquake looms in the background. Its roofs opening out into the sky, gaping in horror at the heavens' wrath. A sombre monument to destruction.

2

Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
To follow half on which the eye dilates
- Lord Byron

Bless the sun for shining on Sintra this day. For, I was not prepared to take in another days of shivering long walks.So, the day after Christmas i took my train to the famed Sintra.Sintra lies about half an hour off to Lisbon towards its North- West and is one of the most known tourist destination from Portugal. I spend my day wandering in Leisure through its historical centre, among the towers of the Castelo dos Mouros and through the corridors of the Pena palace.

The Castelo dos Mouros (Moorish Castle) is by far the most spectacular structure I have encountered in Portugal.Not many would agree with me there. The country is strewn with vestiges of Manueline architecture. But the sumptuous and heavy Manueline style seems a bit overdone to me.The Castelo dos Mouros is a 9th century structure. Subject to attacks and occupations over the centuries, the castle was renovated in 1830 during the reign of King Ferdinand well in tune with the romantic spirit of the times. It has two walled segments and granite steps that winds to the top of the towers.But more than its architecture, it is its location that defines the castle. From the top of the tower, the gaze stretches over the narrow streets and yellow houses of Sintra, the lush green beyond, with the pathways that snakes out of the town and onto the Atlantic blue up to where the ocean meets the horizon. Its a message of power conveyed in poetry.The Moorish castle at present offers a view that was unintended at the time of its construction, the 19th century Palacio Nacional da Pena. The Palace is a curious mixture of arches and domes ornate windows bringing into mind the Manueline ones.Its rooms are a loud proclamation of luxury. However it is not much in my system to appreciate, the heavy wooden furniture or the silver and gold goblets. I am a claustrophobic being. And once I was inside the long rooms and corridors of the palace, all I wanted to was to get out. However viewed from downhill, in its entirety, the Palace of Pena is a lovely sight.It is painted red and yellow and blue into a fairy tale perfection.

Over the past two days, the soles of my feet were troubling me a lot! I suppose it has to do with my amazing sense of direction, which made me walk over four hours on Christmas night finding my way back to the hostel. So i wound up the the little excursion earlier than I would have otherwise. But not before wandering into the Cafe a Piriquita. The crispy, light crust of the cream filled Traverssario sprinkled with white powdered cane sugar over a cup of strong unsweetened coffee..oh sweet dear life!