An ode to pakoras.

At least once a year, we would travel to Delhi during the vacations to visit my grandmothers. The two Matajis, stayed in Karol Bagh, a not so long  walk from each other. Google Maps tell me that the walk would be about 1.5  km or so. Every now and then, we would walk from one home to the other, and somewhere near Frontier Bakery  and Tibia College would be this hole-in-a-wall shop selling pakodas. The aroma was to die for. My father would pick an assortment , pyaz, gobhi, aloo and paneer. They would refried right there by one white haired sardarji  with a gentle manner, wrapped in newspaper and handed over. We would walk a little bit faster,  to have them with dinner before the crispiness went away.  Going through that, in my minds eye, makes my mouth water!

My father had a passion for all things fried. The hazards of refried oil were unknown and for a long time we maintained a kadhai for frying any and everything. When we had guests over my mother would make what I now know are onion bondas, with finely chopped onions and amchur. They would be especially crisp, because her recipe required them to be pressed and refried just before serving. My sister then added capsicum + onion pakoras to the repertoire.

The frying  had to be done right, of course. Put them in cold oil and the pakoras would “drink up” the oil. In hot oil they would become dark brown when still uncooked on the inside. I did not mind them either way, especially if they were bread pakoras or baingan. The only pakoras I would have with some trepidation are the mirchi pakoras that would be served in the JCOs mess when the officers visited on one of the national holidays.

The air fryer has  brought back the pleasures of pakoras guiltlessly, and I am on the path of rediscovery! 

Musing over muli parathas.

The keto diet worked for the first 2 kg, but I persist because,  among other reasons, it allows me stuffed parathas  made with keto-atta, guiltlessly!. And so, this morning, I dug into this particularly succulent muli paratha that Saraswati, our cook, had conjured up and my mind wandered. Her overstuffed parathas are a testament to the quiet pride she has in her work, and  they bring back memories of the overstuffed parathas of my growing up years.

In our family, aloo parathas were reserved exclusively for Sunday brunches. They were uncomplicated. My mother would put only salt and red chillies in the mashed potatoes, and really overstuff the parathas. My father had this unmistakable belief, honed from years of frying any and everything, that the finer intricacies of frying a paratha required his expert hand. We were coached, of course, but there was never any doubt, that he was the supreme artist. The steps were, put the paratha on a hot tawa, no too hot and not cold either, full flame on the gas. Allow the atta to cook, but not so much that it gets dark spots; light brown spots were ok or very small dark browns were fine too. Then you turned the paratha, cooked the other side the same, while applying a generous helping of oil / ghee on the already cooked side. You turned it over and heard the satisfying sizzle, cooked it on the same full flame for a period of time that could be judged only from years of experience, and then turned the flame low till the paratha was crisp. You naturally repeated the process on the other side. 

And so, very often on a Sunday morning, my parents would get into our narrow kitchen, for aloo parathas in summer and gobhi and muli parathas in winter. The parathas were ever so crisp and flaky and I was always confused whether the butter tasted better, as it was, straight out of the butter dish, or when it had melted golden all over the paratha.  The confusion persists. To this day, I finish off the curd that accompanies every paratha meal beforehand; can’t have anything interfering with that soft flakiness and the taste bomb that the stuffing is. 

The keto diet will be easy to stick to. 

A Safari on the Chambal

The crocodile, out after many days of unseasonal rain, was intent on taking in the winter sun. Lounging  on the banks of the Chambal River, wide  open mouth displaying its impressive dentition to advantage, it appeared not to notice the four of us in a motorboat 50 yards away. The other denizens of the Chambal Reserve Forest were not so disdainful of human presence. The gharials, sprawled on tiny riverine islands, appeared to be very shy of human company, their scary spiny backs notwithstanding. Not that the humans were feeling very companionable towards them, either! The bar headed geese seemed a better bet as friends but cackled away when I tired to catch a closer picture. The ibis and cormorants were self-absorbed and a pair of pied kingfishers, in fashionable monochrome birthday suits, posed on the waterfront much like  some other swim-suited two legged creatures…

The waters of the Chambal River, about half an hour out of Jarar,  are clean and clear, unlike most Indian rivers. Its banks are clear of any signs of human habitation, save a few temple flags. The view of the sky merging with the river in the horizon, undulating clean  hills on both sides, was meditative. We came away feeling that we would definitely be back.

This was the river safari conducted by the Chambal Safari Lodge at Jarar, about 60 km from Agra. About 4 hours from our home in Noida, via Shikhohabad, this is the estate of an old zamindar family, converted into a lodge. Clean and green, the lodge was a relaxing getaway. We sat on the front verandah of our cottage while jungle babblers argued raucously, peacocks flaunted their plumage and bats generally hung around, waiting for nightfall. The back of the room / cottage had a little sit-out with charpoys, made special by sightings of  a purposeful jungle hare.

The Yamuna too flows close by and we visited the temple complex at Bateshwar, one of Shiv ji’s dhams. A cluster  about 50 of whitewashed temples by the river bank, the complex is an impressive sight.  It plays host to the country’s second largest animal fair  every year and an aarti on the banks of the Yamuna every full moon night, both tempting enough to plan a  second trip to these parts. An added attraction was the large number of water birds in the Yamuna.

We were there in the end of January and the field were green with the wheat crop. The prototype for Laxman’s common man was likely created here, a coat with dhoti being the preferred attire of middle aged men, while a muffler/ shawl/blanket covering one’s ears seemed to be a necessary accoutrement, thanks to the chilly winter. This was definitely cow country, which of course made it cow-dung country too! We are very far from Swachh Bharat ….

Meals at the lodge were sumptuous and delicious; breakfasts were average, however. The staff and hosts, latter living onsite, were gracious. The in-house naturalists were knowledgeable and enthusiastic and we enjoyed getting to see all the birds around, storks, spoonbills, brahminy shelducks, herons, egrets etc.

We came back from our short break rested and at peace with the world.

High tea at Darang!

 

A short break to rest and recoup….many issues to be considered… short enough drive, through the right kinds of road(s), some quick highways, some  meandering country roads……an interesting place to stay in, comfortable, not too expensive and then not tacky either……good food, some local cuisine too…. and the possibility of long, quiet walks. Good weather, this being the month of May, and the chance to gaze at the Himalayas, an added bonus.

Palampur it was then, all the boxes checked. We landed up in Darang Tea Estate, quite by accident. A mix up with booking through a travel portal, followed by personal, gentlemanly concern from the owners of Nagri resort, who undertook to arrange an alternative accommodation.

The drive was a delight. The highway to Ambala is not complete but still very quick. We bypassed Chandigarh, turning off at Shambhu barrier. The highway from Ambala to Una was not bad … sunflower fields on either side of the road, and a fast moving road. The Una to Amb stretch was however a not so great, with potholed roads and bumps galore.

The Dhauladhars came into view a little before Kangra and from then on the view became a constant companion, catching your breath every now and then. The rise so sudden, the peaks glistening white, the steep slope sometime brown and then violet. I remember seeing the colours in Nicolas Roerich’s paintings of the Dhauladhars  many years ago and wondering at the violet and purple mountains… and  here they were. Sometime later in the holiday we had to spend time in a motor garage in Pallampur. The men there worked on our car, oblivious to the view, while I sat absolutely mesmerized by the majesty of the mountains. My husband had to divide his attention between the two, the car and the majestic mountains!

The Darang tea estate owned by the Bhandari family, is a functioning tea estate that lies between Kangra and Palampur, and also doubles as a homestay. The family were warm and gracious hosts, and when we left at the end of our break it was as if we had spent time with old friends, not people we had met for the first time three days ago. Tea ( Kangra, of course) in the veranda of the old family cottage, two labradors and a pug waiting for you to pet them, tables laden with goodies, especially the home made jams made by Mrs. Bhandari and companionable conversation.

We stayed at the Pecan cottage, a delightful set of rooms with two seating areas, two bedrooms and a perfectly wonderful bath with slate walls and floor.

Pecan Cottage, by night

The Himachalis, at least the ones living in Kangra, seem to have worked out how to co exist with nature. Man’s intervention is on a small scale, unobstrusive. We made two excursions, one a walk in the village and the other , a trip to Andretta. The wheat crop in the village was ready for harvest and so a  softly rustling sea of gold when we walked through. Slim brooks and clumps of trees meant a lot of birds, but we had unfortunately carried neither our binoculars, nor the “bird book” in this visit.

The potter couple, Manisimran and Mary Singh run a pottery studio at Andretta. We visited their studio, were shown around by Mary and Jugal Kishore, the manager of the studio. I have always found their hand made, glazed terracotta pottery very attractive and we picked up some jugs and bowls. I gather that Andretta was once a thriving artists colony but now only the Singh couple live there full time.

Google Maps has allowed us  to be a little adventurous when going on road trips. This time too, we decided to drive on state highways, district and village roads. Nadaun, Bangana and many such unheard of hamlets, an unexpected winding hilly patch, got us to Una, and then back to the sunflower fields of Punjab. A ten hour drive got us home on a Sunday evening.   

The Monday blues were less so, next morning.

Konquered by Konkan

 Traveling on the Konkan rail is something that my husband has often spoken about and I  decided that it was time to translate that into action.

A day journey, to best savour the sights on offer, was planned, and we traveled from VT to Ratnagiri on the Mandovi Express. And what a delightful journey it was. Bright green grass formed a smooth carpet, interspersed with forests, which were a tufted deep green carpet. Sundry streams meandered. Translucent, mother of pearl clouds held the sway in some parts of the sky, dark glowering clouds in other parts. The second longest train tunnel in India, the Karbude tunnel, made one marvel at the engineering effort involved in realizing the Konkan Rail project; all along the route, boulders and steep cliff sides were covered with a net to prevent landslides. The stations were charming, with stunning backdrops. Vinehere was especially pretty. Not in the same league as Barog, but charming nevertheless.

As for the rest of our holiday, I must confess that I did spend some time wondering whether I should write this blog at all. The villages, the people, the vista were so unspoilt, that I want no part in changing that.

We stayed at a home-stay run by Medha Sahasrabudhe and her mother at their farm in the Kotawade village in Ratnagiri. The rooms were charming, made with blocks of red laterite stone, which is obviously Ratnagiri signature style when it comes to building dwellings. Some of the furniture was built in, a la Laurie Baker. Sloping roofs, with an occasional transparent roof tile to let in natural light. The loo was an absolute delight- natural light, palms visible through a high window while you showered, the run off watering a plant growing within the loo itself.  No mundane tiles here, broken plates formed the floor and the platform.

A shallow stream flowed past, about 30 yards from the room. You could walk across it, or just sit beside it and let the sound of water soothe the senses.  And then, all tranquil and quiet, you could walk through the village, and soak in some more peace and “unhurriedness”.

Food was delicious though simple. Konkani fare was  a new flavor, a mix of the familiar tinged with tamarind and coconut, which made it unusual.

This was my first experience of a home stay. If checking the count on the bed-sheets or obsequious service is your style, then this is not the place for you. But if natural surroundings, tended by welcoming people who are themselves, a cuppa chai with conversation about this and that, a leisurely walk with no destination and no interruptions by noise, traffic or hoardings is what delights you, then this will be perfect.

This entire holiday had been planned via the internet. When looking for a place to stay in Ganapatiphule, I had come across Jayesh, who runs a travel site called “The Western Routes”. He recommended Ratnagiri instead and sounded responsible and enthusiastic. I decided to go along – this was meant to be a surprise holiday for my husband, and not in his WILDEST dreams would he have thought of Ratnagiri.  Everything fell into place with the planning and later the holiday itself, and I must appreciate Jayesh for the same.

Day two of the holiday, we drove down deeper into the district, to Girish Bondre’s farm in Deoghar. Mr. Bondre used to work for the Sakal, a Marathi newspaper, for 27 years. He then decided to come back to his roots and look after his ancestral farm spread over 150 acres. The farm was a marvel of beauty and enterprise. This was no  absentee landlord; his love for the land and its bounty was obvious, as was his hard work. The most delightful part of our trip was this waterfall in the Bondre Farm. Refreshing water gushed into a tub like space which you sat in, nestled by rocks above and around you.  The child in you just wanted to stay there and the memory brings back smiles.

 In Ratnagiri, rice is grown in wide terraces on the hillside, the sides of the terraces lined with red laterite stone to hold in rainwater. Mid August, the rice is an even knee length, an even deep green, undulating to the breeze in the valley. When we walked down to Mr. Bondre’s farm, the rice fields were being watched  over by a spare, lithe, senior citizen, her face creased by my attempts at conversation in rudimentary Marathi. Like wise on the way back, only the gender had changed. Blessed souls, to be surrounded by peace and beauty.

The windows of traditional Konkani houses have vertical  square wooden slats that let in the view, the light and the breeze. I wonder if this architectural style finds an echo in the urban landscape.

The Arrey Warrey beach is the same vicinity, but we had no time to go beachcombing. Saw it from a distance on the drive back and wished we had more time. The drive back, through forests and foliage, rivers and rain, was a joy in itself, till we hit “progress” and then it was downhill, pun intended.

Cant resist a cliché, Ratnagiri was  a jewel indeed.

A hold-all of memories

Day journeys in trains are particularly conducive to conversations. Perhaps because, in these times of living life on the go, train journeys actually force you to slow down, and give up, for a few hours, the control of the direction of your life, to some unseen but reliable power. The world passes by, but does not intrude, thanks to the double glass windows of the AC compartment. You cannot, even if you try, stick your neck out, literally in this case, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend, and catch a bit of soot from the huffing engine. Spending a few hours with another human being, that too an acquaintance, without recourse to the outside world, is a skill that is buried deep inside somewhere, harking back to lazy summer holidays of silent afternoons and games of “seven tiles”. Yes, train journeys do encourage conversation and reminiscing.

On one such journey, a short while ago, the conversation somehow wound its way to train journeys of our growing up years.  And suddenly, the hold-all appeared from the crevices of ones’ memory.  Tellingly,  also called a bistraaband, at least by my mother. It brought memories rushing back…. Frenzied stuffing of the hold-all with quilts, pillows, towels and even occasionally shoes, for leisurely vacations. Sitting on it, to tighten the leather straps and lugging it to the station. It was wonderful to sit and bounce on while father paced the station to find out how late the train was running. The mater pulling out holiday fare of puri alu.

One particular memory is a train journey to visit Hazaribagh and Ranchi. Those were the days we weren’t petrified of cholesterol and lipid profiles were unheard of. We tucked into a puri – pakora combination! That leads  of course, to  the famous bondas of Igatpuri, the snack facilitated by the long stop to change to an electric engine, now that we were so close to Bombay. The biryani at Daund, recommended by the boys in the batch. I almost got left behind on the station, while tucking into it! Had to run to catch a moving train. Once I actually did get left behind on the platform , this time waiting for a dosa, I think. Some devotion to culinary offerings of railway platforms. The paper thin omelettes of railway platform dining rooms, if available today, would actually induce me to miss the train. Sadly the omelettes and ceiling fans with those impossibly long stems have passed into history.

Creatures of comfort that we are today, the intensity of the earlier experience is whittled down. The hold-all is history. The ride through tunnels do not induce palpitations ..the compartment is lit , not pitch black. The wind does not flap in through the window, neither do drops of rain. And you do not stick your neck out, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend. No soot to catch from the huffing engine. Yet, all is not comfortable. The plastic strewn landscape, the squalor of the settlements along the track, are visible even through the double glass window, our legacy for our children. Is the platform , where hordes jostle for air, opportunity and elbow room , our future?

The Flight to Mandalay

The flight to Mandalay landed on a dusty, rattle-y runway, in the middle of nowhere. A looooong drive to Mandalay took us past a  vista that has at least one,   and mostly many, muted gold pagoda spires in view.   Myanmar is steeped in Buddhist tradition, calm and peaceful, the people, as well as the terrain. The green vista was broken infrequently when people drove past on two wheelers and bicycles modified to allow sarong wearers to ride comfortably. Cars too, almost all of a certain vintage, all driving past silently, no horns blaring unlike some places we know……….

The Mandalay fort is unusual in that it is on flat ground, unlike the Sinhgadh, Purandhar, Jaipur  and other forts that guard impregnable heights. The fort in Mandalay is protected by a moat that runs on four sides…. A picturesque protection. The water body attracts walkers and exercise buffs in the morning, no crushing melee, a silent group, only mildly curious about an alien looking fellow morning walker.

At the Kuthodaw pagoda were the entrancing stone inscription caves. Symmetrically laid out white stupas, each bearing a marble slab inscribed in Pali. While the pagoda is apparently in the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s largest book, it was the tranquility of the shrine that was more remarkable than any record.

The town is made of symmetrically laid streets , on old imperial capital.  The fort had served as a jail for Bal Gangadhar Tilak and the city as  a stopover for the bravehearts of the INA on their way to Manipur. The Indian connection remains , though much whittled down. I met two Indian families  with  roots in Calcutta; their Hindi was intact, though interspersed with Myanmarese. The city has two gurudwaras, both in the vicinity of the fort.

Yangon was a different story. Parts of it were elegant, colonial and very clean. Others parts, run down and crowded, but like a cleaner, quieter version of the less affluent Bombay suburbs. People in both cities wear male and female versions of the sarong; a strong sense nationalism ensured that Western attire did not take root post independence.

The Traders Hotel in Yangon is plush and hospitable. The Mandalay Swan Hotel requires to work on air conditioning and internet access.

Myanmar has been Buddhist for two thousand years. The more austere Theravada form of Buddhism is practiced, so there is none of the exuberance of the Tibetan tradition of Buddhism. Monks, children and adult, and nuns walk the roads seeking alms. The greeting “ Minglaba” is made with folded hands. I gather, from Wikipedia, that one of the cardinal principle of Burmese culture is concern for that ones’ action may lead the other to be offended or lose face or be embarrassed. I can’t imagine something so diametrically opposite to what one perceives every day in Delhi.

Even as I write, Aung San Suu Kyi has won the bye election, her fragile form hiding steel within.

There is a possibility that I might travel to Myanmar again. I look forward to that.

Post script: Tried a Thai massage at the Bangkok airport - a singularly unpleasant experience during which a surprisingly strong, slightly built, petite girl proceeded to successively dig the sides of her palms, elbows and knees into my limbs and torso. I was seriously concerned regarding the health of my bones, and later, of  each of my joints, since she yanked at them with all her considerable strength. The grande finale of the massage was an extended maceration of each fibre of my trapezius muscle, which continued to complain for a few days thereafter!!

 

Sun lit yet sepia tinted: AFMC Poona, 2012.

The alma mater had turned fifty and she beckoned.

The ride from the airport set the tone for the rest of the holiday. The old, warm, solid, reliable, gently drawing out memories , some shared,  some hidden and the new, full of hope, energy and promise. Old friends, the warm envelop of their affection, the continuity of the connect. Old landmarks, Ghorpudi, Prince of Wales Drive, Empress garden, Wanowrie – a snatch of conversation remembered, a walk, a weekend jaunt. The new – friends’ children, young and restless to live  their promise, their parents appearing suddenly in the eyes, the walk, in that tilt of the head. The new buildings in the college, defined mostly by negatives – not musty, not gray stoned, not having corridors or arches unlike the ones they replaced, and luckily, not so many.

The two days went by in a whirl.  A quirky quiz that was meant as much for the funny bone as for the gray cells. Nostalgia on the dance floor, with the beat group of yesteryears assembled – a mix of temporary duties and major effort including a guitarist who flew down from the US. Solemn homage at the Martyrs memorial. Lunch at the spacious cadets, mess, a far cry from Papa Thomas of the “mustard tadka in baigan bharta” of the girls hostel. I wonder – do they still do those early dinners, rajma et al,  on movie days? Talent on display at the  variety entertainment program. The debate that allowed the young to be risque, presence of gray hairs in the audience notwithstanding!

 The oldies sang and danced with a zing that was infectious. Friends, batch mates, room mates and hostel mates, some unrecognizably portly and some inspiringly svelte, gathered for photographs on the much remembered steps.

And not the least, a long and lingering meal, with the fraternity and the sorority , in the lawns outside the main block, the lights and the mood and the music and the camaraderie – a magical warm embrace.

Cant wait for the diamond jubilee.

Ich war ein berliner zu ( fur 5 tage....). Thank you, Google Translate.

Flying to Berlin on Turkish airways meant that one long held dream was just ever so slightly fulfilled. …... managed to visit Istanboul!! ( though only the airport this time). From the air , it looked European – orderly red roofs in orderly enclaves enclosed with orderly rows of trees. I suppose the Asian mayhem is visible only at street level.

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Berlin airport was nondescript, the ride from it to the hotel was'nt. The taxi driver was an an elegant Afghan, previously an international relations specialist, who had spent some time in Delhi as a part of the Najibullah government's embassy in Delhi. He was happy to practice his Hindi / Urdu , learnt from Hindi films, that he was so fond of. We were happy to hear his fascinating story, and to learn that the knowledge of a secure future for his children was what gave him more peace than the thought of not being the diplomat that he was trained to be.

The training course that I was here to attend was conducted with  meticulous attention to detail. The delight that Europeans take in the teaching and learning of science, of science itself, is what sets them apart from the Americans and us Indians, intent as we are on projection. The effort and the distraction of the process of informing the world about our knowledge takes from away the process of gleaning and acquiring that knowledge with scientific rigour and vigour!

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Berlin requires more than five evenings, which is what I had, to discover and savour. However, I did make the most of the time that was at hand. The hotel was wonderfully situated, Arcotel John F, just off the magnificent Unter Den Linden. The linden trees were bare but must sure be a sight in spring and summer, lining the very wide central verge...... wide enough for many small cafes.


December was an interesting time to visit Germany. There were many Christmas markets – two within walking distance from the hotel. These markets are made up of many small decorated stalls, and sell Christmas goodies, butterscotch coated nuts, mulled wine, grilled sausages, pizzas, woolies from Bolivia, tea from India and such like, with musical shows thrown in. The larger of the two markets was in the Gendarmenmarkt square, a stunningly beautiful square with cathedrals and a concert hall within the central square. Mellow yellow lights, shadows, the colour red, happy couples and families and good cheer all around..... came away feeling at peace with the world – amazed that a city so devastated ,a country with a gory history, reinvented itself so successfully.


Thursdays are museum nights in Berlin, which means that state museums are open till 10pm. Had very little time after the training class, but did manage to visit the Altes Museum, which houses Greek, Roman and Etruscan art. The museum had a very large, fascinating collection of sculptures, both in marble and bronze and of clay pots with decoration. The most fascinating - a collection of all the Greek gods in the central dome of the building and a bust of Cleopatra. The building of the Museum itself was had dramatic Greek columns on the facade and a beautiful domed atrium.


The Brandenburg gate was a short walk away, grand but very much in the city, with people walking in and around the gate. A large number of tourists were there at nine am itself, but the expanse of the Unter den Linden makes sure that one dose'nt find that interfering with the ambiance. It was bitingly cold and windy, but the mandatory photograph was accomplished of course. It was interesting to know that due to the Berlin wall, the then West Berliners could only see the gate, but not stand under it.

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Berlin has so many museums that it was difficult to choose one to visit. The outdoor display at Checkpoint Charlie was living history, one that not too many cities can match, and so I picked this for the one free morning that I had. It was just 2 km away, on the sunlit Friedrichstrafe. Display panels with black and white photographs document the area as it was before the wall was erected, during and then at the time of the dramatic demise of the wall on 9th Nov 1989, and then of East Germany itself. A remnant of the wall is preserved - how far the world has traveled since then, though large parts of the world still grapple with authoritarian regimes. Not to say that democracy protects all the citizens' rights, as Greece, Madoff, Lehman Brothers and Swiss bank accounts of Indian politicians prove !!


The hop on hop off bus tour is a boon for visitors with constraints on time and spending power: I took one in Berlin,with a commentary in German and English. Took in the grand , glass domed Reichstag, the attractive, accessible looking, presidential palace, the modern buildings constructed after the capital of Germany shifted back to Berlin from Bonn and the Charlottenburg gate, once a different town, but now incorporated in Berlin itself.. The bus tour also drove past the haunting memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. A tree less square with concrete blocks laid out in an undulating surface. It was disturbing and unsettling to look at yet one could not look away.

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The sacred duty of all Indians traveling abroad , shopping, was to be performed. Our group walked to the bustling Alexander platz and the found a shopping mall – could have been anywhere in the world, including Delhi – the same plan, many of the same brands. Only the food court indicated that we were in Germany.. One thing of note was that all drug containers carry details in Braille too. A comment on thoughtfulness and of belief in self reliance; in India we have miles to go in this regard. I eventually bought German styled porridge and salad from a food store......


Food was interesting, to say the least – a variety of cheeses, sausages, salads and meat preparations, the latter accompanied by a lot of vegetables. The vegetarians in the group struggled, however, surviving on salads and fruits; even bread was suspect because of the possibility of lard as one of the ingredients. The Arcohotel John F had a good restaurant, appropriately called Foreign Affairs . JFK was obviously much loved for his Berlin trip and speech.

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The absence of persons of colour on the streets of Berlin was striking; one did encounter the occasional immigrant though. A young Bengali lady worked the breakfast shift of the restaurant, the house keeper looked Vietnamese. Persons of Turkish origin are visible, as were places selling Middle eastern food.

 As an armchair whatever ( is that what bloggers are??) one came away wondering what proportion of the affluence came from the help of the Allies in rebuilding Germany, from migrations to the Americas and from the industriousness and single-mindedness of the German people, the latter apparent more dramatic ways in the earlier part of the last century.

A King & His Goan Palace

The Grand Hyatt, Goa, started accepting guests a short while ago and  I lucked out – a four day meeting in their conference /banquet area. The property in on the Bambolim beach in Central Goa and looks about 200 years old. In reality, it was made over the previous three years on the lines of a  palace of a fictional king who had sailed into Goa from Portugal. 

Right from the quaint covered porch with the Madonna with child sculpture at the entrance, the hotel is tasteful, understated elegance. The floors are an unusual mosaic in shades of beige and barely visible muted gold, the monochrome scheme accentuating the width of the already wide corridors. Wooden latticework and muted beige inlaid pillars, natural light, old world chairs with simple lines lend a restful air. Add to that mother of pearl light fixtures, wrought iron balconies and you have old Goa recreated to perfection.

Didn’t venture into the sea at Bambolim, but the sea looked calm and inviting. The beach was quiet too and a huge contrast to Calangute which we visited on our last day in Goa. We were in Calangute at mid day, the hot sun and heated sand made one run for cover. The energy of the people on the beach only accentuated the fact that one was now middle aged!!

Lunch at the much touted Souza Lobo was a disappointment. Hope to “ do “ Calangute in better times.

While the conference was in the Grand Hyatt, we stayed at the Sandalwood resort. Reasonably priced pool facing suites with lightwood fixtures, competent dining facilities, the piece de resistance was the fact that the lovely Vanguinum beach was just 100 yards away. Secluded and perfect for bathing in the sea.