Enjoying Cyclades through the lens

The Greek islands were a monolithic block. Little did I know or appreciate the vast diversity of these spectacular places. So when the opportunity was presented to join Magnum photographer Enri Canaj to join on a week long excursion to at least three of the islands, I jumped into it. There was no Santorini or Mykonos in the list – the two islands that seemed to be where every tourist goes to. But I trusted that where we were going would be gems in their own right. All of these islands have their own character, history, and landscapes. What is common is they all offer a breathtaking blend of picturesque landscapes, charming villages, and rich cultural heritage, that dates back centuries. While the past is evident, what is striking is the present. And the real treat is to step away from the touristy areas and get closer to the local way of life. Blending and charting places that are off the beaten track provides a unique perspective that is captivating and enticing at the same time. Tinos, Syros, and Naxos are three Cycladic gems.

I began our week in Tinos, the northernmost island in the Cyclades. I took a Ferry from the Rafina port in Athens early in the morning. After a 3.5 hour express ferry ride that took through the lovely Aegean Sea, I arrived around mid morning in Tinos. One of the attractions of this week was to stay in simple lodges and guest houses, that had all the basic amenities but kept us grounded in the place. The windows were left open to allow the fresh Aegean air. I started meeting my fellow workshop companions and very soon was out to explore the main attraction of Tinos, the renowned Panagia Evangelistria, a Greek Orthodox Church that draws pilgrims from across the country. The church is quite interesting. It is about kilometer from the port and straight uphill road leads to its gate. Many people who hold their vows are seen to crawl and go through the pain to reach the gates of the church. Depending on the pain want to take, some make it as difficult both in how long and how restricted they want their movement to be. I was told that there are many childless couple who have got their wish for their child fulfilled – and so it is a also a popular place for baptism – and I was lucky to see such a ceremony. The first encounter which has the commercial setups near the port is the the town of Chora. One cannot miss the typical Cycladic architecture with its narrow alleys, whitewashed houses, with blue doors and windows and charming squares. Our photo excursion began with driving through quaint towns and exploring the town of Pyros, which has a long standing marble sculpting culture. There a many marble quarries nearby and driving off-road to some of these quarries were a real treat of color and landscapes bordered with the distant shoreline and blue sea. Running through the full cycle of the marble from the quarry to the sculpting, including the school where young aspiring artists were trained was a spectacular experience. People were extremely friendly and welcomed with open hearts to be photographed and sharing their life. Tinos has lovely beaches Kolymbithra and Agios Fokas, but I stuck to exploring the villages such as, Votox and the old citadel on top of the hill. It is remarkable how over the centuries from Romans to Ottomans, that the stones along the hills were arranged. I am still in awe of the scale of work that has gone in. Tinos gave a perfect ensemble of Greek life that culminated in one of the most delicious meals that I had in company of my friends from the workshop, thanks to Enri, who took a few of us to Greek family run small restaurant for a home-cooked meal inside a small village – a meal to be remembered for a long long time. Tinos was clearly a hidden gem, an island that is still outside the radar of the usual tourist and maintains a true character.

After a couple of days in Tinos, we took the ferry to Syros, the capital of the Cyclades. Syros could not have been more different. Only half an hour from Tinos, it offers a unique blend of history, culture, and cosmopolitan ambiance. The town of Ermoupoli, known for its neoclassical architecture, stands as a vibrant cultural hub. It has a long heritage of shipbuilding and large yard stands majestic as the ferry pulls into the port. The alleys reminds me of old Roman towns – like villages in Tuscany – even the colors of the houses. There were may abandoned houses that I was told remains in dispute – so the dereliction was apparent. There are larger squares like the Miaouli Square and Freedom Square, with an impressive Town Hall. The Apollo Theater, a miniature replica of La Scala in Milan, hosts various performances throughout the year. There is some activity and many trendy bars and shops. The sharp contrast from Tinos took me by surprise that I was struggling to make good pictures. The first I was a bit lost photographically, but the experience of the place was quite stunning. The next day, I ventured to take a taxi to take me to Ano Syros. The lady driver refused saying there is no one there. How can there be no one there in a village? So she took me around to the other part of the island and after driving through some of stellar beaches like Galissas and Azolimnos and the area where the wealthy once had large mansions that still stand today, she dropped me at Kini beach for lunch. It was a delicious meal sitting right at the edge of the water. Later around 5 pm, she dropped me to Ano Syros. I have not seen anything like this. It is an old town, but it is all in narrow alleys and steps that take you down from the hill. I walked down taking a break in a bar, with breathtaking views of the the island. The village has so access other through donkeys. Even mail is delivered using donkeys.

After two days in Syros, we took a late night ferry to Naxos, the largest island in the Cyclades. Naxos again could not have been more different. On the way from the port to our small quaint hotel, there were bars and nightlife. There were more tourists – a lot of them were high school and college Americans. Perhaps, a cheaper option to Mykonos or Santorini. Naxos had a range of attractions. Right near the port, there is Portara, a massive marble gate, welcomes visitors to the island. We drove through Kinidaros, where a group of old men bantering and sharing colorful stories entertained us. The highlight was the picturesque villages of Apiranthos, which provides two contrasting aspects of life. Early in the morning, it is traditional and one can get a glimpse of Greek life, and then around mid day throngs of tourist pour in and the place changes to a busy affair. Naxos clearly shows that in a few years, will become more touristy as Mykonos and Santorini gets runover with tourism.

All these islands bring to life the character of Cycladic life. The local cuisine and the atmosphere is absolutely enchanting. Tinos captivates with its religious significance and traditional charm, while Syros combines history with a cosmopolitan atmosphere. Naxos, with its historical landmarks and stunning beaches, offers a well-rounded island experience. It was an unforgettable journey and Tinos, Syros, and Naxos encapsulates the magic of the Cyclades. I will long to visit again to relive this experience and seek out new ones.


London Calling

There is not enough of London I can get in a few days. but with the pictures and the memorable walks, this trip will go down as truly enjoyable. there was hardly anything I spoke to anyone other than the waiters who served me and the occasional taxi drivers. I have been to London before but this time it was different. I felt I smelt the streets and soaked in as much as I could.

My trip to London had three main goals. a) Walk leisurely and take pictures of the city. b) Explore the some of the vintage stores c) Visit the British Museum.

I took a room at the Royal Automobile Club (RAC) at the Pall Mall, which provided the ideal location as well as the setting to explore the city I was interested in. The RAC as it is locally known has its own charm and heritage. The striking point is the car on display that they change every few weeks. My treat was a Ferrari Testa Rossa from 1956. The Pall Mall has a series of the so called gentleman’s clubs, which had its cachet in the 20th century, that has allegedly been eroded, just like everywhere else, other than perhaps the colonies that still cherish the after taste.

Just around the corner in St James, there is a series of stores that have a distinguished past. It must be said, that was a time when, when getting a royal commission was a branding ticket. They would do anything to get that honor, which they can then display. The first shop that struck my eye was Dunhill tobacco. Well when I stepped in, sadly with the tide of times, Dunhill had already sold its classic pipe tobacco business and brand to Perterson. All that remains are some expensive accessories and a cigar humidor. The row of shops were the wine merchants and several other stores – a mix of new restaurants and old, that have been there for centuries. Across the street was Chutney Mary, where I had a nice dinner a few days later. Then there is JJ Fox tobacco. I really liked this store and its friendly staff. Winston Churchill was a customer of theirs and the basement has got a museum in his honor which is fascinating. It has copies of ledgers that recorded his orders and also a box of Romeo and Julieta that has a backstory. Apparently this box was dropped while to was delivered to Churchill. While it soon was replaced – the rejected one made its way back to this showcase where it has stayed ever since.

Once I hit Jermyn street, with Davidoff at the corner, there are shops that I woud say in a nutshell the gentlemen’s dream. There is Bates the famed hat store, Taylors barbers and the whos who of shirt makers. Most of them still makes bespoke shirts although many have taken on the ready made clientele – a change to suit the times. There are many stores in the area – another noteworthy is the New and Lingwood that takes pride as the school uniform suppliers to Eton. You can shell out an hideous amount in any of these stores. But more importantly, I can’t help but marveling. There is nothing but respect for craftsmanship, tradition, elegance, and style that is in short supply. This is opposite to the Chinese onslaught that has been steamrolling our lives for the last several decades. A few meters away is Fortnum and Mason famous for their tea and biscuits. I stopped one of the days for afternoon tea. It was a nice ambience to gorge on chicken sandwiches and tea. Once I hit the alleys towards the Mall, there are many auction houses, art galleries and some specialty rare book stores tucked away. Browsing the rare arts books was a delight. I can never be sure what delights more – owning and collecting or just the sheer joy of holding it. On the other side towards Piccaddily there was the multi-storey Waterstones and tinier Hatchards, which has been there since 1797. When I have to think that far – it takes a bit to get the depth in perspective. Going the alleys to the other side, I reach Regent’s park with its marvelous architecture and lines of stores. There are many ways to go – to walk through all the streets all the way to Mayfair, Oxford street, Strand and Bond Street. Taking a detour in Denmark street to see some of the music stores. I particularly looked out for Saville Row, that can be easily missed. It is still alive and kicking with bespoke tailors. I can see the sartorial expertise in action in the basements which have windows. They give a peek into the mystical world behind the charm and pride of getting a suit from the Saville Row. It is a benchmark for many. If you are getting your suits made at the Saville Row, you have made it.

There were other excursions – There were a few other places of note – Edgware Road was an interesting area to get a pulse on some of the ethnic outposts and get some good middle-eastern cheap eats. Hanging out for a few hours – gave a different feel – the melting pot London is. In the aroma of Hookah bars and rounds of mint tea, long conversations – one can easily forget where I was a few hours back. With a few days, there is always a conflict on how much time to spend at a particular place.

Where I spent a good deal of time was in the Portrait gallery at Trafalgar square and then almost half a day at the British Museum. The British museum has its set of artefacts – many of which troubled me how they brutally they were uprooted and brought in here. There is of course the controvery on the Elgin Marbles. In fact there are so many artefacts, even brought from India, it is no wonder, the word “British” draws aversion at so many levels. At the same time, what has stayed back is so integral to who I am, that it becomes a complex love-hate dance. In contrast, the Tate Modern on the other side of the river is a place worth enjoying, without drawing much internal tension. A bit drawn away from the fractured stuffiness of the Pall Mall, this is a breath of fresh air. I have been to the Tate Modern but this time around it was less crowded and the exhibits were not overwhelming. The views of London from the top are stunning. From the world of Dickens to Boris Johnson, from the nerve center of the empire to a little island trying to finds its identify following Brexit, I wonder where the city is headed. I walked down the Southbank and all these developments of art galleries and trendy stores are the news accents to the city. I remember several years ago, walking in that area that was filled with construction rubble. Now, it was a nice pleasant walk watching kids picnicking and playing and even the workers in the nearby offices are taking a break and enjoying the rare London autumn weather.


Sacred Valley – Peru

It all began while watching and reading Tintin’s Prisoners of the Sun with my son.  The Incas portrayed in the late 1940s comic strip were quite distinctive and it caught our curiosity immediately. In the last decade or so there is a flood of people retracing the steps of Hiram Bingham to Machu Pichu.  Many of friends even treats it as one of their “bucket list” items. Fearing that it would be overly touristy, I hesitated for many years to visit this place. But then we decided – maybe we should give it a try.


Going to Peru is synonymous to visiting Machu Pichu in a way. One cannot escape that fact, and they are not wrong. The majestic structure that takes mythic dimensions dwarfs anything else around.  But as we found, there is much more. A friend of mine in DC who hails from Peru suggested that I deliberately plan my visit to Machu Pichu towards the very end our trip and that’s what we did. So our trip was designed to build up the anticipation and curiosity that culminated in on the penultimate day of our trip to Machu Pichu. The train ride that picked us from the hotel station (btw, it was very cool to have a train station in the resort), the glass windows on the train roof, the snow capped mountains lining up the horizon, and the final bus ride winding up the hills to Machu Pichu were all part of this unforgettable experience. People say seeing is believing. In our case it was quite the opposite. I had no doubt that Machu Pichu would be a grand place from the hundreds of “I was there” pictures, documentaries and YouTube videos. But when I saw it and was there – I was in absolute disbelief. How could a 15th century community that did not have any written word or the concept of a wheel build a city like this. The Incas built Machu Pichu in the 15th century and abandoned about 480 odd years ago.  Just to put things in perspective, in India in the late 15th century, the Portuguese have just arrived. Lodhi dynasty was ruling the Delhi Sultanate, about to be ceded to the Mughal siege. Eton and Kings College Cambridge were already formed in the UK. But for the rest, America was the new world yet to be born and brought into the fold of the old country. Life in this part of world was disconnected from all the so called familiar advances elsewhere. But evidently, people in this part of Peru were self contained. They have built their own norms of living, organizing, and cultivating the human spirit.

Up until we went to Machu Pichu, it was mostly a relaxing holiday in Sacred Valley. I have to admit; I have been to many beautiful valleys but there is none I could recall that combines pristine beauty, fresh food and air, and the warmth and friendliness of the people – all in one. It was an unparalleled experience. Nature and people in harmony. Everyday waking up to the greenery of our surroundings. Eating fresh food grown in the farm nearby, relaxing in the nature and then watching the evening moon sink behind the mountains. Taking a trip to the local salt mines was an eye opener. Spending an afternoon with the local Quechua community. Getting invited to their homes and finding joy in a simple meal of potatoes and corn. Understanding not a single word but feeling the openness of their home and hospitality. It was humanity in its pure form, the sort that I have only seen showered to the hosts of scripted travel channel shows.

These pictures will remain with me very dearly. Not because they are of a very beautiful place. But because of the stories that reside with me and my family. The backstory and the smell and freshness of the air will jog our memories from this wonderful holiday.

Madrid and Barcelona

I took me over 20 years to finally make it to Spain. When I first stepped into Europe I thought about visiting Spain – because it was part of Schengen. But it did not happen then. And when it did happen in 2018 – I wondered I took this long. Thankfully, I was able to take two back to back trips to Spain in 2018. First for work to Madrid for a couple of days and then one with the family to Madrid, Barcelona and a quaint resort town nearby called El Vendrell. These places no doubt were one of the most vibrant, friendly, and captivating of all the places I have visited in Europe. People are laid back but full of life and the food football are great. Ancient, medieval and modern history are rich and tradition exudes color, music, and a variety that combines many layers from the world – from the Visigoths to the Moors. It is very modern but deeply rooted in a past that reminds us of the days when Spain ruled the world, including America.

From outside, Spain may appear as one country – but it is quite decentralized with very strong sentiments on local culture, language and the spirit of governance. While my visit was limited to Madrid and Catalonia, the differences were on my face. The recent drive toward independent Catalonia was pervasive in Barcelona and so absent in Madrid just showed the disparity and localization of such matters. “Free the Prisoners” banners in Barcelona were everywhere.


My urge to visit Spain was quite influenced as I read more about the Spanish civil war. It was a watershed moment for photojournalism. It was the first war that was covered by so many reporters. It could be said that the publicity and awareness brought many luminaries of the day from outside the country to fight for the cause against fascism, perhaps setting the “artist as the activist” trend that has been quite common through the 20th century and well into the 21st. Over 600,000 people died. My admiration for Guernica and Picasso stemmed from that, so did my interest in photography as a medium to communicate the facts on the ground. Robert Capa’s fallen Spanish soldier is the iconic reportage. And then of course Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. In fact the first thing about Barcelona was to find out what it might have been for Orwell – the scenes in which he describes his ordeals, hiding his writings, trying to get out unhurt. I was indeed able to trace back some of the steps as it mostly all happened around the busy central and historical street – Las Ramblas. Much of the street today is no way close to what it might have been during the revolution. In fact Orwell – mentioned that when he returned – things became quite normal. But it is a sobering reminder of a place which resisted and stood for beliefs and ideals. It is also an exposition on the layering of history. Around that area in the alleys there were places were the Jews resided before they were expelled in the 16th century, the sites of Spanish inquisition and Barcelona’s long standing prominence as a trading port matched only by Venice until it all faded away. It also is the home to Picasso and Joan Miro and more recently Antonio Gaudi – leaving me with wonder how a place has played the foundational role for so many artists.

My recollection of watching the 1992 Barcelona Olympics in TV was quite vivid. So it was a nice coincidence that we stayed at Hotel Arts which is in the Port Olympic area – an area developed for the Olympics, where Frank Gehry’s giant fish sculpture covers the view. The place is bustling with people, food, and frolic. The main square – Plaza Catalunya marked by Cafe Zurich on one corner was a fun place for people watching, eating a slice of cake with Aadit and play with with him chasing the pigeons. Very close to that, stands or stood Hotel Continental where Orwell stayed – the entire place in now a giant shopping and touristy area. I stepped into the Boqueria market which is an old style market with picture perfect assembly of fruits, vegetables and fish and meat. We had a lunch of gambas (prawns) and empanadas and croquettes with some orange and kiwi juice. The ladies who were in the fish market showed skill in how they fillet the fish in a jiffy something that drew my memory from the fish markets in Bandel and Calcutta. Such skill is rare to see as the sectors are getting industrialized and filled with minimum wage labor.

Madrid and Barcelona are interesting in their own ways. Madrid is grand, majestic with large boulevards, magnificent palatial architecture and museums. Museo Prado and Reina are spectacular – with Bosch, Graco, Goya, Velaquez and Picasso. The food scene which is rarely to be ignored in the travels of 21st century life has really picked up. We tasted the Paella at Cafe Reina but then the restaurant next door – Yakitoro – a Spanish/Japanese fusion made a dent in our palate that we went back several times. When it comes to cafes and food – Tapas into the late night and the Spanish ham (Jamon) is everywhere. The Spanish eat a lot of ham. In fact, some of the most expensive ham is cultivated in the country. The pigs are specially fed on acorn and bred with a lot of care.

Another signature of Spain especially in Madrid was steel making or more precisely sword making. Historical crafts fascinate me so it drew me to do some research and also drag my family to Toledo – for a tour. It was a let down to witness steel making in a hurry but a day well spent in a bus tour. Toledo swords are mentioned all through history from facts to fiction from Hannibal to Tintin. It had the unique property of strength and flexibility that came from its alloy composition and smelting process. Back in the day without the knowledge of underlying chemistry or metallurgy – it was by tradition and skill the quality was maintained. Toledo steel competed with Damascus steel or even German (solingen) and Japanese which had other properties derived from the ore, special additives and manufacturing processes. Steel is still very important even though people have moved on from swords and armor. Even kitchen knives and nail clippers (cutters) brag about the source of steel if you look carefully. Finally, one cannot talk about Spain without Flamenco and bull fighting. While I have to wait for another trip to go and watch a bull fighting contest, we were delighted to an evening of Flamenco. Passion, longing, pathos were all present that transported us to another world with some help from a bottle of Rioja.

Spain is such an interesting country. There were 6 constitutions, 7 bloodless military coups, 4 royal abdications, 2 dictatorships, and 4 civil wars. Arts, culture, food, and most importantly very friendly people everywhere. All I wished, I had come here 10 years earlier.

I look forward to my next visit to Spain. Either to relax along the coast in Barcelona or pay a visit to southern spain in Seville or Granada. Until then I shall rejoice and cherish on the good times spent and glean through the pictures made.

South Africa – Cape Town

South Africa is a very interesting country. It is complex. It is a sensory delight. It hits the stomach, the head and the heart at the same time. My first visit to this lovely country was in 2017-2018. During the first visit to a new place, the eye is drawn towards many things. Urban landscapes, art, architecture, the day to day theater of people carrying out their lives, the food, the color, the style, and the atmosphere. But rarely has natural beauty captivated me immediately in a way it did in South Africa. Perhaps it is because the pristine unspoilt beauty is hard to find these days in my itinerary. Here, in SA for the next few weeks – I would soak in the calm, quiet, and the joy of slow. My travels are always on the go – one thing after the other and the call to get to the next stop usually creates an urge to hurry. South Africa was indeed one of those places where I was forced to slow down. It also forced me to wonder how over the years I have lost this instinct to slow down and stretch the time. The constant push to use time efficiently and then cram as much as possible has become second nature that a break in this rhythm creates anxiety. But to bring in anxiety into a holiday can create all sorts of issues. While it may provide an illusion that a lot got covered during the holiday, what sticks in the mind after you have left that place may not be much to reflect upon. Sensory and and mental overload becomes easy come and easy go with things taken in and then forgotten in a hurry. Nothing registers, nothing remains to relive and savor the experience long after. Going deeper and taking the time to experientially internalize may sound banal in the moment but is quite rewarding later. And I was able to do a bit of that in South Africa. So even after a year when I write this – I can cherish the days I spent there.



With this backdrop it took a while for me to adjust to South Africa once I landed. My start of the visit was spent in a couple of excursions along the coast. I was still in a tour and done mood – so I was not ready for the what came and by the time I could appreciate the beauty that was thrown at me – the day was over. It was only later I looked at the pictures that I would appreciate the lovely coastline of Hout Bay, Cape Peninsula and colored beach houses in Muizenberg in a vicarious way. And I began to really like the place.

My experience shifted from as I moved from the spectacular landscapes to the lovely vineyards that tingled my tastebuds. The scenery across Constantia and Stellenbosch was stellar. The wineries themselves were quite unique and unlike the ones I have been in Napa, France, Italy and Chile. New world wines are interesting and are becoming more popular. South African wines (like the Pier 1642) are quite extraordinary. I was particularly taken into the South African popular grape called the Pinotage which is a bit between merlot and cabernet saughvion. The wineries themselves are set up with mini zoos, large gardens, and ponds that carry an enormous variety of flora and fauna – not to forget the ubiquitous Proteas, the national flower. The other thing that struck me was how friendly they were for the kids. There was grape juice served in wine glasses for the kiddies that gave them a momentary pride of an adult experience.

What makes South Africa really interesting is not just the natural view that presents to the visible but also whats invisible; complex web of things and abstractions that are created by the people who live there. There is an undercurrent of tension wherever you go. On the very first day, I was warned against walking alone in streets that are deserted; from pickpockets to car-jackers are quite common. In fact, the stories of crime in Johannesburg (and more recently in Cape Town) travel farther and fast, and they do keep a chill in the back of the mind wherever you go. So no surprise that in the first 24 hours – all you do is to scout the place. How people are walking, where the nicely dressed go, how they withdraw money from the ATMs, etc. Jo’berg was a league of its own and I would be very careful to venture out by myself. When people don’t stop at red lights for safety reasons, you know there is a problem. But beyond the lingering exercise of caution – the foreground of the warmth, friendliness and hospitality overshadows almost all the other shortcomings. So despite all the oddities – South Africa gave me a wonderful experience.

My visit also coincided with the pivotal moment in South African politics. Zuma who has been the president has been mired in corruption charges and during the ANC conference that coincided with my stay – was replaced by Ramaphosa. Also there was a development on laws related confiscation of property held by former whites – in a Zimbabwe-esque fashion. The cafes and pubs had lots of discussion around that which was quite intriguing. On one case listening to a group of classy and educated black folks – it was interesting to hear them discuss how damaging that might be to fabric of the nation. When I carefully examined the group – I did find there were all shades of black from brown to black in that group. After that revelaton – it almost came naturally to me to appreciate how mixed the people are. The words of Mandela and “rainbow nation” started to really make sense.

The way land has historically been distributed or confiscated and controlled is quite appalling. I grew up in India where land reforms were already underway and no one person had such enormous horizon to horizon control of owned land – more so, at the cost of the peasants who tilled and lived in perpetual servitude. Yet that problem is still imminent in a place like Cape Town and the history of the area around Rhodes drive and the University is quite extraordinary. Cape Town is a laid back town. If the word “idle rich” has any meaning in the 21st century this is where it is. On a weekday – people are playing golf, strolling the book stores or spending time in the apiary. I tried to slow down as well – and tried to spend my time with two books – Apartheid, Guns and Money by Hennie van Vuuren and much anticipated – Mandela’s “The long walk to freedom”. Both are excellent and worth re-reading.

Learning about South Africa through these books also served me the context to go and visit the Robben Island. Visiting a place like Robben island is greatly short-changed if it is taken just like another visit to a historical place. The moment you arrive at the island and get off the ferry and look back at the mainland – you wonder what the prisoners felt like. The mainland is faded in the clouds and fog that envelops the table mountain. You know that you are an outcast, a pariah – severed from the main body. The bus takes you along the roads and the guide provides a rundown of how the island once a leper colony and afterwards was used for criminals and finally political prisoners. The history is not that old. It is in my lifetime that the photographs the are exhibited on the walls were taken. The 80s and 90s, when I was a school boy trying to find my place in the world, people here were imprisoned for their beliefs and convictions in pretty hard conditions. The spirit of sacrifice and tolerance for physical hardship in light of the pseudo-activists today is unfathomable. As you walk through the cells, listen to the narrative that the guide provides, and imagine what it was like here, I can’t help but feel humbled and awed by the resilience, single-mindedness and discipline of the human spirit. To come close to the environment that pushed those boundaries and knowing that the human spirit endeavored and finally conquered – is uplifting in many ways. Whether such a spirit stems from ego or pride or even a higher calling, it is extraordinary to witness how people here went against their grain of impulse, immediate gratification, and even practical well-being in pursuit of abstract notions of freedom and human dignity. Reading Mandela’s book explains a lot – at some level how pragmatic his stand on forgiveness and unity was. Something which is fading day by day in today’s South Africa.

As I headed back to the mainland and to the freshness of Cape Town, the wine, the people, the color and on my way to the raw beauty of Johannesburg, it all left me with the same curiosity and more questions. What if this country could live upto its potential? What it would be like if it followed the Mandela doctrine and worked beyond nepotism, corruption, and fractious politics. For me, this was the first real colony I visited after India. South Africa has its own culture and just like any other colony has a complex relationship with the colonizers. I wait until my next visit in earnest to find out how this country evolves. Will it spiral towards to chaos like many other former colonies or will emerge as a country of hope and prosperity. I wish to see the latter.

Florence – 2017

The 19th century French author Stendhal lends his name to the Stendhal complex – which is a kind of illness consisting of spells of dizziness and palpitations – caused due to exposure to too much beauty.  Stendhal wrote about this on his visit to Florence – hence the other name for the Stendhal complex is Florence complex.  Florence is a place where for years, watching the statue of David, the frescoes and galleries in the churches and Uffizi, and the architecture all around – one can start getting sick of beauty.  I personally never experienced it but I have to admit that of all the places that I have visited, when I reflected where I want to go to clear my mind – a place that would not disappoint me at all – and I would be in an environment where I have no chance to be depressed – I picked Florence. Why did I pick it? Was it fast or slow thinking – I cant say.  But all that matters is there is something magical about Florence. If there is a objective characterization of what beauty is and how it affects the human mind and its other senses – Florence can provide those cues and clues. The effect largely is deemed universal.

I stayed outside the main city area this time. In the height of summer – I was in lookout for budget options but also wanted to stay away from the touristy areas. I have noticed in the touristy areas – services in the restaurant and hotels are much lower. They just don’t have to try that hard. My hotel was a good 35 minutes away – and my daily bus was a great way to feel the current of the daily life. People going to work, kids to school, and grandma off to the vegetable market. I would try to leave early in the morning and then come back late afternoon – and spend the evening in the hotel. The days were spent mostly in the central area of Florence known as the historic district – the area which borders the Santa Maria Novella station, Piazza San Marco, Piazza Santa Croce, and Ponte Vecchio – strolling through the alleys and bylines, soaking in the air and the place that served as the cradle of renaissance. Many of the boutique stores were shutdown – the shopkeepers off to vacation. I took my own time going through the Academy, Uffizi and the libraries. There was no rush on time – learning and immersing in the paintings and sculpture.

Before my visit I had the Laurentian Library (Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana) located in the cloister of the Church of San Lorenzo in my list of places to visit.  The Laurentian was designed by Michelangelo and houses one of the largest neo-classical collections in the world.  To be in an intimate place away from the maddening crowds with Michaelangelo’s creation is a real treat. The reading room is simply gorgeous. Many people don’t realize that in Italy – both in Florence and Rome – there is some stellar architecture and artwork in libraries and old mansions. You may have your private rendezvous with Michaelangelo – as in my case.

Paintings in particular hit me at several levels.  On surface it serves as an artifact of influence – either as a shock factor that forces me to think or that forced other people to think differently about the current status quo. Almost all great artists have one or two that launched them as the great – because those pieces broke away from the existing pattern. So whether it was Leonardo’s drawings of machines and human anatomy or Manet’s  Le Dejeuner. In the modern era, Picasso did reinvent over and over again as his paintings spread in style and form.  All great draughtsmen and painters over the last few centuries, worth a grain of salt, have one thing in common.  They owe their craft to the techniques and styles developed by the Florentine masters, who dwelled right here.

In my previous visit to Florence in 2009, I was very much intrigued by the Florence’s history, especially Florentine banking. Art has to be patronized and is highly correlated to the commercial prosperity of the place is universally evident.  Florence’s contribution were in foreign exchange and trade, mercantile finance, and of course Luca Pacioli and double-entry book-keeping. I went to Pisa and Sienna and parts of the wine country. Over the last eight years, photography has brought me closer to appreciation of painting and in general the value of “lost art” or almost lost art.  I wanted to go to Cremona for instance, to check out the violin town – but then I gratified myself with the music collection in the museums in Florence. I have come to admire the Atelier or studio concept of learning – as an apprentice to a master. In the Florentine tradition, I enrolled in one of those classes – where the instructor took me around the city and I got a taste of how to practice art. Doing by your own hand gives the first hand taste of the immense amount of work and dedication that needs to be placed to just learn the craft, let alone mastery and the awe at how few reach the heights.

Every visit has it high points. What I looked for – I admit I was only partially served. Summer holidays have driven the local craftsman and artisan to vacation. But then isn’t it quite often that the high points come from unexpected venues. Despite housed in an out-of shape body, I decided on a bike trip to the Tuscan countryside. The ride exhausted me out and I had no qualms in jumping onto a bus. The bus driver and his companion spoke very little english but the camaraderie and bond we struck in a few minutes were memorable. They took me to a fig orchard where I plucked figs from the trees.  They even took me to a coffee shop and refused to take money. They said I was their guest. Such gestures of kindness and fellowship revives the “better angels” in ourselves and keeps me optimistic towards the future – that the world indeed is becoming a better place. The shortened bike ride was followed by a sumptuous meal and lots of wine was clearly worth my visit.


Coming back to the paintings itself.  I tried to dig a little deeper into Boticelli and his two masterpieces – Primavera and The Birth of Venus.  The Boticelli rooms – 10-14 have been recently redone and it is set up for study. In my visit in 2009 – it was such a mad rush through Uffizi in the last hour, I could barely sense anything.  This time it was different.  Painting such as these not only evoke beauty but once I know the background and the context of when it was done it brings joy at another level.  But then there is another part of me that questions – is there an aura already with these paintings that condition our minds to like something because it is famous.  There is definitely some of that – appreciate something as part of a social agreement.

So if there is one place where I cannot be accused of lazy thinking and joining the crowd for appreciating art, it is in Florence.  For I am not be the only one suffering from Stendhal or Florence syndrome.  This is a place that I can come back again and again. Hope the next trip is not too far in the future.

Buenos Aires

If there is any other city that I “felt” closest to being in the Calcutta that I grew up – it would be Buenos Aires. A city that is ornate with past glory and grandeur but is a bit lost in today’s world. A city that symbolized modernity in its outlook, character and dereliction long before the rest of the world thought we were living in the modern age. I usually try reading about the place before I visit, usually some fiction. But this sudden trip did not give me much of a chance. I tried reading Borges once but it was a bit to digest his convoluted plots and storyline. So perhaps this time around, I will understand the literature better after visiting the place.

Buenos Aires is a walking city. The streets are full of action. It is filled with beautiful women and even men know how to dress well. Their is a certain classiness among people despite mass poverty and 40% inflation; where cash is still king, as credits cards are not accepted everywhere and ATMs are often drained out. There is a vibrant cafe culture, book stores in almost every block (and you can find a Sartre, Camus, Marx, Kant in a newspaper kiosk) and although I don’t understand Spanish, the limited exchanges I had with strangers were warm, welcoming, and refreshing. While walking in one of the side streets – I curiously asked a group of men what they were drinking.  It was Mate.  They poured me and said, “try it.” It was awkward to drink from the same cup (Mate), but they explained thats how it is.  You pour water into the leaves and then have to drink the entire pour, and then you pass it on to someone, who then gets a fresh pour. It is communal and social. For a moment I got a Zen-like shiver of human connectedness with a group of policemen (yes that group were plain dress off-duty policemen, which I only later found out). But you never know who you end up with, is what brings me out wandering in streets and by-lanes. Like my visits to Calcutta that ground me, people in Buenos Aires come across as enlightened, worldly and intellectual without a long tail of degrees or a wallet full of money. These values go beyond monetary pretension and indeed, there were times and places that exemplify that.

There is a joke about Argentines – more specifically, the Portenos, literally meaning the “Port People”, but a term used for the people of Buenos Aires by others. That they are originally Italians, who speak Spanish, but dress like the English and wish they were French. I think there might be some truth to that. I was told that every visitor needs to do three things – eat steak, dance Tango, and buy leather. I was able to do all three – thanks to some good suggestions offered by my local contact – Chim. Chim who is a Canadian and an alum of Drama Centre London, which has produced people like Colin Firth and many contemporary stalwarts. He left doing Shakespeare and now is a artisan shoemaker in Buenos Aires. He personally took me to the Recoleta cemetery, which I went with some reluctance. This place has a stature similar to the cemeteries in Paris. It was a fascinating experience as he explained the mix of faiths, especially the Masons, Judaism and Christianity as well as paganism. We had a long discussion on Eva Peron, the rise of today’s populism and even the current Pope. I left with more questions than answers.

It was an eyeopener to visit Pope Francis’ original church. Speaking to some of those who know him well, interestingly enough, I got an explanation of his openness, that I had heard but never knew why. “The credit goes to the previous arch Bishop, who mentored him as a Christ purist,” they said. The basic doctrine of love thy neighbor, tolerance and forgiveness. They showed me a set of pictures and newspapers cuttings of the Jewish center bombings in the 90s and the role the church played in solidarity with the Jews that would otherwise be unthinkable for the Catholics. There is also a painting of Madonna – where Mary is depicted as an ordinary “woman”, which is also unusual – as historic Catholic paintings mostly depicted women either as virgins or prostitutes. But hardly as ordinary women with needs, desires, and aspirations, interacting with the world.

I met Jerry and Lucia, a very nice couple; Jerry is Irish and Lucia is local, who are Tango teachers in the San Telmo area. They took me to a Milonga. It was a trip down the memory lane – with a room full of locals dancing and having a good time. The demographic was similar to going to a rock concert these days, heavily skewed to 55 and above; but a stolid reminder of a time when men behaved like gentlemen. In fact, there was this ~80 year old Toto, a legendary Tango dancer of the 70s, who still dances in an almost defunct style, which was designed to protect the woman from getting hurt from the accidental kicks from others in the dance floor. Communication between the man and the woman happens through the eyes. You glance at the woman and if she gives you a friendly glance back; you go and have a dance with her; if not, you “Tango on”. As they say, there are no mistakes in Tango and poetry. You just flow.

Jerry suggested that I should go to a particular Parilla (Argentine steakhouse), so I went. It was a no-frills place, except that in the lore you hear the long list of celebrities that they have served – from the Obamas to the Hollywood stars. Waiters are elderly and old-school and they act as advisers as much as servers. Customer is not the king here. There was an young American couple who were given a paternal reprimand for ordering too much. The waiter cut their order down by saying, “you can’t eat that much…just because you can (order) does not mean you should”

Cities like Buenos Aires make me feel alive. Make me a part of something larger. At will I can become a participant or just a bystander, like my last evening, after buying a pair of shoes –  I spent in the Davidoff lounge – sipping shots of espresso and watching people through the window. I felt like Baudelaire’s “Flaneur“. And just as I came to appreciate Baudelaire through Buddhadeb Bosu, I felt closeness to Buenos Aires through my primal attachment of Calcutta.

Valparaiso and Santiago

In Ode to Valparaiso – Pablo Neruda writes about Valparaiso’s perennial chaos and ugliness, that stood through time and the thousands of ships that passed by for centuries. This port city with small colorful houses lining up the hills – looks as disorderly today as it has been for ages.  After the opening of the Panama canal in early 20th century – Valparaiso as a port, slipped away in its stature, and as the customary halt for ships going from the Atlantic to the Pacific.  But as Neruda says, the colorful houses and street art and a few functioning fulniculars remind us of the heydays gone by.  Charles Darwin in his diaries note several insects linked to this city during his voyage in the Beagle, which ultimately influenced his Origin of Species.  Today, the Chilean Naval HQ and the constant flow of students – ensure its perpetual relevance and youth.  I stopped by Valapariso on my way back from a visit to a power plant nearby.  Yes, I am fortunate to visit such places in a “day’s work”.  In the few hours I had – I tried to soak in this place as much as I possibly could.  As a former gateway to the south and to the new world, the port is still vibrant with lines of dock equipment and ships hemming the shoreline.

In this maiden visit to Latin America, I was politely corrected early on – that I should not use America as the byword for the US.  Deep rooted nationalistic sentiment is pervasive and people here, and rightfully so, will remind those not mindful enough, that “they” in the southern hemisphere are Americans too.  And indeed, there is character, culture, and diversity that is worth giving its dues.  It is more than just their shared love for life and football. Here in Chile it is of course – Colo colo vs. Universidad de Chile ( the club has nothing to do with the Uni any more) that runs the football fever and occupies people’s mindshare.  Santiago, compared to Valparaiso may lack in character – or perhaps the modern urban plague has hit hard to unify and harmonize the look and feel, such that parts of the manicured Las Condes and Providencia, resemble Polanco in Mexico City or even Gurgaon in India – gated communities and large multi apartment complexes punctuated by lovely villas.  Chile (and it shows in Santiago), is a developed and economically progressive place compared to most of Latam. The Chicago boys had a hand in it to set it up in the 70s, and even today the business community is very bullish about this place. It is a controversial topic no doubt but that’s a topic for another day.

The old city with its fish and vegetable markets still retain the dirt, smell, and the feel of the developing world – of chaos but also of freshness, where everything is still organic, and markets are synonymous to conversations and meeting platforms. The old city also has a plaza or a city square built in European style filled with locals, hawkers, and chess players.  The square is surrounded by a worn down old church and commercial buildings, such as the old stock exchange that are remnants from the Spanish colonial times. Many of these are being brought down to make way for new shopping malls and other outfits. Progress has its own ways to plough through history.

In my travels to such foreign lands, food is a big part of my exploration. Through food, I believe one can tell quite a bit about a society.  It was obvious, rather quickly, that there was nothing unique about traditional Chilean cuisine.  The ceviche is ubiquitous but it is mostly made in Peruvian style. Chile’s relations with its neighbors, Peru, Argentina and Bolivia have been strained in the past, and this is not just political — people are sentimental about it, although the more educated and worldly, express it with a grain of self-deprecating wit. But Chile unlike many other countries is not stuck in the past but is constantly re-inventing itself.  People do not mind being called a copycat of the US as long as it is symbolic of moving forward in prosperity.  Such pragmatism is noteworthy. With its market-based economy, it is in much better position compared to the once developed Argentina, or the corruption laden Brazil.  I know I digressed. So, finally, desperate to find local Chilean food, I ended up in Borago, which is rated in the world’s top 50 restaurants. (Not to rub it – but I guess Peru has three restaurants in the top 50). Chef Rodolfo Gunzman is creative and tried his best to bring indigenous ingredients – mostly local Chilean items that grew in the rocks to prepare several exotic courses bringing out flavors that are quite distinctive. Pictures are below:

In the recent years, Chilean wine has become quite popular. After France, Italy, and Spain, Chile ranks fourth in global exports. The topography with mountains along the coast and another range running along the Argentine border creates a microclimate that supports the reds of Maipu and the whites of Casablanca valley. I took the wine tasting tour as part of the standard city tour but it was deeply underwhelming compared to those in France, Tuscany or even the commercial Napa. But if one can get a private tour to a place like Concha y Toro, it can well be a very memorable experience.

In large cities, I try my best to go off the mainstream, to find the sub-cultures that reside in parallel worlds. I was happy to connect with a photographer who does freelance for BBC these days and was connected once to our common ground – the ICP in New York.  We went to some of parts of the rough Bohemian area, which has a bursting street art scene. Lots of paid commission along with the usual tagging and graffiti.

It was interesting to find that there are quite a few British expats here, including my photographer friend. Some say that it is the sea that brought them; others believe that given the animosity between Chile and Argentina – the Falklands dispute resulted in some friendly overtures. Clouts against a common enemy.  I ran into a small group of English expats – in Wonderland cafe in the Belavista area. Most of them worked for the BBC South American news service and knew my photographer friend. They were dressed in tropical coats and Panama hats, with tanned faces coated with days of sweat – an image out of the Raj brought to life.  Life for foreign correspondents is a feast or famine business and it was obvious that they were enjoying now, given that the wildfires that consumed the news have gone for a while. It is now time for afternoon tea in a languid, lazy Sunday — filled with hearty laughs with your lady friends.

My stay, in contrast, was a rather busy workweek, looking for a couple of days over the weekend to sneak out to Buenos Aires. It turned out to be very different city from Santiago. Will write about that soon. Meanwhile – here are the pictures from Santiago and Valparaiso.

Berlin – The Wild Side

The video of two members of the Berlinkidz gang slinging from a rope tied to the roof of a high rise building in Berlin has gone viral since it came out. In the twilight, when the lights of the Berlin sprawl create a mystical haze – these guys take just a few minutes to scribble a few characters that resemble an obscure South American ancient script.  We can see them standing up on the roof of a speeding U-Bahn – with arms stretched, crying the sound of victory, after spraying their mark on the trains.  Vandalism or art? That is the question.  Beating the sight of building owners, tenants, and the law enforcement, these kids would go to the extreme of danger to leave their “mark”.  Ego, adrenaline and the sheer excitement of the wild are the main factors driving them. This is a glimpse of the wild side of Berlin – the world that gets exposed to the mainstream through tagging, graffiti, and street art, and these days social media and youtube videos. For many this is considered as “breaking the law”, and a mere destruction of public space. But street artists would argue – that – so are the advertisements and the thousands of billboards across the city landscape. What is visual pollution and what is not – is a topic for another day.  But this side of Berlin has much to offer – raw and uncut. A pure expression of the human spirit.

Admittedly, this wild underground life of Berlin has toned down quite a bit in the last couple of years after a run of more than 20 years, since the Wall came down. So when the wall came down in 1990s, a large section of the central city area called Mitte opened up. During the Iron Curtain era, this was largely abandoned and fell in the no-man’s land within the eastern section. Being so close to the border with West Berlin – no one really developed it. So it was not surprising to find garbage and rubbish from WWII still remaining there. Broken jeeps, aircrafts, shells – not to mention the ruins from the war that were left intact. (Check out this book) . So people started making stuff out of it. Given that there was not much out there – the people who came to this area were mostly freaks and misfits. There was already the Kreuzberg area in the West that was thronged by those who wanted a safe haven to dodge the German military service (yes Berliners had an exception). A combination of all these factors gave rise to a subculture that brought out the “other” side. Cheap living supported by major gentrification push from the government, brought in people from everywhere – mostly artists who took to the streets as their theater. Today, many of them have gone to major commercial success. The Banksy effect is pervasive and Berlin has its fair share of commercially successful artists. Many street “purists” however, do not like them; and are not pleased with these commercial developments and would prefer to keep doing streets from the underground, away from material mainstream success, in stealth and incognito. Such folks breed anarchy at heart. And I admire them.

Now personally speaking, ensconced in the mainstream, this subculture was outside my radar until a few years back when a friend of mine in New York introduced me to Parkour and street art in the Bronx and Yorktown area. I will get into the connection between the two later but like second hand cigarette smoke I was still a bit removed from what really went on. Walking around Berlin with a former member of the 1Up gang was an eyeopener. My first lesson was to understand the distinction between tagging, graffiti and street art. Graffiti is an outline with fillings of color – almost always done to make a personal statement. It is meant for other gangs or groups – usually a statement of ego and vanity. As simple as – “mine is bigger than yours”. Tagging is a basic form of graffiti – mainly to demarcate territory. There is a hierarchy within the gangs that ought to be respected. 1Up was one of these gangs that has an elevated stature in Berlin that others rarely crossed. Tagging and graffiti also serve to contextualize the place. There are folks who keep tagging over and over again. Someone cleans it up just to get tagged again. Tags are also a mark of protest – one such was all over Mitte to make a statement against the commercialization of the area. Mitte today is so trendy and expensive that it is driving the poor artists away.  It has become a hip neighborhood now with art galleries and trendy coffee shops.

Street art, however has a very different purpose. It is mostly for the viewers consumption. I was told that the newer breed of artists that are coming in are treating the street as just a window into their virtual world of social media. So they use the street to just get noticed and then conversation on art and commercial terms continue via social media. This is driving some of the old school graffiti/sprayers to other locales as a path to commercial success. I am told opportunities are opening up in other places in Eastern Europe and elsewhere. I did see that in Budapest last year and in Chile and Buenos Aires earlier this year.

I walked around marveling at the details and learning the stories behind them.  Stories on the refugees migration, their ironical detention in the Tempelhof airport (which was used for the Berlin airlift), deceit, human rights, heartbreaks…they are all there. I was struck with the variety of materials that are used. The staple is the paint can. Usually a beginner starts with chrome and black paint learning to do outlines. They have to be clean, proportionate and obviously, have to be done quickly. It takes several months of watching, practicing outlines, and forms before they can give a test and join the group as an artist. Once they join, then go up the hierarchy. There are rules, and gangs have their own set of highly rigorous governance mechanisms. A group like 1Up! has about 100 members – with a large percentage of girls. (Approach them at your own peril; gangs are very protective of their girls, and there is no tolerance for sexism). Many artists use stencils. Multi-layered stencils are used directly when the artists want to keep the artwork for long. Others can do more complex work on stencils in the studio and paste the paper onto the wall. Of course, these wither, crumble and fade away sooner. The only thing apart from the materials that ensure longevity of the art work is the respect for the artist itself. The notion of transience and impermanence is central to the artist’s psyche. Whats pretty today will not be there tomorrow. Either will get overwritten or just gone and forgotten.

The most fascinating material I saw was the use of the fire extinguisher. It came to Berlin from the streets of Paris. Fire extinguishers are easily available – one just need to break and grab it from a public place. Fill it half with paint and the other with some medium – then pressurize it with compressed air at a gas station – and you are good to go. It holds a lot of paint – so one does not need to carry a ton of paint cans. There is a strict protocol not to leave any material behind at the site so with the extinguisher it helps keeping your paint gear light. It takes a lot of practice to master the use with the nozzle though, but it is very effective. Without mastery bad things can happen. Notice the scribble near the famous astronaut – it is one such disaster. Although the guy who blew it was quite senior, he was not experienced in the nozzle control. Following the rules of the gang – he was apparently demoted and had to suffer a reprimand course of training before he was allowed back.

The recent trend is to combine parkour and graffiti art. Sadly, but not surprisingly, it has resulted in many casualties and fatalities especially when trying to do the epitome of all public places – the trains. It is the ultimate thrill of action art. I always associated action art with someone like Jackson Pollock  but this is of course of a different league. No absinthe or LSD involved. Quite the contrary – the Berlinkidz don’t touch alcohol, dont smoke, or do drugs.  They are on a strict diet and exercise. Despite their dedication, the Berlinkidz are believed that they would either get hurt or end up in prison. Pushing the human boundaries to the limits of danger – both physical danger and danger from the authorities to make that personal statement is of course not everyone’s thing. One artist told me, “the street is a very humbling place. You need to learn the hard way and then get erased soon. We do not come from art schools, but we learn and express through this rough cruel way.” I found this to be quite a paradox. But then as with many things in life – I am too small to pass a judgment. I can see both sides to this quite vividly. It can be pursuit of an ego trip in a humbling way. The truth to me is to be able carry forward and bear these contradictions – co-existing with each other.

I learn a great deal from such excursions. Not the least of which is that beyond the apparent two dimensional view of what I see there is a third or even more dimensions that is not visible but it is there. At a minimum there is always a “story” behind these art pieces, which is not available to everyone. I am grateful that, even in a very limited way, I could get behind the visible and learn about some of these stories.

Note: Here is a collection of pictures – mostly taken with my iPhone and a few with my Leica M9.

Budapest – My Intro

How does it feel when you land on a new place?  A foreign land.  What gets evoked? And when you leave, what do you take away? How different is it? Pondering on these questions, revisiting them, looking at old pictures — are all useful ways to live and internalize these trips and sojourns. With lives so consumed by the pressures of livelihood, and the changes enforced, it is easy to forget a vacation like a fleeting dream. Yes it happened but it did not make any difference.

I visited Budapest recently.  Eastern Europe has longed intrigued me. It has always been an enigma.  Behind the iron curtain, Eastern Europe was truly foreign.  Indeed, growing up, I hardly knew anyone from that area or one who ever been to that area.  Not surprisingly, it felt exotic in a rustic manner.  Every few years or so they would perform in Olympics or the World Cup usually putting together a very strong performance. They always gave an impression that they had the ability to punch above their waist. Once the cold war was over, the gradual exposition was equally intriguing. There was an aristocracy once with splendid buildings, that got smothered under the cloud of communism.  Really? Along with the communist drab, there was a history of art and architecture.  Hungary, particularly is such a marvel.  In many ways it is not like any other communist country; it had a lighter touch from the communists and enjoyed (if I may say) broader autonomy and discretion that some of its surrounding neighbors.  So what was it like.  What was it under the Austro-Hungarian rule and what happened during the communists and what is it today.

My interest in Hungary started with my early days of stamp collection, I had pages (yes pages) of stamps from Hungary.  My inheritance from my maternal uncle was partly responsible but then the other part was collected as gifts from friends and family over many birthdays.  Clearly Magyar Posta had posted a mark in my memory.  Then there was football or soccer as it is known here.  The football that mattered in Hungary dates back to the 50s and 60s.  I heard the folklore from my grandfather and father on Puscas and the big deal when they defeated England.  Today, it was quite interesting to see that victory plastered on a giant wall in a parking lot in Budapest. Where can one find an event such immortalized that is over half a century old. It happens if there is a poverty of achievements or if it was truly a defining moment. It was clearly the latter that reinforced the Magyar identify after the brutal war as the nation was picking up its pieces.

Well, my trip to Budapest was thus filled with anticipation and lots of speculation.  I was eager to get there.  The evening I was flying, there were attacks in Munich, but thankfully my connection was through Frankfurt, which was not that bad.  In fact I was moved to an earlier flight and arrived an hour before my scheduled arrival in Budapest.  The landmass of Hungary is connected to the European mainland so it is not that alien – yet as the plane was landing it was strikingly different.  The houses were much smaller and more austere in the countryside. The green pastures were plentiful.  Large open spaces.  And clearly there was no modern look as one would see landing over Frankfurt, Schipol, or Munich.  The airport is small but modern. It was filled with people and some very pretty models getting ready for the Formula 1 next day.    While I was not able to go much into the countryside, the short 25-30 mile ride to Hungaroring for the Formula 1 race on the Sunday (August 31) gave me a glimpse what a suburb and the sub-suburban looked like and by stretch of imagination – what a rural setting would be.

There are some major developments that took place in the last 20 years in Budapest.  Just after the end of the cold war, as I was told, the capitalists came in and there were a slew of quick investments.  In many cases they messed up with the architecture.   The lure of quick lucre is enticing.  Clearly the Marriott hotel where I stayed most of my days in Budapest qualifies as one.  Standing on the Danube on the Pest side, it is an absolute abomination compared to the beautiful buildings that line across the river bank.  Just cross over the Chain Bridge, another marvel built in the late 19th century by Szechenyi and you will get that loud and clear.  As my local guide and friend Zsusha pointed out – even the modern Sofitel hotel somehow was able to blend, but not the Marriott.

Looking into the city, one can’t stay away from the architecture.  It is everywhere.  The last day after several days of exploring and feeling the city and its people, the ruin bars and the hipsters, I was at the Boscolo, that houses the gorgeous New York Cafe.  I got transported to an imaginary past to absorb the lovely raw beauty of the city.  Lines of ornate houses. Indeed the end of the 19th century was the glorious period of prosperity.  The Belle Epoch in France, the Edwardian era in Britain and the glorious days in Hungary before the world completely fell apart and changed in the 1910s.  On the back of the industrial revolution Budapest became one of the prominent centers with a brand new metro system.  The Line 1 which goes down the Opera to the Heroes Square still has the old world charm.  At the turn of the 20th century, every country in Europe was looking for its own identity.  Budapest was no different.  It set ambitious plans – with the metro – with the lines of architecture.  In the early 1900s there were so many writers in Budapest that as John LuKacs in his book Budapest 1900 writes – “there were so many writers that they complained that their readers turn out to be other writers”.  My dessert that night in Budapest took place sitting in the mezzanine level and watching over the swarms of people seated at the central hall.  For a moment – thinking about a hundred years ago – who would have thought that the place would still be there under a different cloak, with a solitary Indian native looking at their ghosts.  Hundred years from now, who knows who will watch the ghosts that I leave behind.

My morning ride through the streets of Budapest met with the city that has just slept. Yes – the parties go to the wee hours of the morning when men and women strut and duel with their shadows to return to their abode.  The taxi was speeding through the empty streets. I waited for my flight back to the west – first to Frankfurt and then to DC.  As I left I kept wondering of the guy I met one day in the Irish bar.  While I was clearly nostalgic and talking about preservation, he was tired of the old and wished Budapest developed, with better jobs, and better pay so that he does not have to work in Switzerland. While I was taking a romantic view dipping into the nostalgia of the glory once this city may have, he was quite tepid about my enthusiasm.  I then realized on my way back that an outsider’s eye will never be the same as that of the local. What is beauty to me may not be of much value to those who have to make a living out of it.  I sensed the same when I was in Istanbul a few years back.  And perhaps, thats why I am drawn to these places.  Who knows when they become so modern or disgustingly touristy that it departs from the roots of its past.  For instance, one has to look for those remnants in places like New York.  For now, it was comforting that I was able to gaze through the place, looked into the myriads of houses that are over a century old, people carrying on with their lives, each house with its own story.