A Moment in the Woods

Oh, if life were only moments,
Even now and then a bad one.
But if life were only moments,
How’d you ever know you had one?
-The baker’s wife, from Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim

A year at Oxford has been a moment in the woods. It has been a year in a temporary bubble, away from people, places, and the pressures of life. To say Oxford is a fairytale is not far from the truth. JK Rowling did not invent Hogwarts. She described a year of a student at Christ Church College. Tolkien did not imagine Middle Earth. He wrote about the shires of the surrounding countryside. Lewis Caroll did not dream up Alice’s adventures in Wonderland. He embellished what he saw.

Sylvesters, a black-tie celebration in June, was the beginning of a long goodbye. It was here, during the class superlatives awards, where one realizes that nine months is all it takes to be able to share a communal laugh. That nine months is all it takes for one to induct new members into their inner circle of friends. And that nine months is not nearly enough time to hear 239 stories of how one arrived at Oxford.

Like Alice and Harry soon discovered, being in wonderland has its perils. Alice nearly got her head chopped off and Harry’s life was always in danger. We too had our trials and tribulations, our frustrations and criticisms, and our doubts and worries. But the biggest challenge of wonderland is leaving it behind. On the outside, life is not spent running after the Mad-Hatter and eating imaginary cakes, but it is a place where one has to face issues - jobs, obligations, familial and societal responsibilities. The lessons learned in the safety of wonderland are to be applied to the problems that are prevalent in our wider communities.

The goodbyes at the graduation ceremony in September, like at any graduation, were difficult. All throughout the day, people said goodbye with a sense of finality – as if our time together was ending. But is that really true? Yes, our time has ended as classmates, but our time has just begun as peers. True, as we spread across the globe, some of us will never cross paths again; but we are all separated by a single phone call. As I flew over the Atlantic, all I could think of was “what a small pond!”

I was amused at how similar the first few days were with the last few days. The prevailing question at the beginning, “what did you do?” was asked so many times that the answer became trite. Likewise, the question at the end, “what are you going to do?” achieved the same level of annoyance. As we move forward, we will ask each other with great curiosity and genuine interest, “What have you been doing?” Given the different paths we are taking, I am sure the answer will never be the same and it will always be fascinating.

Be seeing you…

A Trumpeter on the Basilica

A trumpeter on the Basilica. Sounds crazy, no? But here in Krakow, everyone is a musician moving to their own tune. The accordion trio in the market square crooning polkas, the gymnastic students breakdancing to techno music, and the klezmer bands in the Jewish Quarter keeping the city beating to its heritage. To know Krakow, one must get to know their inhabitants. Take the neighborhood granny. At night, she can be seen using a tupperware container scooping sand from the public sandbox and putting it into her granny shopping cart. Or the group of young men, dressed in full leprechaun costumes complete with a fake scraggy red beard. And do not forget the Jehovah’s Witnesses that speak English with a heavy Polish accent. They are aggressive in their conversations, no matter what the language.

I was here as part of an orchestra tour that kept springing surprises. When we traveled to Zakopane, a resort town about 2 hours outside of Krakow, we got stuck behind a horse-drawn carriage while climbing the last hill. The chapel we played in was very practical in its construction – the bell tower doubled as a cell phone tower. When we went to Rebka, a small township, the city was so appreciative that the mayor came out to give a speech, and the organizers treated us to dinner. But during our first concert in St. Catherine’s in Krakow, we were introduced to another Polish tradition. Since programs are not handed out, it is customary to have an emcee announce the music and give a little background talk. The description of Beethoven’s 3rd symphony sounded something like this: “… polish … polish … Ludwig van Beethoven … polish … Michael Jackson …” We looked around quizzically at each other, trying to figure out the connection.

Sometimes it felt that we spent more time eating than playing. While wandering with a few other musicians around the old town in Krakow one evening, we were stopped by a sign outside of a restaurant.

We welcome you kindly with our bread with
home-made lard free as a greeting gift.

How could we refuse such a generous offer? As we poured over the menu, the waitress came up and offered to provide us with 200 Zlotys worth of food. A quick calculation put the amount at less than £7 per person. After confirming that it would be enough to feed 6 people, we sat back and enjoyed our beers. Imagine our delight when we found ourselves staring at three-foot long wooden trough full of perogis, chicken wings, fried fish, ribs, pork, sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes and fried cheese. Although we only finished lunch at 3pm, we made ourselves hungry anyways.

The history and lore were what made the trip. Up on the hill is the old castle, built, rebuilt, and re-rebuilt. As legend has it, below the castle is a cave where a dragon dwelt. It terrorized the countryside until a king/prince/farmer/alien (depending on the version) tricked the dragon by stuffing a cow with sulfur. The dragon, after eating the cow, died a horrible death. After that, the Kingdom of Poland was safe for many hundreds of years. As for the trumpeter, he plays from the tower of St. Mary’s Basilica every hour on the hour. According to folklore, an invading horde of Mongols in the 13th century shot the poor musician in the middle of his fanfare. In tribute to his death, it is now customary to abruptly stop the fanfare where he was killed. When the trumpeter does stop, however, he waves to the crowds below, something that the unfortunate victim most likely did not do. But the tradition carries on, adding to the mix of people and experiences that makes up Krakow.

And the best part was laughing about all of them over a liter of beer.

Oxford, Take Two

My mother frequently asks me if it has rained. I look out the window at the low clouds, hazy skyline, and ground full of puddles. “No,” I reply. “It hasn’t rained. It’s just wet.” I am in a similar conundrum when trying to describe the previous term at Oxford. There wasn't work to do. I was just busy. It was a misty form of busyness, like picking out vegetables at the supermarket just as they turn on the water spray in the produce section. You get your carrots, but you are wet and annoyed.

The break in between terms was anything but normal, for I was invited to an Indian wedding in Delhi. I arrived at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, ready for a good time, but not quite sure what to expect, for I was told to buy a plane ticket and “not worry about anything else after that”. I found a driver waiting for me and we quickly got on our way. That short 90 minute drive to the resort was my only image of India, where we shared the road with nearly every form of locomotion – trucks, tractors, motorbikes, bicycles, camel-drawn carriages, pedestrian and wandering cows. Traffic lanes, as I learned, were to be treated as mere suggestions and not as rigid fact. After a bumpy ride down a pot-hole riddled road, we arrived at the resort and entered into a magical wonderland.

Indian weddings are known to be big, lavish occasions with an overabundance of food and drinks. Parties extend well into the nights with hundreds of guests. My driver let me off under a red canopy where a group of Indian musicians greeted me with a rambunctious drum roll. Someone put a fresh lei over my head while Laurel and Hardy and Charlie Chaplin shook my hand to welcome me to the resort. And this was only at 2:00 in the afternoon.

As the rest of the days unfolded, the size and scope of the wedding became apparent. There were three separate pavilions that were built – a blue one for the first night, a white one for the second, and a red one for the wedding – each with a custom stage. The insides were decorated with peacock feathers, candles and flower petal sculptures that scented the night air. The buffet stretched all around the pavilion while waiters carrying plates of hors d'oeuvre kept asking over and over again if you want something to eat. The entertainment was first-rate as some of the biggest stars of Bollywood came to sing their hits. The least famous one was merely a one hit wonder. We danced to their tunes till the wee hours in the morning.

The procession on the wedding night was the most indescribable moment, so I’ll attempt to do so. We were a quarter of a mile outside the resort, dressed in the best Indian Kurta Pajama, head dress and all, accompanied by two dancing bands that could be heard for miles around. If that was not enough, fireworks were set off as we progressed down the street, as if to announce our location to the rest of the world. The groom, meanwhile, sat in his carriage being drawn by four handsome white horses. All of this kept building up to the climax of reaching the bride’s party at the resort. Wow.

This was the first wedding I’ve been to that has lasted for more than a day. This was also the first wedding I’ve been to that had a game of tug-of-war and a wrap-your-husband-in-toilet-paper contest. It set a new benchmark for ‘large wedding’ and raised the standard for ‘hardcore partying’. Indeed, this wedding made up for all of the weeks of cold, British wetness.

A Review of Eastern European Prepackaged Foods

Winter break 2009 was the perfect opportunity to start writing the travel book that has been missing from the genre – on processed goodies that we now all take for granted. To do so, I planned to start in the Czech Republic and take a train to Istanbul, following the route of the Orient Express. I would jump on and off as I felt like through Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria. Since most of the trains would not have a restaurant car, I would have ample opportunity to buy groceries and experience the prepackaged foods of the former Soviet Bloc. It was to be an adventure full of intrigue, unexpected twists, and trying to figure out if the Cyrillic-printed label was for liverwurst or cat food.

In Prague, I realized two follies. Firstly, even though I had armed myself with three new pairs of long underwear, traveling through Eastern Europe in January should have been considered more carefully. Second, I had neglected to bring utensils and I did not know where to buy them, for the local supermarket did not stock them. It significantly limited my diet to pre-sliced deli meats and cheese. But no matter, for Prague is a picturesque city, and where else would there be a Barbie exhibit inside the old Castle?

In Brasov, Romania, I ran into another unexpected issue: people usually take the weekend closest to New Years off. Few museums and historical sites were open as most people spent time with their families. So instead, I went skiing, which is what everyone else was doing anyways. Unfortunately, the snow did not arrive as ordered, so only the easiest slopes were open. However, they very quickly reminded me of my beginner’s status. After a few runs and a few spills, I retired to a food booth and got some freshly grilled sausage. In true Romanian fashion, I got a large dollop of mustard that rivaled the sausage’s size and weight.

Veliko Turnovo (Or Tarnovo (Or Tarnovgrad (Or Велико Търново))), Bulgaria had even fewer museums open, but the ruins of the Tsarevets fortifications were a giant playground. I was perhaps the only tourist that morning and no one told me where I couldn’t go. There were city walls with watchtowers high up on the mountains and stairs leading up the remains of old castle. Everything was covered with fresh snow, giving the impression of a winter wonderland. It was also here in Turnovo that I found a large supermarket and concluded that protein bars taste horrible, no matter which country you’re in.

Finally, Istanbul with fresh squeezed pomegranate juice, Kebab shops and candy stores at every street corner gave me a well needed change in diet. Street vendors hocked roasted chestnuts, pastries and corn, to name a few. A friend recommended a walk through the fish bazaar, which consisted of several narrow pedestrian streets filled with fresh fish all caught that day.

While there, I was lured by a convincing restaurant proprietor. The prices were decent, so I went in and sat down. He stood there next to me and asked, “What do you want to eat?”

“Uh…Can I see the menu?” I thought it rather strange that he would want to take my order before even presenting me with choices.

He paused for a moment and then said, “Here, come with me and you can see for yourself!” With that, he led me across the street to the fish shop facing his restaurant. He pointed to the burgeoning variety on display and asked again, “What do you want to eat?”

If there are any present or future restaurant owners who read this, here is a note to you: this is how I want to be served seafood. After negotiating a meal, he barked some orders to a waiter who quickly scurried away. He returns a few moments later with a bag of fish. Within 15 minutes, I had a fantastic plate filled with tasty bites.

With that, I found myself back in the familiarity of the Mark and Spencer in Gatwick airport. As I munched on a ham and cheese sandwich, I could not help but reminisce on the delectables of the journey. To help jog the memory was a box of Turkish Delights purchased that morning from the Grand Bazaar. It was a fitting end to a fantastic journey.