Street Fare

I think most people have a love-hate relationship with street festivals. They are fun, enjoyable and are a welcomed break from the repetition of life. However, they are also expensive, crowded, and cause traffic jams in normally sane parts of town. I tend to avoid street festivals because the activation energy to overcome the latter tends to outweigh the benefits of the former. It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy them – if I run across one by happenstance, I will generally spend some quality time at it and take pleasure in their surprises. So when I ran into three street festivals in three different cities in the same weekend, I knew that it would be hopeless to resist the urge to buy a deep-fried Twinkie.

The weekend started inauspiciously. I needed to go to work on a Saturday and I found that the road to the office was blocked off. The Armed Services Day parade wound through downtown and a large swath was transformed into a pedestrian-only haven. By the time I found parking, I had to walk over a mile to the office in the rain. And uphill. Both ways. (Which was technically true! The office is near the top of one hill and I parked on top of a different one.) When I got to the office, I realized that not only did I have a bird’s eye view overlooking the parade, but I also had undampened acoustics from the nearly twenty creatively off-key high school marching bands below. Drowning out the cacophony with Tristan und Isolda was largely unsuccessful, but John Cage would have been proud of the attempt.

Festivals, in general, are full of amusing juxtapositions. The St. Giles fair in Oxford was by far on one extreme, with a Ferris Wheel next to 16th century architecture, cotton candy sold next to a martyr’s monument and a ring toss next to a medieval graveyard. Sweden takes full advantage of a short summer season by cramming many festivals into their long summer days. Their Restaurant Festival featured the top cuisines from Sweden, Russia, China and the Middle East. The International Festival was catered by Russian, Chinese, Middle Eastern and Swedish restaurants. The Midsummer’s Party had booths from China, the Middle East, Sweden, and Russia while the American Festival had…well, you get the idea. Vikingfest in Poulsbo had a Lukefisk eating contest. What’s Vikingfest, where’s Poulsbo and what is Lukefisk, you may ask? All I will say is, “You’re not missing much.”

But I digress. The deep-fried Twinkie was quite good. It was of a limited-vintage strawberry-crème filling variety that has seasonal availability. It was gently battered and expertly fried, such that there was a crispy outside that complemented the moist cake and crème on the inside. A dusting of powdered sugar, a generous dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel enhanced the natural flavor of the Twinkie without over powering it. But as good as the deep-fried Twinkie was, it was completely left in the dust by the gooey goodness of the deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That was simply heavenly.

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.

Oxford: Business as Usual

Oxford is a quiet place on Christmas Day. I cycled leisurely through a deserted town, pleased at the total absence of taxis and busses that usually speed through Queen Street. The Christmas lights that adorned the city center were turned off for no one was there to appreciate them. Even the mannequins stood naked in the shops, taking a day off from posing in the latest fashions. I was on my way to help cook a goose for Christmas dinner, in traditional English style, when I had a flashback in reverse-chronological order of the most recent three months of my life.

I immediately shuddered at the thought of the exams which just passed. Six in one week! What a marathon! They were unpleasant at best, kind of like someone peppering you with an automatic rubber band shooter while you’re standing naked. They sting for a moment but don’t do lasting damage. I quickly banished the thought from my mind (both the exams and me naked on Queen Street in January).

Who could forget the penguins – the South African Jackass Penguins – at the Oxford Union Ball? There they stood, staring at the men in tuxes and women in black gowns, and posing for the steady flashes of cameras. They were the perfect complement to the fire jugglers under the snow blowers and the chocolate fountain next to Santa Claus. If you could not guess, the theme of the Ball was “Fire & Ice”. To top it all off, there was free champagne, complimentary overcooked hamburgers and all-you-can-eat ketchup.

I see myself putting on my Sunday best to attend formal dinners at Hall. The evening starts with Evensongs with our chapel choir in our 15th century chapel. We move to a candlelit hall decorated with portraits of royalty and stained glass windows. Finally, we retire to the common room for coffee and biscuits.

I remember filling out a survey. I don’t recall exactly what it is for because it was the fifth survey of the week. Maybe it was for improvements in the graduate student website. Perhaps it was requesting feedback on whether to hold the end-of-term dinner on a Thursday or Friday. Or was it for ways to improve the admission process for USA based applicants? Ahh, now I remember: it was a survey asking if electing separate slates of officers for class rep, student rep and alumni rep who each sent around their own surveys were meeting all of my needs and expectations at the business school.

Then we had the real March of the Penguins. All of us new admits, dressed in full academic regalia, a sub-fusc of a black suit, white bow tie and a scholar’s gown and cap, marched off to have our photo taken as part of the matriculation ceremony. In most schools, one dresses in academic regalia to get out of the place. At Oxford, one has to dress up just to enter. Plus, you also have to dress up for exams. And certain formal Balls. And the Sexy Sub-Fusc party (or rather, that is more of dressing less than dressing up).

So I finally arrived at my college, looking for the Porter’s lodge to pick up the key to my room. I wander around the grounds, walking through medieval cloisters and into the meadows. Pretty soon the Magdalen tower becomes a distant view, behind the deer and the trees. The flowers are in their final bloom of the season. I find my room and I make myself comfortable with a hot cup of tea. I breathe a sigh of relief. I have arrived and I was full of excitement in anticipation of the adventures that were to come.

55 Cents in Dublin

My trip to Dublin was motivated by one fact – to spend a large stack of Euro coins that had accumulated from my previous travels. The €1 and €2 I did not mind, for they are hefty and feel important, but I had 55¢ comprised of 1, 2, 5 and 10¢ coins that took up space but did not amount to much. It was these coins that plagued me for the journey.

I arrived in Dublin slightly before noon and made my way to Temple Bar, a pedestrian district full of pubs, restaurants and small shops. Being Ireland, they were open at noon and the streets were bustling with people having a mid-day drink. Narrow streets wind around just off of the river and the music of an accordion player filled the streets. I had Guinness for lunch. I am sure St. Paddy would approve.

I headed in the direction of the Irish Museum of Modern Art and found their exhibit on Hospitals to be incredible. I was very impressed on how they were able to capture the artistic reality of health. The bottles of the pharmacy room made an intriguing mosaic on the wall. Actors playing doctors pushed gurneys with other actors playing patients. IV’s hung realistically from patient’s rooms. The ICU Exhibit even had a reenactment of a cardiac arrest. I walked away in awe of the imaginative uniqueness of the exhibit. Later on that night, I glanced at map and found that the Museum was right next to the local hospital. How wonderful it is for the two institutions to have such a close relationship.

Meanwhile, I had been unable to spend the €0.55. Everywhere I went, I was stymied. Museum? Free. Lunch? Too expensive for cash – had to be charged. How I wished they simply charged €0.50! I wandered around town looking for a place to buy something small and found a fruit cart with a sign “8 plumbs for €1”. I ordered four, but was told that they did not do half orders. They weren’t that sweet either.

So I found myself at the Dublin Airport, with my last chance of spending the loose change. Not only was I ineffective in spending 55¢, over the course of the day, it had grown to 87¢. Have you ever tried to find something at the airport that cost less than 87¢? It is hard. Caviar is €800. Whisky is €20. Even little things like candy bars were €0.95. I walked up and down the airport mall nearly three times frantically looking for something cheap. Finally, underneath the cash register at a coffee shop, I found my El Dorado – a 70¢ bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

So here I am, sitting on the no-frills Ryan Air flight back to London. The interior is bright yellow and the flight attendants treat you as if you’re on a bus. But no matter – I have successfully spent my loose change and am munching on chips!