Emirates Literature Festival - Day 2

 Extreme Adventures: Ted Simon, Mark Evans, Julie Lewis & Richard Parks

It’s been exactly 7 years since I summited one of the world’s highest peaks, Mt. Kilimanjaro, 6 years since I ran a Half-Marathon and, probably, 5 years since I even went camping in the desert. My life, which once read like an adventure handbook filled with solo travels and thrilling escapades, was now a regular domestic chronicle featuring bedtime stories and play dates in between endless chores. No complaints there, but lately I’d begun to question whether I’d erred in jettisoning adventure so completely from my life.

Naturally, I was looking forward to the ‘Extreme Adventures’ session, which featured four hardy travellers, including one woman! I was hoping to vicariously enjoy their adventures, and perhaps, even be inspired again.  

The panelists included Mark Evans, who’d led expeditions in the Arctic, and had kayaked around Oman in 55 days, Julie Lewis, who’d led expeditions in 20 countries, including the Arctic and Antartica, Richard Parks, who’d done the Seven Summits and the three Poles in seven months, and finally, Ted Simon.

Ted Simon - 'Jupiter's Travels'

How do I begin to describe Ted Simon? He set off in the 1970s on a 4-year-long motorbike ride across the world. He did it again 40 years later when he was a septuagenarian. In between those years, he’d kept himself busy walking across Eastern Europe, journeying across the British Isles and pioneering organic agriculture in California! And here he was at a Lit Fest in Dubai, well into his 70s, curiosity, wanderlust and energy still intact. Even before he started speaking, I was impressed.

Simon started out by pointing out that since it was a literary festival, we should examine the words related to travel that are dreadfully misused. “What is travel?” he asked, “Can we term what business people or pilots do as travel? For me, travel is setting out into a world you don’t know.”

He continued, “Another word is adventure. Nowadays it has come to mean any kind of exploit. Whereas I feel the only real adventure is when you set out into the unknown.” He added that there had to be a mental element to adventure, something ‘illuminating’.

Each of the panelists was asked about what drove them to set out on their adventures. Parks shared that the insecurity and uncertainty he felt after an injury forced him out of a promising rugby career drove him to test his limits of his endurance. Lewis shared that as a child she received a globe as a present, and by spinning it and pointing to a place, she would transport herself there. That was what set off the wanderlust in her. “Every child should be gifted a globe,” she remarked, with a laugh. 

All of the panelists were unequivocal about the importance of adventure in life. As Lewis said, “It’s paramount to have an adventurous spirit. In today’s world, there are so many constraints, it’s important to set out. With experiences, come deeper self-understanding and with that comes growth.”

Simon added, “It’s really important to travel, otherwise we’re slaves to media information. People who are really wonderful, but you wouldn’t think so reading the newspapers.”

Speaking of the abundance of travel literature, most panelists agreed that books were a catalyst but couldn’t be considered a substitute for adventure. “The more travel literature there is, there’s less of real experience,” said Simon, adding, “You can’t get lost in the world nowadays,” complained Simon. “It’s all digital. One click of a button and you know exactly where you are.”

Lewis felt that the anxiety that people experience in modern times is because of a disconnect with nature. She urged that people disconnect from their smart devices and go outdoors to discover themselves.

For a couple of the panelists, writing about their exploits proved as equally revelatory as the adventure. As Simon shared, “I’m a writer, not a motorcyclist. I write to explain things to myself.” He also pointed out that there was a difference between exploits that are turned into books and exploits that are undertaken with the hope of them being turned into a bestselling novel.

What’s the most crucial item to have on an extreme adventure? Zips, apparently! Both Evans and Parks put this down on their must-have list, while Simon also added elastic bands.

On the importance of proper planning and preparation, there were two opposing views. Parks, the extreme adventure athlete, believed in extreme planning and manic attention to details. “In my sports career, I was constantly insecure. And at that time, I regarded it as a character flaw. But now, I’ve come to appreciate that it’s the insecurity that drives me to plan every little detail.”

Simon felt that too much preparation was unnecessary. “You have deliver yourself to the world and let it look after you,” he said. He also added that since he didn’t have to return to an office or answer to anyone, he was free to become a part of wherever he was.

Evans had a more moderate view. “The degree of planning depends on whether you’re doing a solo trip or guiding an expedition. For instance, when I led an Arctic expedition with 40 people, we had to all be prepared for the extreme conditions,” he said. The extreme conditions he shared about included four months of darkness, nocturnal visits by polar bears and battles with frostbite. He held up a finger with a blackened tip saying, “Oh, that’s a frostbitten finger, by the way.”

All the panelists were unanimous about the single most important trait to have on an adventure, “Humility,” said Simon, while Evans and Lewis nodded. “And zips,” added Parks. Parks also underlined the importance of living in the moment, saying, “You break records not by brute force, but by living in the moment.”

The hour-long session ended way too soon, and it seemed almost unfair to have four hugely interesting people share a stage, when you could listen to each of them for hours. Still, I left the hall feeling invigorated and open to the possibility of adventure. I might not be found atop a mountain anytime soon, but maybe I’ll make my way up a sand dune, with the little cub in tow.

Wonderland: Emirates Literature Festival 2015

The last time I attended the Emirates Literature Festival, it was 2010. I was a happy singleton, sashaying from one session to the next, drinking in the wit and wisdom of some very talented and accomplished authors.

Since that event, I acquired a husband, a baby, a home and a whole new to-do list that made attending the annual lit fest impossible. But this year, I decided I would carve out time for myself and attend a few sessions. It was tough choosing from among some very good authors and sessions, but I zeroed in on four sessions over three days. Sessions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Alexander McCall Smith topped the list. There was a session called ‘Extreme Adventures’ about authors who’ve been on thrilling expeditions and lived to write the tale. I also signed up for a session called ‘Illustrating Wonderland’ which featured children’s books illustrators, because of my new interest in kids’ books.

Here are some of the highlights from those sessions:

From Baker-Smith's book, 'Farther'

Day 1: Illustrating Wonderland

·      The theme of the Emirates Lit Fest this year was ‘Wonderland’. I have no idea how it translated across sessions, but it seemed to have a pretty good link to children’s books. The three authors – Grahame Baker-Smith, Satoshi Kitamura and David Tazzyman – were all well-known authors that I hadn’t yet encountered in my toddler's bedtime reading, and I was keen to know more about them and also browse through their books.

·      * There was a muted murmur of approval when Baker-Smith announced in a voice tinged with awe, ‘This is wonderland. Dubai is wonderland. I’ve never been to this part before, but I’m very impressed.’

·      * There’s something subversive about putting three illustrators in a podium and asking them which is more important, words or images. Tazzyman denounced words in favor of images. Zen-like Kitamura appeared to think for a bit before shrugging and saying that he preferred images. The best answer came from Baker-Smith, who said, “I love words, the way they do same and different things.” He also insisted that there was no need to choose between the two, and that both had their own place and purpose.

From Kitamura's book, 'In the Attic'

On hearing his eloquent answer, Tazzyman shot out, “I’d like to change my reply. I think words are important in that they allow a reader to create their own world, a wonderland of sorts, in their mind, whereas images offer the artist’s view of the world.”

Previously, Tazzyman had railed against writers who couldn’t ‘visualise’ the page, who only thought in terms of words and expected the illustrator to create around the words.

·      * ‘Artists think in terms of images. Writers think in terms of words. Poets think in terms of sound.” A beautiful insight from Kitamura, when sharing about how the creative process works for different people.

·      * When asked about their journey towards becoming illustrators, both Tazzyman and Baker-Smith shared that they were thoroughly dissuaded by teachers and authority figures from pursuing their art. “There’s no money in it,” was a common refrain they heard.

·      * On being asked what advice they would give struggling artists, their advice was an unequivocal, “Never, never, never, never give up.”

From the book, 'Eleanor's Eyebrows' by Tazzyman

·      * Mid-way through the session, the moderator thrust a marker at Baker-Smith and asked him to do an illustration on an easel propped on the podium. Although he was taken aback at first, and attempted to joke his way out of the task, he gamely took the marker and made some hesitant strokes. ‘Do a camel,’ said the unabashed moderator. Baker-Smith did a horse instead. A horse leaping over the skyline of Dubai.

He’d illustrated wonderland, after all.

Parts Unknown

In the past couple of days, we've been to Myanmar, Jerusalem and Columbia, and currently we're in the middle of icy Quebec. Anthony Bourdain's latest series goes exactly where it says it will, to parts unknown, and surprisingly enough, goes beyond just the food in these parts. Without mincing words or attempting correctness of any sort, he addresses the political issues head on. Food happens to be somewhat incidental, although there's a good deal of very delicious and exotic looking food.

In Jerusalem, he launched right into the sticky issue of 'who made the first falafel - the Jews or Palestinians. In Myanmar, he shared a meal with an activist who'd been jailed for three years on a trumped up charge. In Columbia, he got right down to discussing the drug trade with the mayor of a town that formerly thrived on drug money. He wasn't cagey about admitting he was a former coke addict himself.

The great thing about Bourdain is that he's so watchable. You can't wait to see his expression when he digs into a spicy curry or a suspicious offal stew. He always seems to take it in his stride and mumble an appreciative comment. Above all, he tends to step back and allow the interviewee to take centre stage, encouraging them to open up and share about food, politics and life.

Week nights just got more interesting.

Date night with the 'Chef'

On Thursday night, having tucked the bub into bed and leaving overly detailed instructions with the maid, Mr. T and I snuck out to watch a movie in a theatre. It was the second time we'd done such a thing in two years. Yes, we were warned pre-parenthood that something of this nature might occur. Truth be told, for the said two years, we had more entertainment than we could handle anyway, so we didn't miss the cinematic variety. But yesterday, while browsing online for ways to enliven the evening, I spotted a movie that I was sure Mr. T and I would enjoy - 'Chef' directed and written by Jon Favreau, which also features him as the titular character.

Now, Mr. T is an ad man by profession but a chef by obsession. He loves to cook, and to eat, and there's many a thing I've learned about the finer aspects of food thanks to him. A couple of years ago, on a mini-sabbatical from work, he trained as a chef at a culinary school, which fuelled his obsession further. Since then, he's been toying with opportunities to get into the food business himself.

The movie about a chef who turns down a prestigious yet creatively stifling job to start a small yet innately satisfying venture while also bonding with his young son - seemed to go down well with Mr. T. What had us enthralled though, were the exquisite food shots.

(spoilers here and there)
There's a shot of Chef Carl Casper making his son a simple toasted cheese sandwich, and he makes it with so much passion and precision, as if he were serving it to the most exacting food critic. When his son munches on it and casually mutters, 'it's good', the chef shoots back, saying, "You're damn right, it's good." There's no place for modesty in a chef's vocabulary, I've learned from experience.

Chef Casper gets fired from his job on the eve of a very important evening at the restaurant. He gets home with his brown box filled with fresh, gourmet ingredients. But does he mope? No. He decides revenge is a dish best served hot, and so he starts cooking. Casper's apartment is bare, gray and strictly functional, but his kitchen is alive with color and aromas and artfully created food. The shots of him whipping up a spread are superbly contrasted with shots of chaos in the kitchen that he's just left behind. It all ends badly when he lands up at the restaurant, creates a scene and is thrown out of the place. So we never know what happened to all that wonderful food he made.

Casper somehow gets to Miami with his ex-wife and son, where he undergoes two life-changing experiences. He eats a lip-smacking Cuban sandwich, and his ex-wife's ex-husband lends him a food truck. The relationships in the film are questionable, but one of the most hilarious scenes involve Chef Casper and the eccentric (yet charming) ex-husband played by Robert Downey Jr., where the conversation rapidly moves from carpets to illegitimate children to business.

Although it hurts his pride to accept a handout from the ex-husband, Casper takes the truck and converts it into a gourmet fast-food joint, with a little help from an old friend and his son. Once again, it's time for glorious food shots - sizzling butter, golden bread, tender meat. It's all terribly sensual and appetising.

The food truck rolls through New Orleans and Austin, drawing eager foodies along the way. In Austin, they stop by a place to buy something that looks like charred wood, but which turns out to be exquisite, slow-cooked pork meat. They carve tiny slivers to taste it and groan with such pleasure that it's almost embarrassing to watch.

Of course, it all ends well for Chef Casper. Almost too well, I might add. But it's the kind of movie that you leave feeling inspired. And hungry.

21 months later...

You wake up calling out to me,
I am the last word you speak before going to sleep.
You make me smile,
You make me scream,
You make me want to be a better person.
I love your joy, your sense of fun,
The way you dance on the bed,
Or the way you twist and hide yourself in the curtains.
The way you walk on your toes,
and the way you throw your hands out to me.
Your energy seems to be in inverse proportion to mine.
You are loud and assertive, unafraid of authority,
You cannot be cowed down by shouts or stern expressions.
You throw yourself on the floor at the least provocation.
I love your spirit
and your unexpected hugs and kisses,
rare as they are precious.
I love how you call me both 'mama' and 'dada'
(And how you do the same for your father)
The way you try so hard to communicate,
stringing words together with some unintelligible sounds in between.
The way you say 'come' for 'go'
And 'down' for 'up'.
The way you call both a rooster and a crocodile, 'crawk-a-doody-doo'
And speaking of animals, you can't get enough of them
From the 'tat' (cat) and 'dog'
To the 'athen' (elephant), 'uppo' (hippo) and 'makki' (monkey)
Or even the 'rhindo' and 'jiaff'
The inexplicable one is the 'bada', as you've christened the zebra.
Or 'di-do' as you call the tiger.
I enjoy hearing you sing
Your favorite songs are 'Head shoulders knees and toes'
And 'Twinkle twinkle'
'Winko winko itti tal' - you sing it.
There are times when I can't wait for you to fall asleep
And there are times when I am tempted to wake you up
So I can enjoy your shenanigans.
I learn (and unlearn) new things every day
About you,
About myself.
Am so lucky I get to be
Your mom.

Scenes from the Greens

The tiny, sloping, grassy patch near the lake in The Greens doesn't even qualify as a park, but in a city starved for green spaces and play areas, it's a welcome oasis, and every evening it draws a swarm of kids, nannies and young mothers.

The littlest ones wave their tiny fists and gurgle as they take in the world from their prams. The toddlers practise their gross motor skills with varying degrees of success, the uneven ground presenting both a challenge and an opportunity to develop their fledgling muscles. There are a few limestone boulders strewn about the green patch, which are about a foot tall. Occasionally, an adventurous child will attempt to clamber atop one of the boulders, under the watchful eye of an adult.

The best time to visit this little patch of green is just before sunset. There's a golden sheen on the water, and a cool breeze brings respite from the day's fierce heat. The gulls fly in low, lazy arcs and hit the water surface, creating gentle ripples. The mynahs and sparrows swoop and hop as close as they can dare, ever watchful for a fallen tidbit or for hunks of bread flung by fascinated tots. Sometimes, one of them will lead a wobbly toddler on a merry chase, before spreading out its wings and soaring to the skies.

The nannies sit in clusters and exchange news and gossip, the words tumbling out in exotic-sounding languages - Nepali, Yoruba, Sinhalese, Somali, Tagalog... They watch over their wards with a sort of distant attentiveness. The young mothers bond over stories of their kids' milestones, sleep challenges and food allergies. Play dates are planned and coffee mornings are slotted.

Dog owners walk their pets around the track that lines the lake. There are an astonishing variety of dogs - little furry terriers, solemn looking mastiffs, even a muzzled hound who the owner assures is friendly. The little children watch the canine parade with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. One of them growls and says, 'Wuvv wuvv' and goes out towards one of the dog with arms outstretched to pat it. The dog responds enthusiastically, neck stretched forward, nose quivering. The little boy is suddenly unsure about what to do with the clammy tongue that's licking his chin and backs off a little, his chubby fingers now attempting to grab the animate tail.

A variety of toys lie strewn around. Walkers, toddler bikes, trikes, balls, rattles and so on. The kids routinely make a beeline for the toys not their own, and power battles ensue which end in tantrums and tears. The one toy that gets most of the kids excited is the bubble blower. They watch in awe as the translucent orbs form and disperse. The smaller children wave their arms and clap as the bubbles descend on them, the bigger ones rush around trying to 'burst' the bubbles.

The resplendent lake surface turns darker and the gulls waddle faster to their hiding spots. The little ones are bundled into prams or tucked under elbows and shepherded home. The 'park' empties out, and the joggers and pet walkers move more assuredly unimpeded by the wee obstructions. 

Zzzzz

For the first time in exactly 1 year and 8 months, Lil A took a nap all by himself. The two of us were alone at home in the morning. I was sitting at my desk and making my day's to-do list. He was on the bed, lying down and playing with his toys. After a few moments when I turned to glance at him, he was unusually still. He flashed a wide grin, the kind he usually reserves for moments when he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. I smiled and winked at him. A few seconds later when I turned to look at him, his mouth was open and his eyes were shut.

I tiptoed out of the room, shut the door and then fist-pumped like mad. This was a boy who kept us awake through the night for the first six months of his life. A boy who woke on an average of five times a night even until his first birthday. A boy who needed (and still needs) anywhere between 5 - 25 minutes of patting and singing and shushing to fall asleep. 

Here he was, emitting soft snuffles as he lay on his tummy, almost an hour before his scheduled naptime. No cot, no blanket, no favorite soft toys to cuddle, no blinds drawn. He had just put himself to sleep, with no fuss whatsoever. 

I knew it would be too much to expect him to continue the feat at every naptime. Still, watching a miracle unfold once gave me hope. 

True Story

Two writers walked into a bar called Story. One ordered a Whisky Sour, the other called for club soda with lime slices. They sat at a table on the terrace, which overlooked low office buildings. A cool breeze blew, even as flashes of lightning lit up the sky every few minutes.

"Not to worry," said the steward, "it won't rain for another hour at least."

He was wrong. Fat drops of rain pelted the table within fifteen minutes. They barely managed to run into the bar with their drinks, the sweet potato fries and the quinoa salad. The bar was not as much fun on the inside. There were too many office goers who'd stopped off after work to have a drink. They were noisy, smoked inside the bar had that 'can't-wait-to-get-drunk-and-forget-work' look about them.

Also, the techno music, which was pleasantly muted while the writers were seated outside, seemed too loud and intrusive inside. It was difficult to resume the conversation they were having outside about Peruvian food, the rise of an independent cafes and the food habits of a 20-month-old boy.

They decided to call it a night and headed home. End of Story. 

Ah-dil

A trip to Adil Stores never fails to amaze me. Essentially, it's an Indian supermarket which has a wide selection of dry groceries and kitchen items, but what it really stocks is Indian nostalgia.

For instance, here's where you can find Milan Supari or Amul Shrikhand or Rasna or even 'Indian Maggi'. The larger supermarkets like Lulu or Choithram's may have Mother's Recipe or Priya Pickles. But at Adil, you can find Bedekar's brand of pickles. Again, at the larger supermarkets, you can find a wide range of Basmati rice, but at Adil, you can get the lesser known Ambe Mohar or Kolam varieties. You'll also find things you might have lost a taste for back in India, but may suddenly develop a yearning for like khari biscuits or boiled sweets shaped like orange segments or amla supari. 

Going beyond foodstuff, Adil recreates another old Indian tradition - of grinding grain in a stone mill and packing it right before your eyes. This used to be the norm in the India when I was growing up. I remember how my sister and I would heave a metal tin filled with wheat to the stone mill, and then lug home the hot tin with soft, golden flour. I remember how we giggled at the man in the stone mill whose hair, moustache and clothes were always covered in white flour. 'Ghost ghost', we'd whisper to each other.

I saw the stone mill in a sectioned off area in Adil, where flour was being ground, but there was no ghost. The man working the mill wore an apron and his head was covered with the mandatory hairnet. Everything was sanitised and neat, as per municipality rules. The freshly ground flour was packed in a brown paper bag. (I once worked with a multinational client who dealt in packaged flour, and he mentioned that his competition wasn't other packaged flour brands, but Adil Stores.)

I also saw a poster in the store which said, 'Gluten Free Atta'. Given my intolerance to gluten, I was intrigued. The flour featured a blend of rice, sorghum, garbanzo and other flours, and cost about Dhs. 20 for 1 kg. I was impressed that gluten intolerance was even acknowledged in an Indian supermarket, given that rotis and naans are such an important part of an Indian diet. I also spotted organic basmati rice and organic sugar and even organic jaggery.

Clearly, despite its stronghold on the nostalgia market, Adil believed in keeping with the times.

Yoga for beginners

I’ve been practicing yoga on and off in the last three years (admittedly, more off than on). I’ve been to 6 different studios and maybe a dozen or so instructors. I’ve done Hatha yoga, Bikram yoga, prenatal yoga, post-natal yoga and even a 10-day yoga seminar. 

With all this practise, one would have thought that I would be all lithe and limber by now. That's not the case though. Far from it. As I found out at class today, I don't even know how to breathe. I suck in air too fast and exhale too noisily, emitting the sound from my throat rather than my nose. While I do manage to get my fingertips and toes to meet without bending my knees, I huff and puff through the series of sun salutations. I shake like a reed during the shoulder stand. And when the instructor announces the child's pose, I crawl into the pose and weep like a baby. 

If there's one thing I'm moderately good at it's doing a lying down spinal twist. The pose requires you to intertwine your legs, raise them to your chest and then twist to one side, while the shoulders twist in the other direction. 

My spine sets off the loudest cracking sounds that echo around the studio. A feeling of indescribable bliss courses through my sore body after that crack. I endure the class for this moment. It's like a drug (not unlike that other less salubrious yet addictive 'crack').

Today, I discovered that I could intertwine my legs without assistance from the instructor. I turned to one side and CRACK! 

Aha, said the instructor. 

Aaaaaahhhh, I replied. 

Yion Book

In the last 20 months that he's been around, Little A has amassed a modest collection of books. These books fall into three categories.

1. Books that can be thrown, torn, chewed and used as tantrum fodder. These are books that are either hand-me-downs or second hand books, with dull titles like Alphabet 123 and First 100 words and Shapes. These books occupy the lowermost shelf of our bookcase, and are easily accessible at all times.

2. A second category of books are those placed out of reach in a box on the window ledge. These are books that have been curated and bought after considerable research. Books like Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, The Tiger Who Came to Tea by Judith Kerr, Peepo by Janet and Allen Ahlberg, Bus Stop by Taro Gomi, Brown Bear, Brown Bear by Eric Carle... and a selection of Dr. Seuss classics - Hop on Pop, Oh the Thinks you can Think, There's a Wocket in my Pocket... These are our much-loved reads and we dip into this selection through the day, and especially before dinner and at bedtime. Some of them show signs of use (and occasional misuse), but on the whole, they're well maintained.

3. There's a third selection of books that's neither found on the shelf nor in the box on the ledge. In fact, it's not easily found at all. This category consists of a single book that is tucked away under nightclothes in our wardrobe. It's titled The Happy Lion by Louise Fatio and Roger Duvoisin, and is better known in our household as the 'Yion Book'.

The reason for the odd storage place is that it is technically a Second Category book, but which is fast turning into a Category One book because of uncommonly heavy usage. There are mornings when we are jolted awake from sleep with shouts of 'Yion, YION!' And there are nights when we've had to pry 'Yion Book' from under a slumbering little form who had steadfastly refused to go to sleep without it. 'Yion Book' is the definitive remedy for all kinds of boo-boos and has been known to bring tantrums to an immediate standstill. Paradoxically, 'Yion Book' can be both a stimulant and a tranquilliser, and can stretch brief attention spans into long minutes.

I had no idea of the book's mystical powers when I picked it up at 'Woods in the Books', a charming bookstore in Singapore. I thought the book's bright orange dust jacket would look nice framed, and didn't even take a look at the contents. I didn't know then it was a vintage gem that was first printed in 1954 and only reprinted in 2004 to commemorate its 50th anniversary. The Happy Lion was the first collaboration by the husband-wife team of Louise Fatio and Roger Duvoisin who went on to write ten books in the Happy Lion series.

At the heart of the book is a sweet story of a friendship between an unusually content and well-mannered lion in a city zoo and the zoo keeper's son. The genial lion cannot comprehend why people who are otherwise so friendly and polite when they see him at the zoo, suddenly turn into frenzied creatures when he decides to walk out of his enclosure one morning.

Little A gets most excited when I dramatize the 'sound effects' in the book. Ratata boom BOOM!  The town band is in full form before the shrieks of the crowd drown them out. TootoooTOOOT goes the fire engine. When the suspense gets too much, Little A grabs the book from my hand and decides to 'read' on his own.

The last couple of days I've begun scanning the Internet for the entire Happy Lion series. "Are you sure he won't outgrow this book in the next few weeks?" asks pragmatic Mr. T.

Chances are, he might. But I'm not so sure about myself.

A trip to Positano, Dubai.

On Valentine's Day this year, Mr. T and I ended up going to a zoo. Granted, it's not quite the spot for a romantic rendezvous, but with an 18-month-old toddler calling the shots, and with 'Valentine frenzy' peaking at most hotels and restaurants, the zoo seemed like a serene option.

One of the unexpected outcomes of the long drive to the Al Ain Zoo, however, was winning a radio contest on the 87.9 Abu Dhabi Classic FM. The prize: dinner brunch for two at Positano, the Italian restaurant at the JW Marriott Marquis.

The dinner brunch is only on a Sunday, and we finally ended up redeeming our prize yesterday. The staff was genial and friendly, the restaurant felt spacious and welcoming, the vibe was good. I'd sneaked a peek at a few reviews before we left and they all seemed glowing. I couldn't wait to find out for myself. 

The manager requested us to wait at the bar while they set up our table near the window. As we took in the views of the place, I sipped some fantastic Cabernet Sauvignon from Puglia. We didn't have to wait long before the manager appeared again, offering us a 'tour of the buffet' which turned out to be as extensive as the winding roads on the Amalfi coast. 

There was a table groaning with pretty appetisers, and a ham section, followed by a cheese section, which led to the pizza counter, which was next to the pasta counter, which was followed by the seafood and the meats... The dessert buffet involved another delightful trek.

Wanting to pace myself so as to enjoy the entire spread, I nibbled a bit of everything. The aubergine parmigiana that had to be scooped out of a tiny cup was spectacular as was the bruschetta made with black bread. The burrata simply melted and slid down my throat without much effort. Mr. T focussed on doing justice to the seafood and especially the Parma ham and Napoli sausage. The cheery staff at the pizza counter encouraged us to go for a split pizza - so we tried the Buffalota and Positano special. The crust was light and crisp and the buffalo mozzarella the best I've ever eaten. I tried the ricotta and spinach stuffed ravioli in a roasted tomato and basil sauce. I found the ravioli a bit too doughy and dry at the edges, but the sauce was incredibly flavorful.

The dessert counter was immorally large. There's no way that one could wade through all the above mentioned counters and still have space for the spread, but I did my best. The tiramisu was good but the superlatives belonged to the cheesecake. Another favorite was the airy lemon sponge cake. And the espresso mousse. And macarons. And did I mention the gelato?

We staggered out content with the experience. We're definitely going to be back for more. 

Feel the lurrve

An avalanche hit me on my birthday this year. Over 200 emails from friends, cousins, acquaintances, old classmates, ex-boyfriends, people I haven’t spoken to in years, even people I’ve been avoiding.

Of course, anyone who has his or her birth date listed on Facebook will know what I’m talking about. The wishes just keep pouring in. Each time you empty out a batch of Facebook notifications, there’s another deluge within a few minutes.

Let’s get this straight, I enjoy attention as much as any other megalomaniac. And this torrent of wishes can be quite heady. As a kid, I always wanted the whole world to know it was my birthday and fawn over me. I loved it when people remembered the day without prompting and gave me cards and gifts, but equally thrilling was someone finding out and then making a big deal of it.

“Ohhh!! it’s your birthday!!! Hey everyone, it’s her birthday!!!! Haaaapppyyyy biiiiirthhhhdayyyy tooooo youuuuuuu……”

Over the years, the thrill of celebrating birthdays never diminished. But somehow people’s enthusiasm hasn’t quite kept up. Does anyone even send greeting cards with hand written messages anymore? I loved receiving them.  They used to be the harbinger of birthdays, arriving in the post with exotic stamps and with the scent of faraway places. I still have a collection of those cards, some of them over 30 years old.  

E-cards tried to replicate the same emotion, but they never caught on thankfully. With their annoying pop ups and tinny music, they just seemed like a soulless version of the real thing.

Then, of course, came sms wishes. HB 2 U. Throw in a smiley or two and you could even inject some emotion into an impersonal message. It always struck me as odd to receive sms wishes from friends in the same city. But this year, it turned out that most of the text messages I received were from banks and malls – faceless establishments that needed to prove their ‘human’ side.

It used to be that the older you grew, the fewer the people who remembered your birthday, and made the effort to wish you. But Facebook’s changed all that. Wishes start trickling in at the stroke of midnight, or earlier, depending on your time zone. The friends who usually needed prompts and warnings in the past, now have no problem remembering.  The ‘Wall’ is painted with enthusiastic outpourings, cheerful declarations and fervent wishes. Even people you’ve had minimal interaction with in years seem to feel for you somehow.

I’m not saying that there’s anything insincere about these wishes. It’s just that they seem a little too ‘easy’. The challenge used to be in making the effort to remember birthdays. Earlier, you had to make a note of it in a diary or embed it in memory. And you only reserved this privilege for the important few.

Now, people know it’s your birthday because Facebook tells them. You can write a wish without having to look at the date. Coz, hey, Facebook will prompt you next year as well. With minimal effort, you can hammer out a few words and then get on with checking someone’s vacation photos, or comment on someone’s status.

Some people find it ‘overwhelming’ and are ‘touched’ with this outpouring of love on their birthdays. Some others go to the extent of replying and thanking every single person who’s left a wish on their wall. I’m often embarrassed when someone thanks me. It feels like they’ve put in more effort than I have.

Maybe I’m just growing old and crotchety, and prone to ranting. Maybe it really is nice to be thought of, even if briefly, by over 200 people on your birthday. But there’s nothing to beat the few calls from family and close friends, who didn’t need to refer to Facebook to know it’s my birthday. 

Reviews on the go

A quick round up of movies watched this weekend, reviewed in one line. 

Bridesmaids 

Diarrhea happens.

Verdict: Excellent!!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II

The End, or is it?

Verdict: Snorrrrre

Shaitan

Spoiled rich kids meet their end.

Verdict: Unmissable!

Postcard from Eritrea

Mr. T was in Eritrea last week on a work-related trip. When people asked about his whereabouts, I would say, Ethiopia. Not that I was geographically challenged, but for some reason most people looked blank when I said, Eritrea.

Truth be told, I hadn’t given Eritrea a second thought until this trip came up. I only knew it was somewhere near Ethiopia. I did some cursory reading, mostly to figure out how safe it was, and discovered that it was a deemed a ‘state sponsor of terrorism’ and was under ‘UN sanctions’. Of course, I found this out this while Mr. T was in Eritrea, and could do nothing more than ask him to ‘lock the doors and windows at night’.

What’s it like, I asked, the moment he got back. Cold, he said. Eritrea is about 7000 ft. above sea level and temperatures reached a maximum of 24 degrees even in summer.

What’s the place like, I wanted to know. It’s quite like Goa, he replied. That was a huge compliment as far as Eritrea was concerned. Mr. T, an eternal Goaphile, ranked most places he visited based on their semblance to Goa.

It had an easy charm, apparently. An Italian colony until the last century, it still featured graceful, Art Deco buildings, especially in the capital, Asmara. Like any place unused to tourists or travelers, credit cards were rarely accepted, and currency exchanges frequently ‘ran out of dollars’. The ritziest hotel in town was no more than a well-maintained lodge. And that’s where Mr. T and his colleague happened to be staying.

The rooms were squeaky clean but tiny. One could enter the room and fall into bed in the same motion, apparently. Mr. T also ended up sharing the room with scores of mosquitoes. And in the bathroom, apart from a single bar of soap, there were no other toiletries.

One morning, Mr. T and his colleague stopped at the Reception to check if they could get some moisturizer. Because of the cold weather, their skin had turned dry and cracked. The receptionist replied that the hotel had run out toiletries. However, before they could turn around, she opened a drawer and pulled out her handbag. She rummaged through it and came up with a tube of scented body butter. Before they could object, she squeezed out a big dollop on both their palms.

“Have a good day, sir,” she said, waving them off when they tried to thank her.

What Eritrea lacked as a country, it more than made up by its people.

The Writing Desk

The Resident Chef (also known as the Husband, or Mr. T, for short) couldn’t understand my insistence on a writing desk.

“Can’t you use the new work desk we’ve just bought?” he asked, referring to the functional black table with grey legs. Just a few days old and yet every inch of it was covered with an assortment of papers, visiting cards, post-its, laptop wires, extension cords and more. If that was a work desk, there wasn’t space to get any work done.

But it wasn’t just the clutter that was the issue. I’d set my heart on owning a writing desk for a long time. And not just any old table, but a nice solid wood, antique desk, with little shelves and cubbyholes, and maybe an inkwell or two. The kind that would be at home in an English study, replete with a fireplace, a cozy armchair and tall shelves filled with leather bound books.

In anticipation of the desk, I’d christened the smaller bedroom in our new home, the Study. I’d even picked the spot where the desk would be placed – at a corner in the room with a window on the left, a window in front, and an almost uninterrupted view of the gorgeous sky. If you lived in a city teeming with high-rises, you’d know how priceless a view that can be.

It took a lot of cajoling on the part of Mr. T to convince me that a solid wood desk wouldn’t quite fit into our modern minimalist décor. Also he pointed that the ‘study’ would be doubling up as the guest bedroom, and so the ‘chintz armchair with footstool’ would have to make way for a more practical sofa-cum-bed.

Many sulks later, I found myself staring at a somewhat workable solution to our marital conflict. It was an unbelievably compact, tidy white desk from IKEA. It had one shelf under the desk, presumably to tuck away the laptop when one wanted to indulge in good, old-fashioned, long-hand writing. It also featured a tiny little drawer to squirrel away pens, bookmarks and other essential stationery. But its best feature was further below. A thoughtfully provided broad footrest, something that’s absolutely vital when you’re blessed with a petite frame and your lower limbs can’t find the floor. At work, I would thrust my feet over the CPU, and in some cases, the dustbin even, in an attempt to be comfortable.

Mr. T, the indulgent husband that he is, sighed deeply and wrestled the flat packed desk onto the trolley. He even assembled it when I wasn’t home, no mean feat when you see the impossible illustrations in the IKEA assembly manual.

“I hope you’re going to write after all this,” he mumbled, as I gushed about his handiwork.

“Of course, I will,” I declared. “It’s just the inspiration I’ve needed.”