Part Uno: Transiting through Redland
Aeroflot rocks!Since rock is also from the 70s. We had grown up with the Air India treatment. Jet is new. Indigo is new. The Kingfisher swimsuit calendar is new. But at the end of the day, I guess every Indian yearns for the old world Air India motherly treatment. That is why we cry for attention - whether that is the extra cup of coffee that we ask for (or 2 or 3 until the correct airhostess brings it) in the request to turn down the air-conditioning even though you can control the fan, in the silent treatment hoping that they warm up to your innocuousness. All this, because of Air India. When I stepped on to the Aeroflot flight, I expected the same. And there were signs. The absence of in-flight entertainment, the drab 70s minimalist bullshit buttons, the rexine in blue. We knew that the women would sing us lullabys. And then it turned wierd.
For instead of women, the flights are filled with motherly fatherly stewards. There is a reason why its called motherly and not fatherly. You cannot ever imagine a 50-year-old man asking you if you would like some extra milk in your tea. Even in this politically correct world, these are matters that scar you for life. Men are men. Women are women. Even if you're gay.
Everything else is perfect. There was no glitch in the service, because there was no service. The broccoli tasted infinitely better than the fish for a change. The flight was as relaxing as a boat, mainly because it was bobbing up and down mid-air. It also reminds you of the finer elements of life, elements that we had taken for granted - like a flight landing without crashing. At the end of it, I think Aeroflot is Air India's marketing ploy, to make itself look better. Commuunism came to India on this ?! No wonder it is doing so well.
Part Dos: La Capital
Madrid is supposed to inspire you. After all, it inspired Cervantes, Goya, Hemmingway and almost everyone else. In the Cafe Solos, the Mantacedos, the Vino Tintos, the Vino Blancos, the Patchinas, the Churos, the Jamon, the Museo del Prado, the La Latina and the Lavapies, in Sol or even on the Gran Via. Sadly, it didnt - well until I decided enough is enough. I was done searching for the party. I was done begging for the perfect Croissant. I was done with the Bernabeu. And I was done with the meetings. On a cold, rainy, Saturday morning, I stretched out, opened up and almost shouted out - "Where the Fuck are you Madrid ?!!"
In answer, the city brought me to El Botanico, the perfect breakfast place for the perfectly cold weather with the perfectly cold waitress. Some Churos and some Cafe Solos later, I would have loved to say that I felt like taking on Saturday. But to say that would be quite stupid and ironical. Saturdays in Spain give themselves over to you. If you want to take on Saturday in Madrid, you might as well shoot a goal on an open field at the Bernabeu (or against the entire team sans Casillas) and say that you have won the Champions' League.
The good parts about Madrid, Barca and Cape Town are that they embrace modernity and mix it with the old paintings to create the perfect scotch. Warsaw is still stuck in the cold war. Joburg is still stuck with the apartheid and Delhi is, well, stuck. But Madrid is moving, and it is best symbolised by the El Botanico. It 10 in the morning in a cold rainy Madrid. No wonder the waitress is like Elizabeth II. Let this not ruin your impression of Spanish women.
For when she smiled, the rain stopped and the sun came out - quite literally. And though it was time to pay the cheque and leave, there was a sudden necessity of un cafe solo mas (please refer to the reflections on Aeroflot).
Madrid, in itself, is quite similar to Delhi. Being the corporate headquarters, you expect the main roads to be quite broad and laden with trees and Spanish Goth buildings. The poverty is well-hidden in the subway or singing "My funny valentine" in front of the del Prado.
Although bad in many ways, it is good in one way though. It is human - unlike Goteborg. The women have more to them than Prada and Hermes. There is Prada and Hermes of course. But thats not all. And while the legs are not everything, they are quite important.
Saturdays are nice. The sun comes out, the autumn leaves come out, the vermut tastes good, and the madrilenos come out. It is also good that the world has Spanish as a language. It makes things nice and noisy - even if you are exploring Renoir's work.
Its a shame that I have to go to Barcelona already. I do need a little more time sipping vermut and writing - like Hemingway. Bottled vermut tastes so good that I can imagine how nice it must be, when from the tap. Madrid is the quiet time you spend before the party in Barca and there is the flamenco still.
And thus the tale of Madrid ends - in a coffee shop on Atocha Sants sipping cafe solo while listening to Akon. Whatever happened to the Flamenco ? It is so much better! That night at Anton Martin reminds you of everything.
In a bar smaller than the roll shops in Calcutta, was fitted in one place for Cervesas, one small platform, eight members of a flamenco octet and a crowd of around forty.
While smoke fulled the room (including you-know-what - its legal to smoke but illegal to buy) and the beer flowed from the taps and the women turned up in their Friday best by Bombay standards on a Wednesday, the octet conjured magic like I had never seen before.
The sax oozed sex while the guitar and the piano made my beer more potent than Absynth and the flute made everyone fall for it. Anton Martin passed by while the small street with cobble stones came alive and apart from the usual omnipresent idiot, there was nothing much to bother you.
People philosophised on how the flamenco was quite based on the taal (it apparently was influenced by the tribes of Rajasthan) and one woman actually did the Kathak in perfect sync with the beats. The more robust material shall be left out of this dialogue.
And thus ends the tale of Madrid. Barcelona with Gaudi and one-night-stands, should be a lot of fun. And when the usual gang of idiots meet up, sparks will fly. After all, apart from Cape Town and JoBurg, Barca has made for one of the best nights outside India.
Part tres: La otro ciudad
And so it was. Gaudi is bewildering. Its like giving a million dollars to a kid in a missionary school and telling him to play with clay. Of course what you get will send people climbing up trees ans running for cover. Gaudi did exactly that. The Sagrada Familia is the Mad Hatter's home, except that it is Christ's. The entry would be perfect for Wonderland, except that it is for religion instead. It might as well have impressed upon the works of Lewis Carol and Steve Jobs. And after more than a hundred years, this is still under construction. Someone said 2030 is the magic year. Or was it 2130 ? Well so much happy, and so were the other kids. The adults cringed.
From there, we moved on to the Botafumerio. When in Spain, eat your heart out. Luis said that for the Spanish, eating was a ceremony. We finish a regular meal in 20 minutes. The Soanish finish the same in 2 hours. There is the entre, the mains, and the postre and coffee. So much for food, that must see places included restaurants or tapas bars or roadside food (although there is not much of it). I thought Barca would be more robust than Madrid. But everything is quite Tra la la.
Prawns and oysters with noodles. The need of desert. Ceylon tea and cigarettes. The bong in me is going to be the end of me. But you cannot help it. I am not gorging on KFC or McDee's or roti and tadka. This is fine dining, by waiters who put water in ice buckets for you. Among gorgeous glamorous heiresses and heads of state. Well, I might as well speculate on the bit about the heads of state.
Part Quatro: Epilogical ramblings
And like that, 2 weeks whizzed by. Of course the last 3 days were spent in a large room comprising of people, people and airhostesses. Of course the evenings were spent in small bars, a lot of ham, a lot of cava, a lot of wine, one South African and a lot of French.
It is what you imagine. Spain for one, and Europe in general has been in action for quite some time. And like any place in action for quite some time, has its own little secrets that are just waiting to be unravelled. But you need friends, or someone who knows the streets - the small alleys that would be difficult to find and would direct you somewhere else unless you have the people who know it. And moreover, who wants to brood over a beer alone ?
Paris was too short. While you walk along the Champ-Ulysses after the perfect croissant and before the perfect Touloise sausage, while you ogle at the the women entering Louis Vuitton or wait in line for a Macaroon, while you stare in wonder at the Eiffel Tower - you realise a lot more money and a lot more time to enjoy Paris. Audrey Hepburn knew. Sophia Coppola knows. Douglas Kennedy does too.
Walks down the Ramblas, the Gran Via or the Champs Ulysses notwithstanding, the main cities or Europe are not to be seen for what they are known by, but what they are known by. The small pub in the unmarked street, the waitress's smile, the match watched with folks who have no clue about who you are. I have seen the Bernabeu enough. But I have not seen the Spanish or the French enough. All this nonsense before I take the Air India flight back. Wish I was in Cannes.
