Like the beginning of all stories, this one too began on a fine sunny morning in May. Yours truly had just returned from home, was in the other city that she was increasingly calling her own and was seated at her office desk, doing nothing in particular. An SMS was to change things.
It was her friend. Jet Airways had introduced new flights and were offering trips to France at throwaway prices. As was merited, the enthusiasm was considerable. Some shrieks were exchanged, plans made and tickets booked.
What followed next is the actual start to the story. Now, if you are on your own for a given period of time, and in your mid twenties, you tend to take certain things for granted. One of them being the belief that your parents think you capable of taking care of yourself. However, some myths were to be dispelled. The picture of two girls on their own in a foreign land did not inspire much confidence in daddy dearest. A phone conversation later, he was convinced that we weren't going. Why? Because he said so. With a loud and emphatic NO. Now here's the tricky part- my role as a dutiful daughter almost rivals that of Queen's Rani (aside: my brother still thinks that the movie has been our primary motivator). So it's only natural that I became the rebel with a cause. Little did my unsuspecting father know that the non-refundable tickets had already been bought (my only defense here being that I'd genuinely not anticipated such fierce resistance to what in my head was a legit plan). So not going was really never an option. In such situations, I do what I've always done, turn to my mother. She wasn't too happy about the plan either, I could tell, but was at least willing to listen.
Another aside would help here. Our initial plan was to go in August (best weather and all), but at the time of booking, tickets were getting sold out like nobody's business. So we ended up booking for the second week of September, incidentally my favourite and birthday month.
So given the background, when she came up with a suggestion that only moms can come up with, I more than welcomed it. She would join us for the trip in parts and also be there for my birthday. Papa couldn't object now and all would be good with the world.
Or so I thought. The trick with the written word is that often, you can't detect the tone underneath. It was a long fought battle for my friend too. Earning the trust of your parents is never an easy task. She had managed to do the impossible and had booked in the knowledge that I'd done the same. So when it went from being a girls only trip, to an escorted by a parent trip, she was naturally ruffled. Now, not ever having felt more conflicted in my life, and understanding the valid sentiments on both sides, I knew what I had to do- concentrate on mutter paneer.
After much ado about some things, everyone finally came around (full credits here to the long gestation period, my ever thoughtful mom and my amazing and large-hearted friend who decided that she did not wish to murder me after all).
All energy was diverted back to planning and executing a successful trip that would hopefully restore our parents faith in us as reliable, independent women made of sterner stuff. The itinerary was fixed. My friend and I were to travel on the morning of the 9th and reach Paris the same evening. My mom would then join us on the evening of the 11th and leave again by 13th afternoon to visit her cousin in Denmark. We, on the other hand would travel to Amsterdam, 14th morning, and come to Geneva, 15th night, here to be joined again by my mom and aunts traveling from Denmark with her. 17th morning, we'd leave for Paris and in the evening, catch our final flight back to India.
While it all sounded wonderful on paper, as the dates drew nearer, our anxiety grew. However, the feeling that we'd soon be on our own in a country that spoke a different language was surreal.
All necessary arrangements had been made. We'd booked hostels, copied necessary routes from and to stations/airports, taken print outs of maps and made a list of must-see/do places and things. Also, and most importantly, the visa had arrived.
At the cost of an ever lengthening write-up, I shall tell you the visa story because it's worth sharing. I shall also do the other thing which I could have done before, call my friend by name.
So, Shibani and I, on a very rainy Mumbai morning, decided to go to the visa office. The night before, I had gone to her house for a sleepover (read mouth-watering, home-cooked food) where we checked and cross-checked that all documents for the next day were in order. We had given ourselves plenty of time, accounting for visa processing and delivery, so that we'd have 'em ready comfortably before travel. Drenched individually but without a drop on our double plastic sheathed papers, we emerged triumphantly from the auto-rickshaw, all set to conquer the world. Waiting patiently in the lobby inside, our number was called and we rushed to submit bag and baggage. Alas, one dratted little document, mentioned nowhere on the requirement list was missing. I beseeched the guy on the other side to see reason. The permanent address proof on my passport was for Noida. I was applying from Bombay. I had been working here for 2 years and documents from my office attested to that. So, unless I was doing up and down from Noida every day and secretly hiding the fact, there was really little reason to disbelieve my story. But the guy was adamant. So we had no choice but to return disheartened to our respective offices, taking solace in tomorrow being another day.
The next day came, the last formality was completed (with my office coming valiantly to my rescue) and all we had to do was wait to hear from them - 3 weeks we'd been told. It was Tuesday when all our documents for visa application had gone, it was Friday, when our respective visas arrived. There is always light at the end of the tunnel.
I return now to the 9th of September. Backpacks in tow, we were finally inside the aircraft, our composure belying our racing hearts. 3 movies (Roman Holiday, Moulin Rouge, West Side Story - had not seen any before and would now recommend all 3) and Rosesh's shaayari later, our flight
descended on French soil.
A week before, I had had the bright idea to subscribe to a basic French language course. Apparently, the idea wasn't too bright because by the time we landed, I could only recall a few stock phrases. However, our anxiety was unfounded. Paris not only manages well with English, it can also boast to have among the nicest, best looking, best dressed people you can find anywhere in the world. It is also pretty evident that they take the mantle of being the fashion capital of the world seriously.
We had booked a hostel in the Montmarte area, of the infamous Moulin Rouge. The area was perfect, epitomising Paris for us, with it's well connected metros, it's extremely pretty cafés, red berries and a safe haven to dump our stuff and take off.
Our roommate was an Argentinian chemical engineer who was traveling on work and pursuing a PhD. She directed us to the best metro map in the hostel and that was pretty much all we needed.
So take-off we did. With the map tucked neatly in our pockets and with weather that looked customised for our trip, we set out to discover what turned out to be a beautiful, very well planned out city.
10th was the day of Eiffel Tower. Shibani freaked out because it has featured on her list of must see places since forever. I freaked out because her enthusiasm is contagious. We took the Tour de Eiffel tickets and began to climb a very long set of winding stairs. Always carrying food in our bags, on the second level, we paused to eat theplas. Delicious home-made Gujarati theplas smack in the middle of Eiffel tower. Nothing can beat that experience.
Once full, we resumed our sojourn towards Trocadero gardens. In Paris, the Eiffel is pretty much everywhere and this knowledge hits you specially when you've taken off your shoes to relax in the sprawling greenery that beckons lovers, families and friends to forget their troubles for a day and just bask in the glorious sunlight. Bask you do and up you look and you see the Eiffel greeting you with a warm hello. Every negative feeling in the world eludes you. I speak from experience.
Post Eiffel, we decided to grace Arc de Triomphe with our presence. All we had to do was study the route to the nearest metro station and then, within two steps of the sortie (exit), be amazed by the gigantic structure standing tall in all its glory. This was a feature that held true for most places of eminence. The exits were located so close to the destinations that it looked tailor made for tourists and residents alike. The Arc stands on one end of Champs Elysees, the famed avenue that lends Paris its fashionista status. Here, you see long queues of people thronging outlets like Louis Vuitton. You'd be forgiven to think they were selling vada paaos by the dozen.
Hunger struck again and this time we decided to sit in one of the many brasseries and try the inviting tarts and macaroons. Once seated, we sated our eyes more than our tummies. Every second person looked like he had a ramp to hurry to. Same was the case near the Grand and Petit Palais. By the bridge of Pont Alexandre III and situated near the river bank was the most happening area of the city. It was a frequent of the office goers done for the day. One look at their smart black suits and charming smiles, and your heart would never feel more inconstant. With the sun slowly setting, we reluctantly bid goodbye to what was a veritable feast for the eyes.
To be continued...
It was her friend. Jet Airways had introduced new flights and were offering trips to France at throwaway prices. As was merited, the enthusiasm was considerable. Some shrieks were exchanged, plans made and tickets booked.
What followed next is the actual start to the story. Now, if you are on your own for a given period of time, and in your mid twenties, you tend to take certain things for granted. One of them being the belief that your parents think you capable of taking care of yourself. However, some myths were to be dispelled. The picture of two girls on their own in a foreign land did not inspire much confidence in daddy dearest. A phone conversation later, he was convinced that we weren't going. Why? Because he said so. With a loud and emphatic NO. Now here's the tricky part- my role as a dutiful daughter almost rivals that of Queen's Rani (aside: my brother still thinks that the movie has been our primary motivator). So it's only natural that I became the rebel with a cause. Little did my unsuspecting father know that the non-refundable tickets had already been bought (my only defense here being that I'd genuinely not anticipated such fierce resistance to what in my head was a legit plan). So not going was really never an option. In such situations, I do what I've always done, turn to my mother. She wasn't too happy about the plan either, I could tell, but was at least willing to listen.
Another aside would help here. Our initial plan was to go in August (best weather and all), but at the time of booking, tickets were getting sold out like nobody's business. So we ended up booking for the second week of September, incidentally my favourite and birthday month.
So given the background, when she came up with a suggestion that only moms can come up with, I more than welcomed it. She would join us for the trip in parts and also be there for my birthday. Papa couldn't object now and all would be good with the world.
Or so I thought. The trick with the written word is that often, you can't detect the tone underneath. It was a long fought battle for my friend too. Earning the trust of your parents is never an easy task. She had managed to do the impossible and had booked in the knowledge that I'd done the same. So when it went from being a girls only trip, to an escorted by a parent trip, she was naturally ruffled. Now, not ever having felt more conflicted in my life, and understanding the valid sentiments on both sides, I knew what I had to do- concentrate on mutter paneer.
After much ado about some things, everyone finally came around (full credits here to the long gestation period, my ever thoughtful mom and my amazing and large-hearted friend who decided that she did not wish to murder me after all).
All energy was diverted back to planning and executing a successful trip that would hopefully restore our parents faith in us as reliable, independent women made of sterner stuff. The itinerary was fixed. My friend and I were to travel on the morning of the 9th and reach Paris the same evening. My mom would then join us on the evening of the 11th and leave again by 13th afternoon to visit her cousin in Denmark. We, on the other hand would travel to Amsterdam, 14th morning, and come to Geneva, 15th night, here to be joined again by my mom and aunts traveling from Denmark with her. 17th morning, we'd leave for Paris and in the evening, catch our final flight back to India.
While it all sounded wonderful on paper, as the dates drew nearer, our anxiety grew. However, the feeling that we'd soon be on our own in a country that spoke a different language was surreal.
All necessary arrangements had been made. We'd booked hostels, copied necessary routes from and to stations/airports, taken print outs of maps and made a list of must-see/do places and things. Also, and most importantly, the visa had arrived.
At the cost of an ever lengthening write-up, I shall tell you the visa story because it's worth sharing. I shall also do the other thing which I could have done before, call my friend by name.
So, Shibani and I, on a very rainy Mumbai morning, decided to go to the visa office. The night before, I had gone to her house for a sleepover (read mouth-watering, home-cooked food) where we checked and cross-checked that all documents for the next day were in order. We had given ourselves plenty of time, accounting for visa processing and delivery, so that we'd have 'em ready comfortably before travel. Drenched individually but without a drop on our double plastic sheathed papers, we emerged triumphantly from the auto-rickshaw, all set to conquer the world. Waiting patiently in the lobby inside, our number was called and we rushed to submit bag and baggage. Alas, one dratted little document, mentioned nowhere on the requirement list was missing. I beseeched the guy on the other side to see reason. The permanent address proof on my passport was for Noida. I was applying from Bombay. I had been working here for 2 years and documents from my office attested to that. So, unless I was doing up and down from Noida every day and secretly hiding the fact, there was really little reason to disbelieve my story. But the guy was adamant. So we had no choice but to return disheartened to our respective offices, taking solace in tomorrow being another day.
The next day came, the last formality was completed (with my office coming valiantly to my rescue) and all we had to do was wait to hear from them - 3 weeks we'd been told. It was Tuesday when all our documents for visa application had gone, it was Friday, when our respective visas arrived. There is always light at the end of the tunnel.
I return now to the 9th of September. Backpacks in tow, we were finally inside the aircraft, our composure belying our racing hearts. 3 movies (Roman Holiday, Moulin Rouge, West Side Story - had not seen any before and would now recommend all 3) and Rosesh's shaayari later, our flight
A week before, I had had the bright idea to subscribe to a basic French language course. Apparently, the idea wasn't too bright because by the time we landed, I could only recall a few stock phrases. However, our anxiety was unfounded. Paris not only manages well with English, it can also boast to have among the nicest, best looking, best dressed people you can find anywhere in the world. It is also pretty evident that they take the mantle of being the fashion capital of the world seriously.
We had booked a hostel in the Montmarte area, of the infamous Moulin Rouge. The area was perfect, epitomising Paris for us, with it's well connected metros, it's extremely pretty cafés, red berries and a safe haven to dump our stuff and take off.
Our roommate was an Argentinian chemical engineer who was traveling on work and pursuing a PhD. She directed us to the best metro map in the hostel and that was pretty much all we needed.
So take-off we did. With the map tucked neatly in our pockets and with weather that looked customised for our trip, we set out to discover what turned out to be a beautiful, very well planned out city.
10th was the day of Eiffel Tower. Shibani freaked out because it has featured on her list of must see places since forever. I freaked out because her enthusiasm is contagious. We took the Tour de Eiffel tickets and began to climb a very long set of winding stairs. Always carrying food in our bags, on the second level, we paused to eat theplas. Delicious home-made Gujarati theplas smack in the middle of Eiffel tower. Nothing can beat that experience.
Once full, we resumed our sojourn towards Trocadero gardens. In Paris, the Eiffel is pretty much everywhere and this knowledge hits you specially when you've taken off your shoes to relax in the sprawling greenery that beckons lovers, families and friends to forget their troubles for a day and just bask in the glorious sunlight. Bask you do and up you look and you see the Eiffel greeting you with a warm hello. Every negative feeling in the world eludes you. I speak from experience.
 |
| Pont Alexandre III |
Hunger struck again and this time we decided to sit in one of the many brasseries and try the inviting tarts and macaroons. Once seated, we sated our eyes more than our tummies. Every second person looked like he had a ramp to hurry to. Same was the case near the Grand and Petit Palais. By the bridge of Pont Alexandre III and situated near the river bank was the most happening area of the city. It was a frequent of the office goers done for the day. One look at their smart black suits and charming smiles, and your heart would never feel more inconstant. With the sun slowly setting, we reluctantly bid goodbye to what was a veritable feast for the eyes.
To be continued...
2 comments:
Very interesting read... waiting for the next part..
Mutter Paneer!
Epic
No mention of the poor brother who had to be at the receiving end of so many emosanal calls?
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