The Triumph of technology

‘She who must be obeyed’ simply hates technology. Anything to do with hi tech, or circuits or diagrams anything more complicated than a hammer and an anvil, she looks at with great suspicion.

‘Works of the devil!’ she hisses and makes a sign of the cross. ‘A vile abhorrence! ‘ . Then she eats garlic and breathes all over me.

That’s why she hates it when I am surrounded by technology. Here I am, carrying a bag which is filled with technology and gets me into trouble at all the security checks in airports around the world – cameras, laptop, speaker, tablet, keyboard, ipod and a charger for each one! Ugh!

She looks at me with disapproval even when I take out my phone and check Facebook.

‘Why are you always looking at that accursed phone?’ she asks. ‘It is against nature to use the phone for anything other than talking.’ For her the heights of mobile technology is to use SMS.

‘But this is a smartphone!’ I protested. ‘It can be used like a mini computer – it’s got internet, mail, phone, GPS...’

‘GPS...hah’ she snapped. ‘A GPL is what you deserve. Chalo...at least something about you should be smart.’

For her the only acceptable use of technology is to book tickets and do travel research. She spends her entire lifetime peering at various sites and comparing fares and attractions and using Google maps to memorise the routes of all cities in the world. For that too, she prefers an old desktop PC rather than a laptop or a tablet. She is the only person in the world who actually asked for a desktop PC in office, and keeps her office laptop unused at home.

Probably she would be most comfortable with the original IBM ‘Deep thought’ and swapping notes with Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage.  She still mourns for the loss of the old days of punchcards and teletypes. Even Fax is a modern innovation which she is yet to get comfortable with.

The Defence Attorney says : My Lord,   for someone whose wife has to give him a bunch of air + train + bus + hotel +entrance ticket online reservations before every trip,   Signor talks too much,  I say.

‘Why are you trying to imitate a snail and carry your whole house of high tech with you anyway?’ She asked.

‘Arre, I had been to that Photography competition re, so I carried two cameras and a laptop to edit the photos on.’ I replied ‘And I came directly from there, so I had to cart the laptop along.’

‘Hah! Using laptop to edit photos is cheating. Bloody Charlatan! This digital photography is a disgrace. In my day, we used real film. I even used to make my own film with silver nitrate and toilet paper. I made my own camera too, from a cardboard box and a pin. I used to develop my own film in the toilet, where I filled the toilet bowl with developer. I used to multitask – crapping and developing...or rather, developing and then crapping.  In our house, everyone used to wear only lungis, so I used them to make a tent to dry the photos in.  That’s the real way to do photography re...Not this pansy digital SLRs and whatnot...’ She growled at me.

And having vented her spleen, she flounced away, leaving me to run after her, weighed down by technology.

Once in New Zealand, she nearly divorced me, because I tried to use Google maps on my phone. We had hired a car, as we sat down and strapped up, I pulled out my phone and handed it to her. She took one look and exploded like a volcano.

‘What is this nonsense? How dare you insult my hard work?’

‘Eh? What? Where? When?’  I was nonplussed. ‘What did I do now?’

She took out a sheaf of printouts and waved it at me. ‘I have studied Google maps and memorised the entire route, and have taken printouts  of the entire route!’

‘But it’s the same Google maps...and this moving dot shows where are...’ I whined.

‘SHUT UP! And put that sinful thing away, you foul reprobate!’ She growled at me, and I shrivelled like a snail who has had salt sprinkled on it.

We drove on, and I glanced at the GPS. ‘Hey...we are going the wrong way.’ I said hesitantly. ‘See the blue dot?’

‘#$!$%$@%&* you and your blue dot! You are a blue dolt! Keep shut and keep driving!’ She shouted at me. ‘See the road sign?’ she pointed dramatically, and then suddenly said ‘Oh!’ . After a few minutes, she said ‘WE ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY! YOU FOOL! WE ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOO....WE WILL GET LOST......AAAAAAAAAAA......WE WILL  RUN OUT OF FUEL.......OOOOOOOOOOO......WE WILL STARVE IN THE WILDERNESS AND DIE........AAAAAAAAAA.....WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO MY CHILD WITHOUT ME......OOOOOOOOOOOOO’

‘Here....relax...’ I said ‘We have just come a few kilometres. I will turn the car around.’

‘AAAAAARGGHHHHHHH...BE CAREFUL WHILE TURNING......THERE IS A CAR COMING 3 KILOMETERS AWAYYYYYYYY.....HE WILL CRASH INTO US.......WE WILL DIE........ARRRRR....oh we have turned. Go straight now.’

‘I told you we were going the wrong way.’ I said. ‘I saw on the GPS.’

That was the worst thing I could have said. A wife will tolerate any amount of marital abuse, but she simply cannot tolerate the spouse being right about anything. It goes against all the principles of marriage.

‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!’ she screamed at me. ‘Distracting me with that garbage. Its written in my notes to take a right, but you took a left.’

‘But ....but....you told me to take a left.’ I whined

‘Thats your fault! I meant a right! You should understand me by now.’ She said and refused to talk to me for the rest of the day.

The Defence Attorney says : My Lord, what this fat !@#$%^& doesn’t mention is that the internet coverage died once we were in the mountains,   the GPS screen was as blank as the sleepy blue ocean where they are searching for MH370 wreckage,  and it was my antediluvian  map printouts  (made on Egyptian hieroglyphic parchment)   which saved the day.

So with this background, I carefully did not show her the Maps on my phone in Spain. I used the phone for everything – Facebook, Mail, reading books etc, so she wouldn’t realise that I was covertly seeing our position on maps while we were walking.

In Seville though, the breakthrough happened.

We emerged at a junction, and she stopped and looked doubtfully around. She looked like a tiny version of Gandalf the Grey, when he was lost in the mines of Moria. ‘I have no memory of this place at all’ Gandalf had said; and she said almost the same thing. Well, actually she said ‘#$$%#$^@@$%@$%^^#^^’ ; but the sentiment was the same. She was wearing her antediluvian grey jacket with hood, so the illusion with Mini-Gandalf was complete.

I crawled after her, like Gollum, holding my phone and hissing ‘my preciousssssss’

Then the unthinkable happened.

She turned to me and said in a small voice ‘Can you open Google maps and find out the way to our hotel? I seem to have lost my bearings.’

I looked at her in disbelief.

I could just imagine Sergei Brin and Larry Page breaking into  a Bhangra in exultation, and Eric Schmidt banging on the dholak with one hand and playing the tumba with the other hand.

‘OYE BALLE BALLE!’ the cry resounded over the Googleplex in Mountain View, CA and firecrackers and coloured streamers exploded over all the Google offices all across the world. A national holiday was declared in 53 countries and a parade was launched in the remaining ones. Mardi Gras was cancelled in favour of this celebration, and 21 gun salutes roared out from all the ships at sea.

Defence Attorney :   !@#$%^&*(

Technology had finally triumphed! The Final frontier had been overcome!

The land of the fit

These Spaniards are a depressing people.

Depressing for me, I mean.

Not only do they have the best food, the best daru and enjoy themselves smoking, drinking and carousing all the time; they are also incredibly good looking and fit.

When we stroll along any beautiful park or boulevard or marina, you can hardly see anybody who is not jogging or cycling or rollerblading or skateboarding; or if nothing else, going on a very brisk walk. It’s weird – either they are smoking and drinking, or they are jogging.

The girls will be in skin tight leggings or jeans – the kind of skin tight where you need to have complete body confidence to wear...will outline every mole and wrinkle on your bum – or in very short skirts and tight tops. And they are all good looking too – flashing eyes, great hair, faultless makeup.  I look at them with great admiration. Purely platonic, you understand. Just admiring their youth and fitness.

The guys will be in elegant clothes – even their sweat shirts and jogging outfits look like they are out of Armani – and all look like Rafael Nadal or Antonio Banderas, with sex appeal oozing out of their pores and leaving a trail behind them like a snail leaves a trail of slime.  I look at them with disgust. Bloody gigolos. ‘She who must be obeyed’ looks at them, and then looks at me and sighs.

I sigh back at her.

She is looking like an ad for UNESCO or one of those funds which collect money for impoverished refugees fleeing some civil war. As usual she is wearing clothes which even the cat didn’t bring in – some junk that wouldn’t even be washed up as flotsam and jetsam...looks like she found it floating in the sea while she was ship wrecked. A fifteen year old sweat shirt, a jacket that makes her look like a gray cat with mange, and jeans which are so battered....that I suppose they would be the height of fashion if they were well fitting.

Me -  I am so handsome, that I look like a model!

Unfortunately, I look like the ‘before’ model in a weight loss clinic ad.

Or a Listerine ad.

Or a Clinic all clear ad.

 Or a Fair and lovely ad.

Or an ad for what ‘The well dressed man’ will never ever even dream of wearing.

We look at each other and both sigh so loudly that the flag in front of us flutters sympathetically.

 In India, it doesn’t matter so much, because everyone is pot bellied and disgusting. I remembered the defining memory of the Kumbh Mela – an endless line of hairy paunches rolling over long striped underwear.

 But here we stand out.

We were at the river side watching a traffic jam of Kayakers, rowers, wind surfers all doing healthy activities in the river.

‘It’s all your fault.’ ‘She’ says to me ‘You are tempting me with food. Else I am fine – just carrying a little baby fat’

‘Baby fat?  Dude....the baby is 7 years old.’

‘Shut up. I at least had a baby. What happened to you?’

Talk about rhetorical questions.  We walked on, avoiding a line of cyclists. They have a dedicated cycle lane on the sidewalk! I am very impressed. Talk about a cycle friendly country. Not just the roads, but even the sidewalk has a dedicated lane for anything on wheels – cycles, skates / rollerblades, skateboards, wheelchairs, prams,  etc.

And everyone seems to be on wheels here.  The variety of cyclists is fun to see. You have the exercise cyclists on expensive bikes, the commuters on less flashy bikes, the occasional commuters on rented bikes (they have a beautiful cycle hire organisation in most cities – hire anywhere, drop off anywhere – fully automated), whole families on bikes – Daddy, Mummy, baba, baby in bikes of descending sizes.  Parents with babies in baby seats...

Then you have the young people on rollerblades – the skates with only one line of wheels. They move with unearthly grace, gliding along on the roads. I could watch them forever.

‘You should try that.’ I suggested ‘If I tried it, I would fall and have a fracture.’

‘More than that, the pavement would have a fracture re...’ She retorted. ‘and the government would ask us to pay for the road repair. But I won’t try it either...I will end up in the river or in traffic...i know it’s your evil plan to get rid of me re, but I am too smart for you.’

We walked on and came across a gang of young bloods doing skateboard stunts. ZOOM CLANK ZOOM CLANK. They would zoom down a slope and try to roll on to benches or railings or go up in the air; or try to turn around in mid air or stop suddenly.

Every now and then, the stunt wouldn’t take off and the air would be ionized with Spanish oaths and curses. @#%%^^@@!!!

I turned to ‘She’ and said ‘I also am going to get pierced and tattooed, y’know. As soon as I lose some weight, I will get it done.’

She linked her arm in mine and laughed and said ‘Then you are assured a Tattoo free life for ever re.’

A suited booted guy zoomed by us – he looked like a full corporate type – nice business suit, conservative hairstyle, talking on mobile in one hand – only he was on a skateboard. We looked at him in admiration.

‘I have a brilliant idea to make some money.’ She said.

‘What?’

‘We are the ugliest people here – lets sell tickets for people to come and look at us – like they had in the old days – the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the fattest man and woman, the mermaid....stuff like that. A P T Barnum kind of show’

‘Yeah?’

‘And we will call it – The Beauty and the Beast’

The wonders of Spanish cuisine

Ever since we landed in Spain, we have been eating the most incredible food. The most wonderful thing about Christianity, I have always felt, is that they eat absolutely everything. They positively define the word omnivorous – if it lives and breathes, eat it – and if it can be fermented – make an alcoholic drink out of it. And that suits my life values perfectly.

We cut a swath through the plant and animal kingdom, and posted yummy food shots on Facebook to jalao all the people back home. The comments came as expected –

‘You @#@#% - you should be hanged!’

‘You fat @@#$%%, you will gain 20 kilos from this trip alone’

‘I hope you choke on a bone and die you sadistic pig’

‘Screen lick...drool...drool’

For breakfast we had a variety of sausages – pepperoni, sobrasada, big red ones, spicy red ones, and all kinds of  ham, salami, cereals, olive oil flavoured with pimentos and garlic, freshly squeezed orange juice, freshly brewed coffee, and very occasionally – an egg.

‘She who must be obeyed’ would roll up her sleeved and dig into the food with gusto. The waiters looked at her with amazement and admiration as she finished off a huge dish of roast kid lamb, bread with aioli and grilled vegetables and still look around for more. They must have believed that there is a black hole inside her where all that food vanished.

I was my usual conservative self... a few morsels here and there. 

This went on for a week or so, and we came to  Palma de Mallorca – the capital of Majorca.

In the Youth hostel in palma, I saw a new dish on the breakfast menu – ‘Toast and tomato – Mallorquin style’

I was intrigued. What was this exotic dish? I asked her.

‘Ah Senor...this is a typical mallorcan dish. Very rustic..very delicious’

I  was sold. I had very good experiences with rustic dishes till now – suckling pig, and roast veggies and what not.

‘Fantastico! Give me one, por favor’

She went inside and I heard some fiddling in the kitchen. 

I started dreaming of what the dish would be like.

I was thinking of  fresh baked bread...still warm from the oven...swimming in country butter...with maybe a sprig of rosemary or parsley...grilled slices of tomato...with the grilling bringing out the intense country flavour of the tomato...maybe the tomato would be one of those fancy ridged tomatoes, or perhaps those tiny cherry tomatoes....I had seen red, green and purple tomatoes....a few shavings of bacon, some fresh shredded cheese perhaps...fresh squeezed lime....

I was still fantasising about the possibilities when she came back and plonked a dish on the counter.

On it was some dry toast, like the ‘milk toast’ we get in India, a small sachet of Olive oil and .....a tomato. A whole single tomato! 

I looked at it in consternation.  

‘What is this?’

It looked like a delivery from the Kirana wala.

‘Thees ees the deesh senor. Toast and Tomaaato – mallorquin style.’

Apparently, when she  said ‘Toast and Tomato’ she meant literally ‘a toast and a tomato.’

'She who must be obeyed' started howling with laughter. She had played it safe by ordering a Muesli with milk, and now she laughed so hard, the tears from her eyes were diluting the milk. 

The waitress was moved by my downcast expression and hastened to assure me that this is a genuine peasant dish. 

‘I will tell you how they eat it...you pour the olive oil over the toast, and then squeeze the tomato over it. Then you sprinkle salt on it and eat. Ole!’

Must have been for the very diet conscious peasant, or for the one who was too lazy to cook breakfast.

We took our dishes to the rooftop restaurant and sat down to eat. 'She who must be obeyed' immediately started slurping her muesli, while I looked doubtfully at my toast and tomato.

hmm...OK, pour the olive oil...thats easy enough...squeeze the tomato...hmmm

I squeezed it gently.

Nothing happened. 

I squeezed it harder. 

It bulged a bit, but that was all.

I got pissed, and squeezed hard.

SPLAT! 

There was tomato all over the toast, the table and my shirt. 

This set off 'She' into another fit of laughter.

I just looked her with silent dignity, and shook all the tomato off my person and on to to the toast. Then I added the salt. 

'Salut!' I nodded, and 'she' touched my bread with her spoon and we ate the Toast together.

It was delicious! 

Lost in translation...

After Barcelona, we caught a flight to the party capital of Spain – the island of Majorca.

We landed, and went to the Car rental agency where ‘She who must be obeyed’ had booked a car. After watching ‘Zindagi na milegi dobara’, I pleaded with her to book a fancy open top car, but she just brushed me off like an insect.

She patiently explained her logic to me

‘You are not a rich investment banker like Hrithik Roshan, neither do you have a rich dad like Abhay Deol, nor do you have rich and gullible friends like Farhan Akhtar did ; and you are very very definitely not going to get it on with Katrina Kaif. You are stuck with me, and with the cheapest car that is available, because both are just what you deserve. Got it?’

I nodded my head. Couldn’t find any fault with the logic.

‘Good. Now cock up and drive.’

As it was a left hand drive car with manual gear, and we were driving on the wrong side of the road, ‘She’ could freely indulge in all the back seat driving which I would never allow her at home.

‘SLOW SLOW SLOW....there is a car coming 3 kilometers  away....drive on the RIGHT on the RiGHT on the RIIIIIIIGHT....we are coming to a round about....go SLOW go SLOW go SLOW....OH MY GOD...WE ARE DEAD, WE ARE DEAD, WE ARE DEAD....oh, we aren’t dead...er...thats good....now go straight,,,,go STRAGHT....GO STRAIGHT...STAY ON THE RIGHT..... OH MY GOD, THERE IS A PEDESTRIAN 5 KILOMETERS AWAY....BE CAREFUL...AAAAARRGGGGHHHHH!!!!’

The roads were bloody narrow, with a free fall on the side,  no shoulders at all, and to add to the fun, the roads were bloody full of cyclists, all looking like they were on trials for the Tour de France. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of them on the road. All dressed in expensive skin tight clothes and riding expensive skinny cycles – they depress you by being far more healthy AND far more wealthy than you.

I admired them for some time – their strength and endurance, their healthy pursuit, their expensive bikes, their tight and colourful costumes.... but after slowly and irritatingly passing some hundreds of cyclists, I got heartily sick of them. They were as irritating as a parade of cockroaches.  You can’t overtake them on the skinny roads, you can’t get too close to them in case one of them falls over, you can’t honk at them because you are not in India, and most of all you can’t even abuse them because ‘She’ has a fraternal affection for them, because she has also pedalled  - once in her salad days, she had pedalled Bombay to Pune, and quite recently she did Mangalore to Trivandrum.

 ‘She’ kept babbling about her cycling trip to Kerala...’these hills are OK, but can’t compare with Kerala....these cycles are good, but I did it with an old Atlas doodhwala cycle with one handlebar and  half a tyre missing....these cyclists are OK, but they won’t be able to handle mad Kerala traffic, especially the cattle copulating on the roads...Oh, coconut water is so good...Oh, I wish I could see a pair of hairy black legs  sticking out of a lungi....those guys have pubic hair all over their body....it looks so virile...’

The hills out there are called ‘La Tramuntana’  and an Italian engineer called Paretti made a winding road across them, which was a great technical achievement in those days. The road is very beautiful, as is the surrounding scenery – but if you try to see the scenery, you will end up in the ditch – because Signor Paretti apparently scorned shoulders on the road, and his successors have behaved in a very Indian fashion by raising the height of the road to an alarming level over the edge, and keeping the road narrow enough to accommodate one car and no more.

Between negotiating Signor Paretti’s roads, Senora ‘She who must be obeyed’s back seat driving and the pestilential cyclists, my BP went up 20 points.  ‘She’ tried to cheer me up by pointing out beautiful sights, but after nearly becoming part of the scenery myself a couple of times, I found out that the only way to see the scenery was to drive so slowly that even the cyclists were cursing me and overtaking me with pursed lips.

‘So Madame’ I asked after some time ‘Now that we are in the party capital of Spain – where are we going?’

‘Oh, we are going to a monastery.’

‘A monastery?’ I was stunned.

‘That’s right.’

‘We are in the Party capital – with nude beaches, wild revelry, midnight parties in every nook and corner – apparently you can hardly toss a Sangria bottle without braining a drunken reveller...and we are going to a monastery?’

‘Yes.’

‘!!!’

Well...I could hardly go to a nude beach without scaring the whole population away, and partying with a teetotaller who considers sleeping after 10 PM to be heights of loose living is unlikely.  So we went quietly to the Monastery of Lluc and checked in.

It was very nice – we attended Maundy Thursday Mass and Good Friday Mass in Spanish and heard the Childrens Choir which is the apparently the best choir....in the whole of Majorca..., and heard a fine performance of how Mary felt about the death of Christ – in Spanish (or was it Catalan) – which would have been great fun if we had understood it.

The good thing about Christianity is that no food is taboo – unlike other religions who ban Beef and Pork and Booze and god knows what else. The good Christian eats anything that lives and breathes, and so the restaurant in the Monastery served some awesome food and wine, which we imbibed gratefully. I posted all kinds of food shots on facebook to get people worked up.

After two days of this, we were out to leave.

‘Get up early in the morning you lazy sod’ said ‘She’. ‘We have to see Cap de Fomentor as early as possible – because weather might be bad.’

It was so hot that I was melting, and so bright that I was blinded by the sun.

‘Bad weather?’ I said meekly ‘But it looks fine.’

‘She’ turned on me in a fury. ‘I have spoken! Bad weather it will be!’

I quailed before her fury and set the alarm for 6 AM. We got up and packed, and went to the car.

But when I pressed the remote,  instead of greeting me with a cheerful ‘chuck chuck’, the car remains morose and silent.

‘??’ I thought and pressed the buttons harder. It’s an Indian thing – if anything doesn’t work, press the button harder. It rarely helps, but we do it all the time.

No reply.

Thinking that the car might be sulking because we ignored it for a couple of days, I opened the door with the key, and tried to start the car.

Dead.

Oh shit.

Battery dead. In the middle of nowhere.

‘She’ started to weep and wail and beat her breast. ‘OOOOOOO AAAAAAAAA OOOOOOOOO AAAAAAA.....mar gaya.....mar gaya.....what shall we doooooooooo’

‘Easy easy’ I said ‘Dont worry – all it needs is a jump. I will call the car hire company and they will send somebody’

‘Send somebody???? OOOOOOOOOOOO ....this is Europe....they will charge so much money, we will have to sell ourselves to pay it.....AAAAAAAAAA....our vacation is over.....OOOOO.....our life savings have gone....AAAAAAAA......’

‘No no – I am sure that roadside assistance is free.’ I said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry – I will call them right now.’

We trudged back to the Monastery and called them, and they promised to send help within an hour.

We killed time for an hour and soon help arrived in the form of a genial repairman in a tow truck. He took a look at the car and raised his eyebrows at the dead battery. As I had predicted, all it needed was a jump – he attached the jumper cable and cranked the self start, and the car was back.

‘You drive for 1 kilometer’ he said, holding up a finger ‘before you switch it off eh? Charge the battery.’

OK, I said and went on a very pleasant little drive, which was all the sweeter because of our lightened hearts and unlightened wallets,  and came back to the parking lot. Before switching it off, I hesitated a couple of times, but then I switched it off, and we went off to have a lavish celebratory breakfast.

After a huge brekker of cereal and bread and orange juice and coffee and all kinds of sausages under the sun, we again picked up our packs and went back to the car.

This time the remote worked, and the car greeted us with a merry chirrup and opened its doors hospitably. I was immensely gratified – the charge had held, and the battery was working fine.

Full of confidence, I sat in the car, inserted the key, started my favourite radio station, fixed my seat belt, nodded to her, put the car in neutral and turned the key, all ready to zoom away.

Nothing.

No response from the car.

What the fuck?

A cold hand gripped my heart. This shouldn’t be happening... the remote worked, the lights worked, the horn worked – why shouldn’t the car start?

I turned the key again – no response. I looked carefully at the dashboard. There was no ammeter, so I couldn’t tell the battery level, but when I turned the key, the words ‘Pise del embrague’ came up.

Pise del embrague?

 I didn’t want to Piss – nor did I want to embrace anybody. That message didn’t help much.

I looked glumly at ‘She’ and ‘She’ gave me a snooty look.

‘Another fine mess you have got me into.’

‘Hey – I don’t get it...everything else electrical is working. The car is in Neutral. I don’t know why its not starting.’

‘Should I get out and push?’ she asked.

‘No no...Don’t be silly.’ The thought of that tiny little wolverine pushing a car was hilarious, and anyway I didn’t think that the MPFI cars could be started by pushing.

‘Well, back to the Santuari then.’ She said. ‘Call them again’

C’mon....I didn’t want to call him again. I would look like a fool of the highest order. Imagine an idiot who had to jump his battery twice in a morning. The whole of Majorca would be laughing at us. And he would probably charge money for a second visit.

Glumly, I turned the key again, and again the message came ‘Pise del embrague’

What did that mean anyway? Then suddenly it struck me – I didn’t have to guess. I could easily find out.

 I fished out my mobile and fired up Google translate, and entered ‘Pise del embrague’ in Spanish to English.

In a second, the answer came – ‘Depress the clutch’

I looked at it in disbelief, and pressed the clutch.

VROOOM. The car started!

WHOOPIEE! YOOHOOO!

We both screamed in delight and hugged each other!  We were back in business. Thank god for Translate!  

I love Google.

I hate these idiot car manufacturers who make cars that won’t start until you press the damn clutch even though you are in neutral, but I love Google.

Muah!

The most expensive oyster in the world

After Dubai, the next phase of the trip started – Spain!

Hola Espana!

I took a cab to Dubai airport and thought that I would breeze through check in, as I had already web checked in online and all I had to do was a baggage drop. But no – the Emirates girl wagged a finger at me and pointed me to a long long line of large expensive suitcases with a few humans sprinkled between them.

‘What shit’ I thought – this line is longer than the normal check in line. I thought of dumping this line and going off to look for the automatic baggage drop or even a normal check in line, but the Emirates girl glared at me, and she reminded me so much of an old school teacher that I quietly stood in line for 15 minutes to drop off my baggage. 

As I continued to the departure area, I saw that there was another bank of baggage drop counters a little ahead, and they were all empty, and the staff was sitting jobless and frustrated. I cursed that Emirates school teacher under my breath and went on to the security check. The security check in India was a fucking nightmare, because my bag was a huge collection of electronics – 2 cameras, 1 laptop, 1 bluetooth speaker, 1 detatchable keyboard, 1 Wacom tablet – and 6 chargers of various types  - and they made me take out all of them. Here it was not so bad, but it was not as smooth as last time.

I had hoped to chill in Duty free or at least have a coffee to finish off my Dhirams, but the bloody airport is so big that by the time I negotiated the train and the elevator and the escalator, it was already time to board.

That flight was the best flight experience I ever  had!  I was severely sleep deprived over the last 8 days and crashed as soon as I sat down. I woke up after a relaxing sleep just as they were serving drinks, so that was the most pleasing awakening ever. I took 2  of those  tiny bottles of wine with lunch, and 2 bottles after lunch and finished it off with a gin – so that by the time we landed in Barcelona, I was nicely smashed and feeling no pain.

Clearing Barcelona immigration was the easiest immigration ever!  The line was moving very fast, and I was still flying. When greeted the immigration officer with a loud and cheerful ‘Hola Senor!’, he took one look me and decided that I was just the kind of fellow Spain needed -Drunk and Cheerful. Thump thump and I was in Spain. My bag was the last to arrive, but I was still happy, having discovered that they give 15 min free internet at the airport. Wheeee.

I went  off to the hotel and checked in, relaxed and checked out the famous ‘la Ramblas’ street in Barcelona – which is basically a long long tourist trap of  a road, lined with eateries and bars and stalls selling souvenirs and touristeria. 

The next day, She who must be obeyed arrived, and that was the end of my bachelor happiness.  Peace and tranquillity fled out of the window, scared away by a waterfall of noise.

‘She’ was curious about La Rambles, so we went off for another walk. One look at it and she agreed with my opinion about it being a long tourist trap, and we went off looking for the Barcelona cathedral. It was closed for the night of course, but we went there to enjoy the lighting, and got an unexpected bonus – a trained opera singer singing in front of the cathedral.  It was so atmospheric – the beautiful gothic architecture of the cathedral, the yellow lighting and the shadows, the ancient stone pathway – and this lady with the remarkable voice singing away.

The next day we again went to La Rambles, because we wanted to check out the remarkable market  - Mercato de la  Boqueria. It was an amazing place – it was basically a bazaar selling meats, veggies and fruits – and what quality of produce! I went around the place with my tongue hanging out. The meat guys were selling the best of preserved meat, Iberian hams, huge collections of sausages of various sorts, a whole ship load of all kinds of fish and creepy crawlies from the seas, the freshest fruit and veggies that you could ever see.

 I was in food lust

It was clean and neat, with no flies and with minimal smell – (as far removed from Indian bazaars and Crawford market as you can get)  but was not soulless like a department store either. It was a real live bazaar (more for tourists than for locals I suppose, but that was OK.) with shop keepers selling ready to eat bites as well as grocery size portions. The fruiterers were selling cut fruits, fruit juices, chocolate covered strawberries (YUM!!), the meat guys were selling mixed sausages, small meat bites etc, and the fish guys were selling prawns and shellfish and oysters and sea food salads.

When I saw the oysters, my eyes lit up!

OYSTERS! OYSTERS! OYSTERS!  Yoo hoo! I had tried oysters in Australia and had loved them!  I tried them cooked in various preparations, but came to the conclusion that the best way to have them was raw. The guy shucks it and gives it to you – you add a drop of lemon and a drop of Tabasco and slurp it into your mouth and YUM – its a party in your mouth.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to find oysters after that in India, so I was really excited to see a bank of oysters in one of the stalls.

I took off my fancy goggles ( Expensive Maui Jim – light as a feather and blocks UV light...I had bought it just a couple of months back for my Rajasthan ride) and hung them in my shirt front, rubbed my hands together and went to the stall. 2 euros per oyster....hmmm....bit expensive, but its OK. Not too bad.  I nodded to the lady and gave her a 2 euro coin, and she shucked an oyster and handed it to me. 

I looked at it reverently and looked at ‘She’ – who merely looked repulsed. She cant stand fish in any form, the thought of eating raw fish is completely beyond her understanding. I smirked at her, added the magic drops of lime juice and Tabasco, and slurped the oyster into my mouth.

Magic.

The smooth, cold flesh of the oyster, the salt taste of the brine, the sour of the lemon and the acidic bite of the Tabasco combined to form an awesome feeling in my mouth, and when you then bite into the flesh, the whole thing just explodes into a maelstrom of taste. WOO HOO.

It was like a taste version of a glorious orchestra – first the violin, then the trombone, then the flute and then the whole combining into a glorious symphony

I was so overwhelmed, I started dancing, I jumped up and down, I jiggled and wiggled and still I felt like expressing my emotion more vigorously, so I pounded my chest like King Kong.

DHAM! DHAM!

CRACCKKK

Oh shit.

I looked down to see that I had pounded my sun glasses by mistake, and it had died of shock. I picked up the remains from the floor and looked up to see ‘She’ convulsed in laughter. She was absolutely rolling on the floor in her mirth, weeping tears of laughter as she saw me sadly holding the dead body of my glares in my hands.

Some people have no sense of decency I tell you.....laughing in the presence of bereavement.

I put the glasses away with dignity.  If you add the cost of the glasses to the cost of the Oyster, then it would definitely be the most expensive oyster in the world.

Oh well, there was nothing anybody could do now.

Only one thing to do – I marched up the counter and said ‘Senora....one more Oyster, por favor.’