I visited my friend Archna yesterday. She, like so many others I know, was distraught over the Newtown shootings.
What was happening to the world?
We embarked on a conversation about many things.
Was the world more cruel in medieval times? No, Archna said. Back then at least you knew you were going to be killed. There were fights and public executions but were there 20-year-old bursting into schools and murdering young children?
Maybe there were.
Maybe we just live in a world of heightened awareness and non-stop information sharing. Mt employer, CNN, has been broadcasting live from Newtown since Friday.
What was the answer to preventing another massacre like this? School security guards should be fully armed, Archna said. I don’t know about that. Yes, she agreed. Perhaps that might lead to more bloodshed.
Maybe the answer was better health care access so that mentally disturbed people could seek the help they need.
I could tell that she, like all of America, was grasping for solutions.
There is so much violence in the world, she said. I told her about massacres in Syria and Congo and other places, where young children die every day.
Why was the world letting Bashar al-Assad do this to his own people?
With all those questions, I left her at the new branch of her restaurant Bhojanic. We were both thinking the same thing, I believe. What gave us the right to be so happy, to lead such trouble-free lives in a world that contains so much sorrow?
One of the greatest musical talents of our time was silenced Tuesday. Ravi Shankar died at 92.
His was a name I grew up with, a name that made me proud to be Indian at a time when my country was known mostly for human misery.
I read the sad news of Shankar’s death Tuesday evening in The Hindu newspaper and thought back to a time when I was still in high school in Tallahassee, Florida. Ravi Shankar was touring the United States and he was coming to Florida State University’s music school for a performance.
There were only a handful of Indian families in Tallahassee then and not much for us in the way of our culture. It was a rare treat for us to be able to hear the pandit play the sitar.
My mother was especially excited. She sang Rabindra Sangeet and played the taanpura, an Indian string instrument that resembles the sitar but has no frets.
Then came a phone call from the organizers of the Shankar event at FSU. The maestro was sick of eating steak and potatoes and had requested a Bengali meal in Tallahassee. My mother was asked to do the honors.
It wasn’t easy to make authentic Bengali food at home in those days because no stores carried fenugreek or mustard oil. Most people didn’t even know what cilantro was back then.
My mother did the best she could with her stockpile of spices purchased from New York wholesalers. I remember she began cooking days ahead so she could present dinner in Indian fashion — at least seven or eight courses and then several desserts. The Bengalis are known for their “mishti.”
Listening to Ravi Shankar was magical that night. I didn’t understand Indian classical music very well then. In fact, I was not unlike most Westerners who equated Ravi Shankar’s name with George Harrison and the concert for Bangladesh.
The great tabla player Alla Rakha accompanied Shankar’s sitar that night. When they arrived at our humble split-level house for dinner, I was in awe. I couldn’t believe I was sitting at the same table with these musical giants.
Later, I came to appreciate Indian classic music much more. Now I own many of Ravi Shankar’s music as well as that of his daughter, Anoushka.
But my lack of knowledge didn’t matter that night in Florida. Shankar’s music was mellifluous. Like a luscious silk sari fluttering in the wind. Like rays of sun peaking through clouds. It was, as the pandit himself said, music that is sacred.
Trying out wines from southern Hungary’s Szekszárd region at DiVino.
A new take on pork and cabbage at Olimpia. Deelish.
How would you like to have this guy’s job guarding Buda Castle?
Poor Bambi. A sculpture at Buda Castle.
Selling handcrafted jewelry at the Christmas market.
Inside the Dohany Street Synagogue. Grand in Moorish style.
The memorial garden at the Dohany Street Synagogue where Jews who perished in the ghetto were buried in mass graves.
The uniform Jews were forced to wear during World War II.
This is allegedly Hungary’s first Bangladeshi restaurant.
Ice Skaters enjoy the rink near Heroes’ Square.
Trying out wines from southern Hungary’s Szekszárd region at DiVino.
We arrived at our abode in Budapest on a shuttle that took us from the southeastern end of the city into its heart, the seventh district of Erzsebetvaros.
It wasn’t hard to tell how the economic and political landscape of this land had changed enormously from when it was blanketed by the Iron Curtain to modern times that have given way to European chain giants like Tesco and Ikea. I glanced at the giant warehouses along the highway and wondered if my homeland, India, would soon look like this. The Indian government is wrestling with whether to allow the establishment of foreign retailers.
Amid shabby, Soviet-style flat towers that house hundreds were remnants of a pre-Communism past — of quaint homes with smallish gardens dulled by winter’s drab.
As the shuttle sped foward, the scenery quickly changed. We were given hints of the grandeur to come in the city center. It was a dreary day, though not as cold as I had expected. I could tell that rain had fallen not too long ago, the dampness fresh on roads, the tram lines slick.
I tried to follow our route on the “Official Budapest City Map,” offered free at the airport, but quickly realized we were outside its realm. The map was crude — just detailed enough for people like us, tourists on a three-day quickie to Hungary’s capital.
Before we knew it, we had sped into the city, rushing by shops and restaurants and even bars doing brisk business at noon on a Sunday. We even passed the “Bangla Bufe,” spelled incorrectly in English but perhaps correctly in Hungarian. In any case, it was right in Bengali. It was tiny and I wondered what had brought Bengalis to Budapest.
I returned there later to find out hours of business but we never managed to get in a meal. Now I will always wonder about how a Bengali restaurant the size of my kitchen does in the heart of Budapest. The restaurant, I learned later, has a website which claims it is the first Bangladeshi eatery in Hungary.
The shuttle dropped us off at the Queen’s Court Hotel and Residences at Number 63, Dob Utca. I had booked the room through Hotwire and was prepared to be surprised — not in a pleasant way. To the contrary. The man behind the desk, who I was sure worked ungodly hours, took loving care of us and when we opened our room, we found a sitting area, a kitchen and a bathroom complete with a washing machine and dryer. I was happy to see the latter after more than a week of travel already in Turkey.
We put our things down and went off to explore, stopping for a bowl of goulash soup at place nearby. I was overjoyed at the good quality of Hungarian red wine and later that night, we stopped at a wine bar, DiVino, which curiously enough is situated across from the Basilica. Ha.
Yes, we did all the tourist stuff in Budapest — walked across the Chain Bridge, took the funicular up to Buda Castle, bought paprika paste at the old market and saw the ice skaters at Heroes Square.
But we also did the unexpected, including eating a lovely meal at Olimpia, a nouvelle Hungarian restaurant an walked around neighborhoods where few foreigners were in sight.
Most amazing of all, perhaps, was the Dohany Street Synagogue, the largest functioning in Europe and the fifth largest in the world. There is also a Jewish Museum and a Holocaust memorial adjacent to the synagogue.
More than 180,000 Jews lived in Budapest, many in Erzsebetvaros. About half perished under the Nazis. Many of those who died in Budapest’s Jewish ghetto are buried in mass graves, now covered with ivy and trees. Today, Budapest has the largest Jewish population in Europe — 80,000. Compare that to Prague, which only has about 3,000 Jews remaining. You will be able to read more about the Holocaust and the Czech Republic in an upcoming post on Terezin.
Budapest won my heart.
It was small yet big. Beautiful yet grimy. Happy yet sad. It was real. Gritty.
There was no shortness of melancholy there. But there was also plenty of joy.
It was the kind of city that beckons the past and looks forward to the future. The kind of city I love.
Lunch in the Old City with Sean Harder, April Harder, Rachel Gerber and Kate Wiltrout.
Inside the magnificent Hagia Sophia. First a cathedral, then a mosque.
Dinner at Antiocha — with Andrew Tabler, a Syria expert at The Washington Institute for Near East Policy, and Beth Dickinson, a reporter for The National.
With Zalmay Khalilzad, the former U.S. ambassador to Iraq and Afghanistan, at an event at the security seminar.
Istanbul’s striking landscape and architecture reflecting myriad empires is why most people visit, of course. Tourists yearn for a cruise along the Bosphorus and a visit to the old city, home to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.
I did all that, amazed by the wonders of history and geography. But it was all the new people I met that made my visit memorable. So many courageous and brilliant journalists and scholars determined to bring truth to the world. About the carnage in Syria, the revolutions of the Arab world, the militancy of Pakistan.
I appreciated their breadth of knowledge. I learned in their company and also laughed. We had a good time during our many meals together. I especially liked the food at Antiocha, a tiny restaurant near the Pera Palace Hotel. The staff was not prepared for 16 of us descending on them at once but waiter Nureth Kesig accommodated us as though we were royalty. Nearby, at Asmali Cavit, we were shown the fresh catch of the day: bonito from the Black Sea and blue fish from the Bosphorus.
I saved Saturday to visit my cousin’s daughter, Soma, her husband, Bishan and cutie pie daughter Aditi (check out pictures on my Facebook page). They were kind enough to take me by ferry to the Asian side of Istanbul, which I probably would not have seen otherwise. It was much less touristy there. Soma and Bishan took me for lunch to Ciya, their favorite. The restaurant’s brochure boasts of a menu from “the kitchen memories of forgotten dishes, lost tastes and wiped-off cultures.” We had lamb kebaps, a variety of mezze and pilav. Delicious.
Thanks again, Shoma and Bishan for a lovely afternoon.
One especially poignant moment for me: My CNN colleague and friend Joe Duran took me to visit the house he inherited from Margaret Moth, the fearless camerawoman who blazed a trail for women in television journalism. She was shot in the face during the Bosnian war and, yet, did not let her injury deter her from returning to war zones.
Her house, a bit outside Istanbul, is like a museum of all her possessions — antique furniture, floor to wall shelves filled with books and closets full of Victorian dress collections. Joe and Margaret were the closes of friends and after she died, he began living in that house a few days a week. The rest of the time, he lives in an apartment much closer to the CNN bureau in bustling Taksim Square.
I felt Margaret’s spirit in the house. It was as unique as she was. Beautiful and dark in some places.
So much to reflect on from my trip to Istanbul. A woman I admire, family I love, a bevy of new friends and new knowledge about the world.
Whoa. Seriously? The big 50? Seems like yesterday that I was bragging about not being 40 yet.
Not that I am freaking out.
My 20s were maniacal. My 30s, wondrous in discovery. My 40s were terrific — sorry to be leaving them. But I am truly looking forward to the 50s. My friends who have all turned officially old before me tell me that this is the best decade yet.
OK, yes, I am freaking out.
It’s not that I feel old. But there are just way too many reminders now of how life is passing me by.
Yes, there are the wrinkles on my face that suddenly — after I was reminded I had only a few more days left in the 40s — turned wretchedly prominent in the bathroom mirror.
And every strand of gray hair stood up straight, begging for a good dose of dark, brown hue. Praise be to my stylist Jaime Booth, who for years, has been trusted upon to ensure that my hair, at least, won’t give me away. (I’ve already made my pre-birthday appointment).
Barbie turned 50 three years before me. How come she still looks good?
Then there are the back aches and knee pains and other physical ailments that just don’t bother younger people.
Time races by with me wanting to make the most of every minute because suddenly, I have contemplated my own mortality — way too much.
The worst, though, are the reminders from others. Those are the ones that hurt.
Like soldiers I interviewed who said I was attractive enough but old enough to be their mother. Ouch.
Many of my colleagues can say that, too, in the CNN Digital newsroom, where most are young and energetic and full of ideas that involve smart phones and social media. What would they think if they knew my first news story was banged out on a 1930s Remington typewriter? Have they even heard of rubber cement and hot type?
They complain when technology fails them and they are not connected every single second. I think of how I grew up in India without television, without phone service at times.
I remember how to write a letter and post it and wait eight months for a response to return from the other side of the Atlantic.
To them, everything about me is as antiquated my parents were to me. To them, anti-apartheid protests, big hair and then-grounbreaking “The Cosby Show” as old and distant as the 1940s were to me.
I also have a yin and yang relationship with the AARP card I got when my husband turned 50 seven years ago. I whip it out at hotels, car rental places and the movies. The discounts are grand but how come no one says: “Wow. You don’t look old enough to carry an AARP card!”
They used to say that. I swear.
A few weeks ago, I renewed my Georgia driver’s license. Thank you to the lady behind the counter who found it hard to believe I was born in 1962. I am forever indebted to your kindness. Or maybe, it was just blindness.
I also detest moments when I inadvertently date myself.
I remember the day Martin Luther King was killed. And lesser events like when Skylab fell. I couldn’t tell if a co-worker knew what I was talking about. She just gave me a vacant stare.
Or how about when I sat on rickety wooden bleachers at the Florida State Universitybasketball gym and saw Prince perform with Vanity 6? He was nothing then. Nothing.
That’s how old I am.
I’ve heard folks say: 50 is the new 40. I don’t think so.
50 is, well, still 50. For me, it’s the true start of middle age. And the bridge to old age.
But I am better armed for this new era of my life than I was for any other. I am an improved judge of people. I’ve learned when to trust and when to walk away. I also have the comfort of walking through life with a boatload of experience. Sure wouldn’t want to be that green and naive at navigation again.
I have a lot to look back on. But I still have a lot coming my way. And I am excited.
I was thinking about the words of Joe Senato, who eight years ago at this time was an undecided voter from Berkley, Massachusetts.
After hearing the keynote speech delivered by a guy who was the odds-on favorite to win a U.S. Senate seat from Illinois, Senato was impressed.
“He is a prolific speaker,” Senato said. “But more importantly, he wasn’t like Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton. He wasn’t divisive. If he doesn’t get a place in a Kerry administration, well, he should.”
Well, there was no Kerry administration, of course.
But Barack Obama did reach the hallowed halls of the Capitol. And then, just four short years later, he was sitting in the Oval office.
Obama has a tough job tonight when he delivers a speech that I think is far more important than the one I heard at the 2004 Democratic National Convention in Boston. The one that caught the attention of Senato and an entire nation. The one that launched Obama Fever.
This year, so much more is riding on Obama. He’s up for a second term in an election that promises to be close.
One criticism — among many — of Obama is that he has been a president who divided the nation and drove home differences between Americans in terms of class, race, ethnicity. I heard that from a commentator talking about that during the convention this week and it made me think of what Senato had said.
Obama’s message eight years ago was this:
”There’s not a black America and a white Americaand a Latino America and Asian America, there’s the United States of America.”
His fellow Democrats saw a future president.
What will he say tonight that will win back those who lost faith in him?
We’ll have to wait and see.
But Obama’s got another problem after last night. He’s got to top Bill Clinton.
The Duomo — the main cathedral in Florence — seemed to glow at night.
Florence was warm in July. Very warm. But it didn’t matter. It was a relief to escape the tourist frenzy of Venice and arrive in this Tuscan city of amazing architecture and food. Today’s post marvels at the architecture.
Atop Duomo with all of Florence below us.
My brothers-in-law Jimmy and Peter and I climbed to the top of the Duomo, the main cathedral in central Florence.
There was no warning when we bought our entrance ticket as to how steep a climb it would be the top of the cuppola.
Everest, I thought at the time, might be easier. Ha. But it certainly was not a journey for the faint of heart.
It was truly magnificent under a cloudless sky, the Tuscan hills beyond us.
Ponte Vecchio.
It was equally interesting to cross the Ponte Vecchio, the medieval stone arch bridge over the narrowest part of the Arno River.
A central Florence market.
Once the shops on the bridge were all occupied by butchers. These days, it’s a dazzling array of gold and jewelry shops, art dealers and stalls hawking souvenirs for tourists.
Every street and plaza in Florence offered visitors something to gaze at, something to wonder about. We stopped and peered into shops that sold incredible Florentine leather nd handcrafted paper.
And coming up in my next post: the food. Heaven to be in Tuscany, I think. Incredibly fresh food and bottles of Chianti.
Lynn and Jean had never been to Europe before this summer. Britain, France, Italy. A whole new world opened to them, vastly different from East Aurora, a suburb of Buffalo.
Lynn at Piazza San Marco.
From food to dress to language, everything was unfamiliar. The girls took it all in stride. I caught up with them and their father (my husband’s brother, Jim) in Venice. At first, Venice doesn’t seem the most kid-friendly place. But Lynn and Jean were enamored with the world of gelatos, pizzas and yes, cappuccinos (yes, the girls love their coffee, especially with lots of sugar).
Animals at a mask shop.
We took two gondola rides but it was more fascinating to walk the back streets of Venice — winding alleys and lanes connected by small bridges over the canals. We wondered about the lives of people who lived there — it was such a different way of life.
There are no cars, of course, in Venice. Only boats. The fisherman bring in their fresh catch from the sea. People get around by water taxi and private boats. The garbage man hauls trash by hand-pulled cart and takes it to a barge that transports it out. You probably don’t ever want to fall into the water here. Who knows what’s in it. The beauty of Venice charmed the girls. They were thrilled to sit at canalside trattorias and bars and return to America with memories of a lifetime.
I continue in this post my journey through Italy. Too quick, too hurried, but fascinating all the same.
(I dream of the day when I am not beholden to an employer any more and I can travel at will.)
The train ferried me from Verona back to Venice on a warm Sunday afternoon. I was curious to see, at last, the city of palaces built on a mosquito-infested swamp. What were they thinking?
Along the Grand Canal.
The train rolled into the Santa Lucia station and when I stepped out, I finally saw what Venice’s founders envisioned. What they built is truly magnificent, no other city in the world can compare. In fact, the entire city is listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Next, I boarded a water taxi at Ferrovia and 14 stops later along the Grand Canal, I’d reached my destination: San Marco. My hotel was a step away and just around the corner from the main plaza in Venice.
I was meeting two of Kevin’s brother’s here. Yes, I know. A strange thing to go on vacation with your husband’s brothers. But their trip was planned and how easy was it just to tag along? Kevin did not have enough vacation time to make it work.
More about the family in my next post.
Chatting with John and Sue Maso at dinner.
The first night, my brother-in-law Peter and I found a cute trattoria not far from the hotel. We were tired and hungry and filled up on spaghetti with seafood.
Next to us was a couple from Perth, Australia. She’d asked us if our food was good before ordering.
“Delicious,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“Perth.”
“Oh, really?” I said. I lived there for a bit way back in the seventies.”
John and Sue Maso, it turns out, were on a multi-nation adventure. Their days in Italywere to be extra special. John’s parents were from Vittoria Veneto. But the family moved to Australiaafter World War II.
Johns’s father returned four times from Australia. On each of his first three visits, the pope died. It was an omen. The fourth time, he died. That was in 1991.
Veneto was on John’s bucket list. He had to go back to see it, meet family, he explained.
Bangladeshi Shipu Mollah served us our dinner.
I could see he was excited and nervous all at once. He savored his steak as did Sue her spaghetti and seafood.
We laughed and talked some more about Italy. They had enjoyed their day trip to the island of Murano, where glass blowing is an art honed to perfection.
Then it was time to pay the bill. Our waiter Shipu Mollah was young, handsome and I could tell from his speech, very Bengali.
He’d come to Venice from Bangladesh, looking for work.
What I did not know at that moment was that in the three days I was to spend in Venice, I would speak more Bengali than I have in six months in Atlanta.
All the men who sold gimmicks and toys and souvenirs to the tourists were Bangladeshi, as were many of the waiters and shopkeepers. Syad Shamim Ali told me he arrived only a year ago in March — from Libya.
Of course, I thought. I remembered when I had written about Bangladeshi laborers clamoring to get out once Moammar Gadhafi’s rule seemed uncertain.
They’d been transported to the borders at Tunisia and Egypt. Many spent days and nights in the open before they were able to board a ship to take them away.
Life was different in Venice, they told me. Of course it would be after war in Libya and the abject poverty of home. But they did not speak of cathedrals, palaces or aquamarine lagoons.
All they saw were the thousands and thousands of tourists. They were lifeblood.
The Bangladeshis missed their families, their homes — some had not returned in years. But it was possible to make a few dollars. There were a few possibilities here.
Their words would hang over me during my time in Venice.
In between the pricey gondola rides and bottles of Valpolicella, I thought of them, trying to just make it. Life in Venice was certainly no vacation. Not for them.
Used to be the Olympics mirrored the Cold War – a head-to-head battle for medals between the United States and The Soviet Union.
Now, it’s between the USA and China. In London, American might won out with 104 medals versus China’s 84.
I suppose the Olympic medal counts give you a good idea of which nations are world powers. The United States, China, Russia, Great Britain, Germany, Japan, Australia, France…Brazil is up there in the top 20. But, um, where is my homeland?
Keep looking down the list. Keep going. Down, down, down. There, just below Croatia is India with six medals – none gold.
Saina Nehwal
So why is the world’s largest democracy and the second most populous nation unable to win? Can India not do better than six medals with its 1.2 billion people?
Please don’t think that Indians don’t make good athletes. They have shown they can win big in sports like cricket and hockey.
Perhaps the dearth of medals can be explained by a lack of state-run athletics programs in the vein of China’s or those of the former USSR. Half of India’s population still lives in abject poverty. They cannot afford to send children to expensive training camps on their own.
But what about India’s new middle class who now have disposable income or those who have accumulated enormous wealth in the last two decades?
Here’s where I think the culture comes in. Indian parents are way too preoccupied with education. Every parent’s dream is to see his or her child come first in class and get into one of the best colleges in the land.
There is no time for sports. Not serious sports, anyway.
And even if there were, it’s too much of a gamble.
What if little Rita spent her entire life perfecting the art of balancing on a 4-inch beam and then fell under the Olympic spotlight? What would she be left with?
American kids still have a life, they still are able to go to college. But for Rita, the opportunities do not exist unless she is a star student. There’s just way too much competition for slots in schools – too many people, not enough facilities.
Abhijit Kunte, a chess grandmaster who runs a nonprofit to help groom athletes, told the New York Times that it should fall to Indian schools to inspire and train boys and girls. He suggested Indian schools follow the U.S. model.
But the Times reported that the Indian government did not spend a single rupee in the last two years on the promotion of sports in schools and colleges.
Sad, because champion athletes are admired in India. The best in their fields climb to superhero status — starting with the giants of cricket like Sachin Tendulkar down to Saina Nehwal, who won a bronze in badminton in London.
But I suspect many parents think like mine did. They prefer that their children graduate suma cum laude from college than come first in the 200-meter freestyle.
Well, perhaps at least until they are on the stand with gold around their neck.
