travelblogger – ARUNDHATI BASU

This Blogger’s Back

I have been away for a year from this space now. Long enough that it feels strange to spill my thoughts into a post. It being a grey morning, a procession of soggy days having preceded it, I can think of no better thing than letting my thoughts run wild as I make my way back (albeit, gingerly) to the blog. In between writing, when I do take a break and step onto our back porch to re-invigorate the senses with the earthy scent of the outdoors, am sent back in with the indignant chittering of the robin who has laid a couple of blue eggs in the nest that has been home to two sets of fledglings last spring. Could it be the same robin? I have no clue. But it knew about the nest skulking under the rafters of the porch. Back at my desk, I ponder. Where do I even begin. You know we live to travel — and well, we have been doing so in the last year, making our across the likes of Sardinia, Tuscany, Portugal, and lately, India. Culling experiences, memories. Alongside, acquiring a new best mate, Covid, as we hop on and off planes.

If I am to write of it in reverse, I should probably start with India. After three long years, we were back in the subcontinent and the senses were overwhelmed. Oh, the food. Oh, the heat. Yet, April was not the cruellest month, for the heat gathers steam as the months pass. I spent a few days in Delhi with my in-laws and caught up with a handful of close friends. It was pleasant – though the pollution was palpable. The bulk of my holidays were spent in Calcutta, tucked in with my parents at home, devouring my mother’s healthy meals and doing yoga. When Adi joined us for a couple of days, he had a treat in reserve for us. He whisked us off for a night to a penthouse in the heart of the city, an experience curated by a tea estate of repute in the Himalayas. We did a double take when we landed up outside a tall building sheathed in blue glass, stationed as it is on a bustling street of Calcutta, home to many an auction house, bishop’s palace and old Chinese dry cleaners. But the lift that opened up into the lobby of the penthouse was a portkey. We had walked into old-world Bengal. Antique colonial furniture decorated every suite, from the four-poster beds and wooden shutters to the chaise lounges and armchairs, their elegance accentuated by upholstery that came in hues of muted green, yellows and whites, kantha stitched cushions, soft cotton quilts with botanical prints. The bathrooms were gigantic. I felt like a queen swishing through them, appreciating the effect of the chequered marble floors, the shutters to screen out the hot sun, the sizeable bathtub and the walk-in shower.

A long-drawn lunch in one of our favourite old Chinese restaurants in the city, and we were back at the penthouse, ready for afternoon tea on the terrace, framed picturesquely by tall potted plants. Hot as it was, a gentle breeze nonetheless dissipated the mugginess of the early evening as we were sat sipping on first and second flush teas, looking up from time to time to savour the sunset. It was that moment of gloaming when the buttery haze of the evening settled upon the white marbled largesse of the Victorian Memorial, the magnificent of any memorial to a monarch anywhere in the world, and of which I could not help but share a couple of shots. The silhouettes of clumps of trees, the sinking of the sun in slow motion as it bathed the cityscape in its crimson-lavender glow, why, it was a moment of great tranquillity, a moment when you paused willy nilly to take it all in. Over evening drinks later, we chatted at length with the owner of the tea estate, who I had interviewed years ago for a story on coffee and tea plantations. It felt good to put a face to the name and hear about her vision for the penthouse, for it is a remarkable experience in the heart of Calcutta, quite the highlight of my trip. A foray into a world where the contrast between the outside and what lay inside swept me off my feet.

May 4, 2023May 4, 2023

Arundhati Basu7 Comments

THE ACADIAN EFFECT

An early September’s day, four hundred and seventeen years ago, a Frenchman’s curiosity landed him in trouble in the waters around Maine.

Having spotted smoke rising from an encampment of the Native Americans, off a cove in coastal Maine, French explorer Samuel de Champlain brought his ship closer to land but fell prey to the vagaries of the sea. Namely, a rock formation that could not be avoided in time. The hull of the vessel was quite badly off and the French had to disembark and spend time at the cove in order to repair the ship. To be succinct, this is how the French came to be the first of the explorers who landed in the area, pre-empting the arrival of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock 16 years later. Naturally in those days they referred to the land as ‘New France’, before the British arrived and the epithet of ‘New England’ stuck for good.

Champlain was an intrepid character in that he made several voyages to North America and Canada, establishing settlements in Quebec and Acadia. I am fascinated by the zeal of these original adventurers. As explorers and colonists, they “yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down”, belonging to a tribe who dreamed big, who wanted to establish new colonies, who reaped profits from the new lands they came upon and imposed their own culture wherever they went while also imbibing the new, in the spirit of give-and-take that is the very fundamental premise of venturing beyond familiar territories. And they lived life kingsize. No apologies necessary. Champlain was no different, as one of the ilk who was “always roaming with a hungry heart”. For posterity, the man left behind a map that he drafted, having been a cartographer too (how many hats did these men wear, you wonder). In it, he clearly demarcated the capes and bays, islands, rivers, and settlements of the Abenaki (the Algonquian people) along the coast of Maine.

In his journal, Champlain had noted: “The island is high and notched in places so that from the sea it gives the appearance of a range of seven or eight mountains. The summits are all bare and rocky…I named it “l’Ile des Monts-deserts.” The name ‘Mount Desert Island’ stuck, ‘desert’ being pronounced as “dessert”. Is it because it is as comely as a well-presented dish of dessert? Who knows, but we were charmed to find ourselves in the town of Bar Harbor, which we drove into for a spot of lunch, and about which experience I banged on about in the previous post. The time we had in Bar Harbor was astonishingly brief. Minus the time we spent labouring over lunch — consuming food dripping with butter is tardy business — I chose to natter with an artist who was sat painting by the waters. Much to the annoyance of Adi, who was robbed of an ice cream as a result of this impromptu (and long) diversion.

All grumbles and scowls were however promptly relegated to the back seat as we left behind the twee cottages of Bar Hrbor and made our way up the road that looped around the Acadia National Park. Being short on time, we were robbed off the chance to explore the trails that called out to us from within dappled sunlit forests of spruces and firs, the forest floors matted with ferns and a dense understory. All I wanted to do was get off the car and run through the trails, hugging those awfully tall pines and cedars. The senses were enveloped in the heavenly fragrance of the woods as we wove our way through at a relaxed pace. Do you like the way forests smell? It must be one of those intangible things that just feel precious.

The views all along the park were cinematic. From the glistening blue waters, patches of conifer-laden islands jutted out from them, introducing a contrast in green — and somewhat relieving the eyes from encountering a monotonous sheath of blue. At places we observed the land claw its way into the waters. Chunky tablets of granite sculpted shaped by the elements stretched beneath our feet. In places, they were stacked up, examples of nature’s installations. Eroded by the waters and gouged by glaciers that have over the centuries scoured the land, this tableaux was at once primitive and it made me feel so very small. The play of light and shadow as the sun progressed into its journey westward, introduced a further dramatic twist to the scenery, and we were transfixed as we stayed awhile by the waters. The roads entwining the park rewarded us with more. A close look at pines, their trunks bloated by rust; whole rows of pines that were bare and bleached; rocks that looked like vast bubbles atop which people stood, tiny as ants, and then the startling sight of trees that blazed red. It was thus on the way out of this Arcadia that we had a bit of a head start on autumn.

“A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.”
Herman Hesse

“**Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.**“
**Herman Hesse**

Sep 13, 2021Sep 13, 2021

Arundhati Basu19 Comments

A DROWNING IN MELTED BUTTER

It being Labor Day weekend, the equivalent of what we know as May Day except that the American version takes place at the beginning of September, Adi and I packed our bags on Friday morning and set off for a long drive to New England from New York. Before this, my beloved sprang off to the hot dog stand opposite our apartment (much to his utter delight) and promptly inhaled two frankfurters in quick succession, putting me in mind of the worthily beloved and now deceased Labrador of his, Tuktuk. You see, Tuktuk did not believe in mastication.

With a maniacal grin pasted on his face at having started the holiday on a bright note and having strengthened the lining of his stomach with the much-vetted local ‘delicacy’, my husband was ready to tackle the long winding roads through Vermont to Maine, and come what may. A remarkably serene drive followed, punctuated by the verdant hills of Vermont and dramatic series of thick clouds that billowed along a sparkling blue sky with all intentions of smothering it. I was not complaining. The clouds are my friends when I go on a holiday.

Invariably, half my camera roll is filled with snaps of them. I merely wished for a while that I had my pots of paint at hand and could dab a piece of paper with colours to capture the transient nature of their beauty. Then also re-thought the entire wish thing given the hullaballoo that would ensue if I did happen to colour the various parts of the car alongside the paper. Anyhoo, this is how we rolled into the fine city of Portland on the finest of evenings in September, and found ourselves reaching out for our jackets to combat the bite in the air.

This was the beginning of a four-day holiday in the city that’s perched on the coastline and renowned as a hipster hotspot. More of which, I shall come to by and by. Because one cannot dump everything in one post, for the cause of trying one’s own patience — after all, I am not writing a novel here — and also for the sake of getting to the nub of the post. For, I did allude to drowning in melted butter, did I not? Now however much it did not take place literally, for you can imagine the limited joys of taking a dip in a vat of butter, it did take place in a manner of speaking.

One afternoon, we drove to the Acadia National Park, before reaching which our hearts sank at the sight of innumerable strip malls in a town at the gateway to the park. I have never understood America’s intense obsession with strip malls. They must be the worst inventions ever (along with electric chairs and gas chambers). This token symbol of ghastly capitalism having caused a setback to the general atmosphere of jollity, our spirits were greatly revived upon arriving in the small town of Bar Harbor. The lovely quaint architecture of the coastal town did the trick. But finding a parking spot was monstrous. After a solid hour of driving round and round town like whirling dervishes on speed, we managed to bag a spot with a short window.

We hurried off to grab lunch and almost immediately found a small hip joint where outdoor seating was near a tree trunk that shot up through the patio. The tree hugger in me was content. We ordered up fish tacos and lazy man’s lobster. While waiting for the food to arrive, I could not help eavesdropping on a conversation going on behind us, between the waiter and a woman with a little coterie of small dogs. It revolved around sizes of various breeds. And the waiter’s own big bonny baby, an American Akita who weighs a mean 120lb. Small dog lady seemed suitably impressed. This strain of sentiment however could not be sustained. The waiter went on to proudly narrate a story of when he went camping with dog in X place. In the camp grounds, Akita meets Black Lab. Lab growls at Akita. Akita tears off Lab’s ears. Akita and Akita’s father are evicted from the grounds. Akita’s father is nonplussed and rather proud of this little feat, as evinced by his tone. Result: A few horrified listeners.

Having done his job of sending small dog lady packing, the waiter resumed his job of fetching our food. What arrived made my eyes bulge. A gondola of bright orange butter with big chunks of lobster swimming in it. This then was your quintessential lazy man’s lobster, which as the name suggests means that it is for the lazy man or woman. You do not have to pry open the shell and forage for your meat, nor do you have to reach for the bib. An East Coast classic through and through. The butter oozed down my throat as I chewed on fresh chunks of lobster, perfectly pink and tasting of sunny summer. This heart-attack inducing meal could not have come on its own lonesome self. Piping up from the sidelines was corn on the cob doused in yet more butter and sour cream, along with a sizeable cup of clam chowder, and a hillock of chips. By the time I was done with half the chowder, the lobster and the corn, I could feel my arteries swelling up in indignation and gearing up to hold a protest march. Yes, yes, it was a wholly unholy alliance, but at least I was halfway there with Lord Byron’s edict. That one about a woman never being seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster (salad) and Champagne.

Sep 7, 2021Sep 7, 2021

Arundhati Basu14 Comments

December

I have been gone long. But at the back of my mind has been this constant hum, “don’t be a numpty, get back to the blog already!” So the days have passed while I have been thinking of making a return, but words seem strangely sparse nowadays. Do you know what I mean? I think you do. I might meet you and talk endlessly, as is my wont, but when it comes to blogging, I feel like a dried-up well.

An endless litany of days just merge into the other, though I do not imply that I am discontented. Sure I have my wobbles (like any of us), but I have never looked more inward than now, to keep my soul invigorated. In all of this nature has made the biggest difference. I have found great comfort in watching the machinations of the birds that haunt the bay here. The season has brought about its customary visitors – flocks of Canada geese that honk in the evenings as they fly home, wherever that is, in perfect formations; the ring-billed gulls who perch themselves on the walls unafraid, even as one jogs by; the Snow Goose that looks picture perfect; the male mallards with their glistening green heads and the females with their speckled brown plumage; the cutesy Buffleheads that bob in couples on the waters. I have learnt to tell the young ring-billed gulls from the mature ones, by virtue of their plumage. Maybe because I have poring over Audubon’s wonderfully detailed field guide.

Meanwhile a snow storm in the last two days has coated my world pristine white. It has brought such a spark of joy. So what if I find myself slipping on the ice that has formed in the tracks on the park or sinking deep into the snow as I try to get to the many snowmen that have cropped up around us. Everyone is out there, sledding down the gentle slopes in the park, making the most of the landscape bathed in snow. We all need what we can get to tide us over this odd year, isn’t it?

I have been recharging myself through art. Watercolours and charcoal drawings. I have also started an etsy store: www.etsy.com/shop/Artbybasu?ref=seller-platform-mcnav. I hawk my wares on it. That apart I have been working on going the self-publishing route with my book. It is daunting and involves loads of research, but at least I have some control over the process. One needs control where one can find it, don’t you think? Anyway, I hope to get back to blogging more regularly, now that I have gingerly made my way back here, and catch up with my feed. Needless to say, but I shall put it out nonetheless, I have missed you all.

To you my lovelies, I send the brilliance of snow and oodles of love from Bayonne. Off I go to demolish some quiches and making December count.

Dec 19, 2020Dec 19, 2020

Arundhati Basu25 Comments

Doozy Times in Seattle

We spent five short days in the Pacific Northwest with my sister-in-law and her lovely family, and even though five as a number is short — it felt short — it was enriching within a tight span of time.

Enrichment came our way through activities. We chatted endlessly, baked and cooked, when we were not tripping over to the city’s iconic marketplace to gather fragrant spices and delicious cheese, sipping on hot apple cider, tasting moreish butter, and buying braids of garlic and chillies that did the singular job of elevating our hearts to our mouths with the amount they cost (oh, but they are beauties). Amongst all of this was the scenic presence Mount Rainier, with its upturned conical tip sheathed in snow, and the Olympic ranges. A band of photogenic siblings.

The sun was shining, and the days were spectacularly cold, but boy, they added sass to the time spent outside.

To mitigate the chill, we slurped on Taiwanese food. Mere broth and garlic, yet divine. Xiao Long Bao (soup dumplings for the rest of us) and Sichuan noodles stole the highlight simply because we had never had them before.

Novelty is a cracking thing. You always remember that first trip you ever took, that first time you explored a new place and came across things alien to your culture, met a person who turned out to be a beloved figure in your life,…you never forget those, do you? The Taiwanese meal had left its impression upon us, indelibly.

Now, Seattle for us inevitably means Snohomish. A place the father-in-law chanced upon during a golfing trip and introduced the sister-in-law to. Ever since, she has been a fixture there. It’s her pick-me-up, a no-brainer, according to her. Snohomish has an assortment of shops that deal in antiques, time-worn, quirky objects that make your heart flutter with want. Safe to say, we have never returned empty-handed from there.

The nephew and niece have grown up a fair bit. If the little missy is all for mathematics, reading and baking — she made us delicious mini brownie pizzas — the nephew is a level-headed teenager with none of the angst of one yet. From them, we gained new knowledge. Of the concept of sneakerheads. We had zero idea of this. You can call it a subculture, if you please. Sneakerheads are sneaker collectors who like to accumulate limited edition shoes and even vintage ones. They then swap or sell them for exorbitant prices. There are other little details culled from the mouth of these babes that made my mind tumble and stumble, but they escape me now.

We wrapped it all up with a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, decorated the Christmas tree, and nibbled into a sticky and lovely Christmas cake, the best I have ever had. It was baked by the sister-in-law’s neighbour. It was shattering and I cannot wait to replicate its goodness.

Now that I am back to reality, it is unsettling, but it is acceptable because Christmas is around the corner. The city has gone the festive route. We got our first batch of snow too yesterday, big chunky flakes that drove through the day, changing directions, and in all of it, through the slush that resulted on the pavements of New York City, I was out to meet a blogger. She turned out to be as humorous as her blog and wonderful company because the hours sped by as we prattled.

That’s the beginning of December for me. I cannot wait to see what else it brings.

I am hoping for more Christmas cake and snow.

Iconic Pike Place signage — The iconic Pike Place signage

Matt's in the Market at Pike Place — Matt’s in the Market at Pike Place

Tiramisu from the Chinese bakery 85°. Astonishingly good.

A chilly break from Black Friday shopping at a shingle beach in Kirkland

Brother-sister act at the gardening-decor store, Molbak’s.

Dec 3, 2019Feb 29, 2020

Arundhati Basu48 Comments

Namaste

I am back after more than a month and why, oh why, do I feel like a truant? Friday evening has arrived with smoky blue skies and a kingdom of clouds, so I am feeling it. The frothy state of mind that accompanies weekends. You know, cracking open a bottle of red to dissipate the chill of autumnal evenings walks, followed up with plenty of cheese, pasta al pomodoro, grilled veggies…

Let’s see what have I been upto during my absence here. Mostly I have been working on my writing, without distractions (phone and social media).

But I am a creature of sensory pleasures, so there have been sessions of baking upside-down cakes incorporating the flavours of the season. I have been scoffing a wedge a day.

Meanwhile, the beauty of autumn has me bewitched. The colours have peaked and faded, the leaves are gathered in huge piles everywhere, and the sun has been flaming out every evening over the bay with precision. It is like being part of nature’s gallery of astonishments. To keep up with my beloved workouts, I am notching miles on a Peloton bike. Paired with my evening walks, these gruelling sessions make me sleep like a log (not that I could ever complain about the lack of it, which goes to say that I am loving the extra hour of sleep everyday).

What are long, dark evenings tailor-made for? Devouring books. I have stumbled upon the delicious writing of Marlena de Blasi. Her artistry with words has woven magic into my evenings.

There has been a splash of travelling too. We took off to Boston for my birthday earlier in the month and traipsed around in freezing climes. Found that it did not match upto the images of it I had conjured up in my mind . Yet what a wonderful time I had with my love, examining its old graveyards, pottering around its posh neighbourhoods with their pretty bakeries and antique shops, tasting bread at a celebrity chef’s restaurant that made me shut my eyes and will myself to remember its divine flavours for a long, long time. Oddly enough, I thought I saw a man butt-naked from the waist down, running along with a troop of people dressed up in costumes. I am glad I did not choke on the calamari I was in the process of gobbling down.

On Monday, we travel to Seattle for Thanksgiving with the sister-in-law’s family. The excitement begins now — I love the countdown to a holiday — and continues into the next week. Here’s to cooking, baking, thanksgiving, and some loving with the family.

Now, it’s your turn to fill my ears with your life events, and fill your senses with a few suggestions of autumn’s resplendence.

Nov 22, 2019

Arundhati Basu47 Comments

To the New Season and the Past

Autumn has stolen in this year even before we could feel the sting of summer here on the East Coast. Sure the heat was blistering for a couple of weeks, but then it rained like the heavens were brimming, and could not, would not indeed, hold it in. The skies would darken and thicken with mushrooming clouds and there was pure drama in the build-up. When it pelted down, it was even more joyous, except if you were caught outside in the perishing rain.

The year has sped by in a string of house guests. Mid-August we travelled for 16 days straight, when we felt the sting of summer in Italy and Croatia alright. Yet what bliss! The mind and body screamed in unison, “We are not going back anywhere”. Eventually, we got back, but the head and heart refuse to leave behind the space they have nested in, in these beautiful lands.

In Tuscan country, we woke up to the sight of dreamy hills and dark cypresses with their ramrod backs, high above a town called Barga. Pastries and croissants for elevenses. After, we seasoned our souls with bread and olive oil so green that you could smell the grass in it. Demolished bowls of aglio e olio and grilled veggies drizzled with more olive oil. Learnt to cook creamy ricotta dumplings called gnudi; discovered that risotto in Tuscany is made with carnaroli, never Arborio, which is considered pedestrian; and used courgette blossoms for baked dishes. All at the palazzo of an Italian chef who was easy on the eye.

At the chef’s magazine-ready interiors, we met people from Glasgow, Sydney and California, became a family for a noon, having cooked together and exchanged stories, all washed down with endless bottles of Prosecco, then Chianti, Brunello and limoncello.

When you travel, the essence of it is formed of these stories culled from strangers. Different people, different stories, bundles of shared laughter, moments of frothy joy. Some things are priceless.

Two were American ex-military officers, one of whom might be in his 60s but has shifted to the Tuscan town of Lucca to start life afresh there. The other was hopped up about growing courgette blossoms and ways of distinguishing a male blossom from a female. Their genuine passion for food and life was endearing. My favourite was Uncle Bill, as we referred to him. He taught me the Italian expression, fare la scarpetta. It is the custom of mopping up your plate (any extra sauce, oil) with bread. I have been indulging in fare la scarpetta ever since. The Australian woman was old and ballsy. She had just arrived in Tuscany after hiking along The Path of the Gods on the Amalfi coast. Next was a possible backpacking adventure with her son. The rest were a family, a couple and their young daughter from Glasgow. The woman bore such an uncanny resemblance to Liz Hurley that I could not help comment upon it. Overhearing this natter, her husband warned in his lovely Scottish burr, “OKAY, no more Prosecco for you.”

With this bunch of people, and the chef, we shopped for fresh tomatoes and courgette blossoms in a local grocery store where the sight of the variety of pomodoro, plump and juicy, was a feast for the eyes. The produce was so fresh that the dishes we cooked tasted like no other. Then hopping over to an old bakery for some tasty bread, we sighted the longest slab of focaccia we have ever seen, in Lucca. It was 16-feet long. Epicurean explorations do feed the soul besides an ever-ready gut. We gobbled the focaccia later at the palazzo with plenty of extra virgin olive oil. I think I can hold a discourse on just bread now.

Tuscany was a revelation. Its beauty unsurpassed and added to by the warmth of the Italians. For beauty is an aura of goodness and nothing less than that. Like the young biker couple who made a pit-stop like us along a vineyard for photos, plucked plenty of grapes, and insisted we share. The old couple we met near the Maremma region, who shared their bounty of freshly plucked berries with us.

The generous quantities of bread and pasta had to be worked off, unless we intended to come back, two rotund individuals who would not fit into our plane seats. It worked out to our advantage then that we almost always found ourselves trudging to these towns built by the ancient Etruscans upon tuff hills. Towns threatened by erosion, but somehow clinging on for dear life.

If you look at the featured photo, it is of Civita de Bagnoregio, a tufa town two hours away from Rome and still in the Lazio region of Italy. It is a fantastic town shooting for the skies from its perch upon a column of tuff. Locals call it the dying town. A big chunk of it has already collapsed into the Valle dei Callanchi (Valley of the Badlands) that is its dramatic backdrop and only about 8 people live there now. Along with a colony of cats.

2019-09-12 11.17.46 1.jpg — Civita de Bagnoregio

Valle dei Callanchi

2019-09-16 09.42.08 1.jpg — Limestone houses of Civita

2019-09-16 09.42.09 1.jpg — From its centuries old church

That’s my return from the land of silence. See how my mouth shoots off. Naturally, I have got to leave the Balkans for another post. It is time for me to sign off, but not before I point out that this is why I have been missing out on the blogging world and its news. Your news. I will catch up by and by and see how life has been unfurling at your end.

Love and peace for the season of flaming beauty.

Sep 26, 2019

Arundhati Basu24 Comments

The River Town of Hope

An old grist mill caught my eyes. I was standing at the edge of the green truss bridge in Lambertville that spans the gentle Delaware and opens up to a twin town which does not however lie in New Jersey. Cross a line on the bridge and you find out that you have left the state of New Jersey behind; that now, my darling, you have entered the state of Pennsylvania.

With just the crossing of a bridge, we were in another town.

New Hope of the Lenni Lenape Indians; of a thousand acres of land gifted by King Charles II to a certain William Penn; of a succession of men who operated ferries and mills; of an industrial past riddled with working mills and the legacy of a small community that worked hard to produce paper, quarry stones and grind grains. That is till a bohemian lot of artists were attracted to the picturesque quality that this town presented with its farrago of farmhouses, mills and barns, creeks, and the river that slips gently by it.

Towards the end of the 1930s, a group of aesthetes bought the grist mill that you see in the lead picture. They transformed it into a summer theatre. The Bucks County Playhouse, where so many famous actors and actresses honed their trade before they tried their luck on Broadway. That is how artists put New Hope on the map for art aficionados. And then, the rest of us followed on a day drenched with sun, filled with hope about this town that called itself New Hope. Note that the mills had their say in deciding its title for there were the Old Hope Mills which burned down, only to be replaced with mint-fresh mills built as the New Hope Mills.

Right from the main street where the bridge disgorged us, we were hard pressed for which direction to take. But there was no chance of leaving any road unexplored here. There was a roll-call of restaurants and cafes, ice cream shops, hippie shops selling harem pants and Buddhas, decor stores where you could step in and complete wooden jigsaw puzzles only to find some pieces broken, gourmet popcorn shops, food markets promising a tantalising mix of world cuisine…and then there were charming old properties, stone houses and mansions. And a stone bridge below which a somnolent creek crawled past the photogenic grist mill of my fancies before it emptied into the Delaware river.

So what did we do? We ambled around as much as one could; had strange conversations with mothers holding onto occupied loos for their sons; scoffed delicious ice creams; bought popcorn; realised that a credit card had gone missing and which therefore an irate husband rushed to retrieve with remarkable scowls and mutterings; and perched ourselves at a quiet bar humming with couples, by the creek.

Weeping willows hanging shyly in veils of green around us, the waters of the creek sliding by in smooth emerald sheets while all along catching the reflection of leafy trees lining its banks and the dappled sunlight, and flights of sparkling wine. We were caught in the moment.

2019-06-06 09.01.54 1.jpg — A man-made waterfall at the former 19th century grist mill. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-06 09.01.55 1.jpg — Besotted by this old mill, so naturally you shall be treated to every possible angle of it. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-06 08.52.45 3.jpg — Baroque Victorian catches the eye on the main street. A man called Charles Crook had the mansion built for his wife who was a fan of scrollwork. Thus its elaborate stage-like front. Additionally, it was the first house in Bucks County to boast of running water. Mansion Inn is an 18th century property, and though the inn itself did not exist then, it is the site where George Washington and his men dined before heading for a battle of the American Revolution. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-06 09.01.53 1.jpg — A town of settlers, New Hope has these rows of picket-fenced historic brick and stone properties sheathed in ivy, that make the heart skip a beat. Historic plaques often tell of a house’s former owner and their importance in the scheme of things. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-06 09.10.43 1.jpg — The Town Hall once served as New Hope’s town hall, school and jail. Credit: Anuradha Varma.

2019-06-06 09.01.51 1.jpg — One of the oldest houses in New Hope is this, Carriage House. You can catch a night’s stay or more here because it is a bolthole for the keen, with exposed wooden beams and hardwood floors. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-05 09.02.45 1.jpg — A capture of my sister-in-law at the bar along the Aquetong Creek. Credit: Anuradha Varma.

2019-06-06 09.10.31 1.jpg — Sparkling wines and green creeks. Credit: Anuradha Varma.

2019-06-06 09.10.17 1.jpg — Crisp pita and divine avocado dips to cool scowls away. Credit: Anuradha Varma.

Before falling upon that plate of grilled octopus with frenzy. Credit: Anuradha Varma.

2019-06-06 09.01.50 1.jpg — The bar by the creek. Credit: Adi.

2019-06-06 09.01.52 3.jpg — Picture perfect. However, that man on the bottom left hand side is not a dummy. For a moment I wondered if he was. Credit: Adi.

Old grist mills can be grist for your fancy. Credit: Anuradha Varma

Jun 14, 2019

Arundhati Basu22 Comments

Love, Loaf and Hugo

If you asked a Parisian, what love is, he would thwack you with the golden loaf in his hand, and say, ‘Why, it is this, you numskull?!’ Here you would roll your eyes, and say, ‘Oh com’on, the baguette is such an overworked stereotype!’ Yet every time we stepped out on the streets of the city, there it was. A slender baton of crusty goodness staring back at us, tucked within the elbow of the old man in the long overcoat and beret, or sticking out of the tote of the young woman as she walked ahead of us. We even saw an old lady nibbling at the end of hers — probably best to have it fresh even before the day has waned. Lest the Parisian forgot this essential chunk of his daily diet, they have a Bread Observatory in Paris. It trots out the daily reminder, “Cou cou, tu as pris le pain?” (“Hello, did you pick up the bread?”). Now if that is not love, my darling, you tell me what love is. If you need further proof, just head to the nearest boulangerie. Finding yourself in a queue is an inevitability.

If we are talking about love, I would have to pipe in about the walrus with his fantastic pair of long, white tusks and grey, fluffy beard. My eyes fell upon this thing of rare, portly beauty in the window of a boutique, whereupon the batting of my eyelids made my husband acquiesce grudgingly. So that now this walrus sits pretty at home with my family of stuffed animals. This love however was eclipsed by far when we came across an elderly woman in the shadows of the Church of Saint-Sulpice. She was old but chic, in just the way an average Parisian is (must be the baguette). Even to walk their dogs, Parisians dress well. This lady was out with her 6-month old Cocker Spaniel pup, Lulu, who was the belle of the ball I thought, till I realised that Lulu was a tiny male with velvet soft curls. The love that shone in the woman’s eyes for her Lulu was palpable and touching enough that it remains in my mind as a radiant moment wrapped up in the soft sunshine of a December noon.

Be as it is may that we were in the 6th arrondissement when we met Lulu, I would actually like to whisk you into the 3rd and 4th arrondissements where lie the Marais quarter of Paris.

Charm and amour co-exist in Le Marais like an old married couple. What were marshes (hence Marais) in the early times, from land left over when a branch of the Seine dried up, is de rigueur today. But let me also describe to you how the day built up to lend itself to the laidback beauty of Le Marais.

We reached Le Marais after time spent dawdling at Shakespeare and Company, rifling through ancient books written by unknown authors, sniffing the scent of those old books (that’s how love smells), buying wedges of cheese from a Christmas market outside the Notre Dame, looking up dusty music covers and magazines that the line-up of Bouquinistes in their big fur hats and heavy coats sell along the Seine.

Twilight was gathering around us. Bang in the middle of a bridge — I believe it was the Pont Saint-Louis — a man sat playing his piano. The cadence of his music conjured up an ethereal quality to the evening when in the half light of it we stood by the bridge, a soft and cold breeze caressing us, lights glimmering across the Seine in the grand old buildings of Paris. It seemed fitting that we should walk into Le Marais right after, the afternotes of the performance playing in our heads as an amuse bouche of sorts.

Le Marais is timeless. Here there was no trace of Haussman’s wide boulevards and neoclassical facades. Here you still found a chunk of the old Paris, the narrow winding streets and medieval house fronts, interspersed by Jewish delis, tea salons, herb shops and hat shops, hole-in-the-wall curiosity shops, art galleries, hip bars and boutiques. There remains the impossible grandness of the city hall (Hôtel de Ville), and the opulence of the private townhouses, or hôtel particulier, which were built for aristocrats during the 17th century. Now, it would be entirely amiss of me not to take you to the oldest planned square of the city, Place des Vosges, that sits within the Marais quarter. Not only do I have memories of buying a beautiful blue cloche from an old man there in the autumn of 2016, but because it is also the location of one of my favourite museums. Maison de Victor Hugo — where I dragged Adi because a) it is free, and, b) it feeds the imagination to see how a writer of means lived in the 19th century.

Before I go, I wanted to draw your attention to that pair of aged nuns. They are hobbling across a cobbled courtyard and will gradually disappear into the shadows of the temple. Faith awaits them. And, did you notice the bride-to-be? She is trying on her wedding dress, looking a bit unsure. Then she catches your eye and casts a brilliant smile. All’s well there. As for the baker behind the till and his goodies displayed in the window, the less said the better. There lies defeat in the faces of endless slices of gateaux. It has been a fair amount of gawking and walking, so if your feet perchance feel worn, dear reader, take a cue from Hugo who had famously observed that to loaf is Parisian — and pause for that carafe of wine in one of those cafés where they serve enough popcorn to make it worth your while.

These winding streets lead to baroque churches

The 17th century Church of Saint Sulpice

Place Saint-Sulpice and its church of the mismatched towers. You will probably know it better if I mentioned Da Vinci Code. It was shot here.

A golden ball of fur charging towards her human

Photobombed at the Notre Dame. It’s inescapable.

Feb 14, 2019

Arundhati Basu47 Comments

DC En Couleur

The need to craft words about the city falls away, for once you walk its wide open boulevards, there is no escaping the aura of power that envelopes it. Tangibly at that. Classic row houses lined up on broad, leafy avenues, impressive buildings of embassies and trade unions, grand hotels and saloons, followed by resplendent federal buildings and museums with their decided partiality for classical architecture, the many Ionic column, the mythological figures carved upon the facades… oh, but our senses were awash with these visions of grandeur. And all this, the conception of a Frenchman who in the late 1700s came upon a rolling landscape of hills and plantations, forests and marshes, at the confluence of two rivers. Together with the first president of the United States, Pierre Charles L’Enfant laid out an architectural groundwork for the city, imparting it with unequivocal majesty, but died without receiving payment and recognition.

It’s been a long-drawn-out two hundred years and more, Monsieur L’Enfant, but maybe, just maybe, you would strut its streets with pleasure, pronouncing it Ç’est Magnifique, even as you cock an eyebrow at the girl who walks past you with her mane of flaming brilliance and air of nonchalance.