The year before last, a bunch of students went on what was called "Global Immersion" in college. With 24 other students and a petulant woman-child of an erstwhile Rhodes Scholar assistant professor person, who claimed she taught 'Semiotics' but hardly came close to doing justice to Business Communication, I boarded the circus to London and some nice classroom time & walking trips at and around Greenwich University, that included a few killer sessions on Cool Britannia, actually checking out Banksy's graffiti on the bad side of London and getting photographed outside a pub, standing under a girl-on-stilts in her lingerie when it was 15 degrees outside and we had two layers on. Each.
On our way to Her Majesty's, we stopped over at Dubai, and innate Indian cheapskateness kicked in: we began to tank up on things we were going to need and things that were going to be mindblowingly expensive once we reached. Business students == perils of global economy. (You have been warned.)
So it was running, literally, around the vastness of Dubai International Airport, during our 4 hour stopover, where every moment felt like it justified breathing in a place that serves over 6,000 weekly flights operated by 130 airlines to over 215 destinations across every continent except Antarctica.[4]
We ended up buying 8 bottles of deodorant, and 6 cartons of cigarettes among 5 smoking boys.
Once we reached Ol' Blighty, got on the magnificent tube, where, for once justifiably, all talk of the awesomeness of the Delhi Metro was entirely stopped and reached a ho(s)tel called Generator: walking distance from King's Cross, with an in-house pub; a pool table that was mildly expensive at a pound per frame, meaning that we always played doubles and Happy Hours that ended at 8PM, so we were only ever in time once. It was the kind of place that had good beer and the staff was brilliant and the air conditioning and internet always worked, but they were 'no smoking inside'. A little like your parents' house, but only if you did the interiors. With a big semicolon space bracket on the side.
So to smoke, and since we were five we smoked in a synchronised group dynamic of twos and threes, we descended 6 floors, to the designated smoking area on the streets, yes, on the streets, to smoke. In hindsight, it regulated our smoking, keeping it at a distance, while making the elevator ride 6-5-4-3-2-1 and walk through a terribly mini-minimalist blue and yellow reception-cum-lobby out to the street, our little thing. We went once in the morning, once just before we left for the day's work, one just after we got back and got cleaned up and one after dinner.
Neat, and disciplined smoking: we was proud of us.
On the second night we were about on our ritual, one of the many African immigrant guys who worked as security and stewards for Generator on the night shifts came around, and lit a cigarette with us. Just as we were about to extend our greetings, he asked with a smile as wide as the English channel from France: "Are you guys from India?"
Bapu said "Yes!" as if Bharatnatyam was him, and Alhadji broke out into the title song from Bombay To Goa (the original Amitabh Bachchan starrer). We found our first friend on what was increasingly looking like the geeky Indian version of American Pie on Eurotrip.
Over the course of time, and our brief friendship with Alhadji, he told us about his home, his fondness for acting, and hindi movies and how the 1970s in Bollywood was considered classic gold in educated Africa, and about how his day job was at an acting school. Or something. He was a nice guy and we shared a couple of beers and a few cigarettes, warming our hands in our own jackets at night in what the British liked to call summa. Bollocks.
We tripped out on London as tourists, walking from 221-B Baker Street all the way around to Lords, lost a guy/baby elephant/TATA Employee, first around Oxford Street and again at Heathrow, where he had his name ringing out on the PA. The Underground was our best friend, and our 'teacher' who claimed to have been to the city about 30 times before, couldn't figure out shit.
Take a moment and imagine: a Semiotics teacher who can't figure out the signs on the iconic London Underground railway. Bet the woman wasn't a great driver either.
Anyway, Tussaud's made me miss my folks, they're the kinds who'd fawn over the Amitabh/SRK/Sachin wax statues. Although the short witch with us made sure we had an inordinate amount of Indian food in London, the Biryani in Southall was nothing short of Bipasha Basu in that classic hindi film [Goal].
On our last day at the hostel, Bapu gave Alhadji a ten-rupee note as a present, more like a nostalgia 'tip'. When Alhadji said he won't take money, Bapu explained how it's a cultural memoir, with 18 languages and all the jizz that goes with national integration on state memorabilia, how it was a trophy of their friendship and a salute to globalization. Alhadji, surprisingly, understood quickly, and the expression on his face was the same as it was, just before he broke out into that Amitabh Bachchan song.
Some photos: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.222673900362.274177.596165362&type=3&l=09f7a3c337
The trip to Scotland and the tale of the tour guide shall happen soon enough. Tune in if you like for more tales of sucking on the death sticks. Meanwhile, the folks at Expedia & IndiBlogger are doing this neat thing.
On our way to Her Majesty's, we stopped over at Dubai, and innate Indian cheapskateness kicked in: we began to tank up on things we were going to need and things that were going to be mindblowingly expensive once we reached. Business students == perils of global economy. (You have been warned.)
So it was running, literally, around the vastness of Dubai International Airport, during our 4 hour stopover, where every moment felt like it justified breathing in a place that serves over 6,000 weekly flights operated by 130 airlines to over 215 destinations across every continent except Antarctica.[4]
We ended up buying 8 bottles of deodorant, and 6 cartons of cigarettes among 5 smoking boys.
Once we reached Ol' Blighty, got on the magnificent tube, where, for once justifiably, all talk of the awesomeness of the Delhi Metro was entirely stopped and reached a ho(s)tel called Generator: walking distance from King's Cross, with an in-house pub; a pool table that was mildly expensive at a pound per frame, meaning that we always played doubles and Happy Hours that ended at 8PM, so we were only ever in time once. It was the kind of place that had good beer and the staff was brilliant and the air conditioning and internet always worked, but they were 'no smoking inside'. A little like your parents' house, but only if you did the interiors. With a big semicolon space bracket on the side.
So to smoke, and since we were five we smoked in a synchronised group dynamic of twos and threes, we descended 6 floors, to the designated smoking area on the streets, yes, on the streets, to smoke. In hindsight, it regulated our smoking, keeping it at a distance, while making the elevator ride 6-5-4-3-2-1 and walk through a terribly mini-minimalist blue and yellow reception-cum-lobby out to the street, our little thing. We went once in the morning, once just before we left for the day's work, one just after we got back and got cleaned up and one after dinner.
Neat, and disciplined smoking: we was proud of us.
On the second night we were about on our ritual, one of the many African immigrant guys who worked as security and stewards for Generator on the night shifts came around, and lit a cigarette with us. Just as we were about to extend our greetings, he asked with a smile as wide as the English channel from France: "Are you guys from India?"
Bapu said "Yes!" as if Bharatnatyam was him, and Alhadji broke out into the title song from Bombay To Goa (the original Amitabh Bachchan starrer). We found our first friend on what was increasingly looking like the geeky Indian version of American Pie on Eurotrip.
Over the course of time, and our brief friendship with Alhadji, he told us about his home, his fondness for acting, and hindi movies and how the 1970s in Bollywood was considered classic gold in educated Africa, and about how his day job was at an acting school. Or something. He was a nice guy and we shared a couple of beers and a few cigarettes, warming our hands in our own jackets at night in what the British liked to call summa. Bollocks.
We tripped out on London as tourists, walking from 221-B Baker Street all the way around to Lords, lost a guy/baby elephant/TATA Employee, first around Oxford Street and again at Heathrow, where he had his name ringing out on the PA. The Underground was our best friend, and our 'teacher' who claimed to have been to the city about 30 times before, couldn't figure out shit.
Take a moment and imagine: a Semiotics teacher who can't figure out the signs on the iconic London Underground railway. Bet the woman wasn't a great driver either.
Anyway, Tussaud's made me miss my folks, they're the kinds who'd fawn over the Amitabh/SRK/Sachin wax statues. Although the short witch with us made sure we had an inordinate amount of Indian food in London, the Biryani in Southall was nothing short of Bipasha Basu in that classic hindi film [Goal].
On our last day at the hostel, Bapu gave Alhadji a ten-rupee note as a present, more like a nostalgia 'tip'. When Alhadji said he won't take money, Bapu explained how it's a cultural memoir, with 18 languages and all the jizz that goes with national integration on state memorabilia, how it was a trophy of their friendship and a salute to globalization. Alhadji, surprisingly, understood quickly, and the expression on his face was the same as it was, just before he broke out into that Amitabh Bachchan song.
Some photos: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.222673900362.274177.596165362&type=3&l=09f7a3c337
The trip to Scotland and the tale of the tour guide shall happen soon enough. Tune in if you like for more tales of sucking on the death sticks. Meanwhile, the folks at Expedia & IndiBlogger are doing this neat thing.
6 comments:
BTW, I was half-expecting a one pound note or something from Alhadji in return...oh well !!!
('a Semiotics teacher who can't figure out the signs on the iconic London Underground railway' cracked me up.....Mwahahahaha )
- Bapu
This was before Bapu went to Dandi, way before he became 'Abhijith Shetty'.
Who's this anonymous, Kanabar?
Who? Me?
yeah. you. anonymous. cheeky bugger. BTW Kana, well-written, again.
-Good piece of information.
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