Single Jingle

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Travel we all. Except that some of us enjoy doing it alone. But the strange thing about going solo is that one is never really quite alone. You are single & by yourself, not alone. As for fears of getting lonely, don’t even think about it, for there is no such thing.

 

Wandering off on your own allows freedom ‘to be’. To be completely & honestly yourself. Nobody knows you. Nobody judges you. Which is also to say that, you are not carrying any ‘baggage’. Meet people at will or shun them altogether. Talk if you must. Walk the streets or join a local tour. The choice is yours. There is no one you must humour, or pander or make compromises with. You are your own.

 

All I ever need is a room with a view, a journal to scribble upon & a book, related to the place – no matter how remotely. Preferably, a work of fiction.

 

After months of research, sifting through facts & details & sorting out travel nitty-gritty it is well to loosen up & relax. Therefore fiction. A book of your choice. Always the perfect companion.

 

My trip to Cameron Highlands, Malaysia would surely not have been the same without Tan Twan Eng & ‘The Garden of Evening Mists.’ Tan turned out to be the perfect soulmate & that greatly enhanced the experience.

 

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Take F Fitzgerald Scott & ‘Tender is the Night.’ A light, frivolous companion to anyone traversing the playgrounds of the rich & famous – the French Riviera. It was amusing to hear two characters argue the merits & demerits of Paris vs Rome. Which was more crime infested? The story plays out in the first decades of the last century & here am I  – France 2015 – robbed & taken to the cleaners over a 100 years later.  Clearly some things never change.

 

At another, more sober level is Graham Greene’s ‘The Quiet American’. A novel set in French Indo-China. A different matter though that Vietnam (2016) does not care about wars long past & forgotten. Buddha-like almost. Talk of living in the present!

 

Closer home, if visiting Kerala, I suggest taking along Arundhati Roy, if you can stomach her or Salman Rushdie. ‘God of small things’ & ‘The Moor’s last sigh’ are both excellent reads & will give that extra zing & flavour.

Amitav Ghosh did just that to Gangasagar – Sunderbans – 2013.

‘The Hungry Tide:’  Boy O Buoy, did it shore up EQ! (emotion quotient)

 

Where to next? You may ask. And, with whom?

Italy this Fall. With Buzzati.

Dino Buzzati & his “strange & haunting novel” ‘The Tartar Steppe’ that has been described as “an eccentric classic”.

Eccentric?  Let me read it first.

 

Note: Russia is in the pipeline for 2018. I have heard of a Russian tale where the protagonist collects water from the major rivers of the world & stores it in little bottles, all kept in a row. Book, author, story writer – unfortunately unknown.

But it’s what I have set my heart upon & will take along to read.

Help! Anyone out there? Would be ever so grateful.

 

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Gay Pari – s

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On the face of it

let’s admit

Paris is

dour

arrogant

stand offish

Oui Monsieur

young & old hesitate

step back afraid

of a handshake.

You smile madame?

“Sorry, no English,

je me parle pas l’anglais”

Ah yes,

I quite forgot

your problem is

historic.

Never mind the

linguistically challenged

traveler aboard

Menton – Nice super fast

waiting to disembark

as stations whistle past.

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The Romanian

 begging

along the sidewalk

Algerian – Tunisian

 nursing

a hare

grateful for sanctuary

Euro to spare.

Make no mistake

Paris

scintillates

clean air

drinking water

everything in perfect order

until the

Unions suddenly

strike, but why

why are there

cigarette butts

‘neath

the sky?

Youth & beauty

go hand in hand

along the Seine

lip locked

padlocked

sworn unto ……….

prised open

recalls

Café de Flore’s

Berthillon

‘lil doggies

neutered clones

streaked, powdered,

groomed, to match

mistresses

walking alone,

obediently in line

passing

each other

without a sigh

no bark nor cry

inside out

allowed

everywhere

salon, café, bar

as vexed as

mademoiselle’s brow,

with never a boo

boogie woogie do

for gawd’s sake

at least

clean up the poo.

The French nation has

a strange

fixation –

all things feline

hence

black cat Noir

prowls the night

alleys, – alone

sneak previews

Moulin Rouge.

Cat burglars

lurk

the streets

picking pockets

by the hour

shutting down

Eiffle Tower

You may well ask

the cause

for such fuss

malign

harking on

downsides,

honey you’ll agree

it is unexpected

quite unprecedented

a revelation indeed

for a first time

third world traveler

like me.

So

let’s just say

there never was

never will be

a city

like

gay Pari

But

one simply cannot

leave it at that.

I’d rather have

London instead

So

 London it shall be

3 cheers!

hurray!

give me London

any day.

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