Category Archives: Train Travel

Oct23

Spectacular Sicily… Taormina, Syracusa, Palermo & Noto

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The train porter raps gently on our cabin door. “Buongiorno. Taormina, next stop. I crack the door open and he proffers my espresso, smiling. “Prego.”

We’ve taken the overnight train from Naples to Sicily – yes the last remaining train in Europe that actually rolls onto a ferry. The 6:45 am wakeup call is right on schedule and I feel a frisson of excitement.

How delightful it all is! Pressed sheets, room service and now sipping my thimble-sized espresso, Mount Etna is welcoming us to Sicily. A long, grey-ish plume is trailing out to sea in the blue morning sky. Etna had recently erupted and more bursts of activity will soon disrupt flights while we’re on the island. Yet this morning, on our first trip to Sicily, she’s rather captivating.

Taormina

The train station at Taormina is a neo-Gothic beauty, complete with stained glass windows, ornate roof fringes, and dark Sicilian wood furniture. It transports you to another time, one of slow travel and prolonged sojourns. Our stay will be three nights, kicking off this two-week Sicilian adventure. Situated along the sea, it is still four kilometres to the hilltop town centre. Perhaps I’m already in love with this town after seeing it featured in The White Lotus series and the winding road ascending to town surely holds the promise of something special.

The Taormina Park Hotel is the essence of faded glory yet the swimming pool and the views are stunning – a broad vista unfolds under Etna’s watchful eye. One of four active volcanoes in Italy, Etna’s constant state of activity renders the land around it exceptionally fertile. Vineyards and orchards sprawl across the lower slopes, even a ski hill on its upper reaches. Yet having walked the plains around Mount Vesuvius – and the once ash-buried streets of Pompeii – I’m amazed at how many communities are nestled under Etna’s volatile caldera.

Taormina is what you might hope it to be. The views from belvederes are magical, sweeping out across the Ionian Sea. Smatterings of bougainvillea draped walls, tall palms, cook pines and luscious flowers are everywhere. The long Corso Umberto is bookended by the Porta Catania in the south and the Palazzo Corvaja at the center of it all. This busy street is fringed with cafes and high-end stores, becoming a vibrant runway for summer dresses and linen suits during the evening passeggiata.

There’s a distinct vibe to Taormina. Is it partly due to the teste di moro? These ceramic art pieces are nestled everywhere; on balconies, in windows, in storefronts and bars. The folk legends of their origin are evocative, all set around the 11th century during the brief Arab rule. One legend in particular captures my imagination. A Sicilian woman tending plants on her balcony, is seduced by a Moorish merchant and a passionate romance ensues. Learning the painful truth that the man is already married prompts the woman to cut off her lover’s head. Turning the severed head into a plant pot, it turns out that basil grows lush and fragrant from the tears she sheds. Locals artisans down the ages are inspired to craft ceramic pots shaped in complimentary ‘his’ and ‘hers’. I marvel at the bold colours and intricate flourishes and become slightly smitten by them. Legend aside, today they are a proud, delightful symbols of Sicilian culture.

Strolling, swimming in the stunning bay at Isola Bella and of course sampling Etna wine are all on the agenda. And by chance, we’re able to play tennis on the clay courts of the Taormina Sporting Club, a charming oasis in the heart of the old town. Yet the main attraction is the impressive Teatro Antico di Taormina, commanding stunning views to Etna and the Ionian Sea.

The story of ‘rediscovery’ and preservation of the theatre during the Grand Tour years is intriguing. I’ve always been fascinated and perhaps a little envious of the Grand Tour crowd… think Room With a View. The tour was a journey of discovery and beauty, an immersion in classical art, historical landscapes and continental culture. Admittedly, my story of coming to Italy for the first time at 17 was an education in itself and though not as long nor extravagant as the Grand Tour, the discovery of this ancient land captivated me and inspired me to travel. The Grand Tour was often the final stamp on the education of the privileged through the 19th and 20th centuries and Sicily was often the last stop on the travellers two or three month tour. Taormina with its ancient theatre became instant videndae, must-sees, after travellers reports and printed illustrations were published. Indeed, this was the start of cultural tourism, partly thanks to the growing passion for antiquity and archaeological sites.

Built in the 3rd Century BC by the Greeks, and further aggrandised under Roman rule by order of Hadrian, the theatre held 10,000 spectators. In 1788, German writer Wolfgang von Goethe witnessed a performance. He marvelled at the unmatched panoramic view of nature and the backdrop of Etna, smouldering behind the stage. More publicity, greater curiosity, more travellers precipitated the beginnings of archaeological protection, starting with the theatre, then the city itself, even to protecting millennial chestnut trees on Mount Etna.

On our last evening stroll, happenstance leads us to something most magical. Reluctant to leave a single street undiscovered, we come across a nymphaeum tucked away down a back stairway. Once thought to be an enclave for mock naval battles, modern archaeologists now agree that it was a grand public fountain, a water circus dedicated to nature’s spirits. The long stone wall and niches (their statues long missing) from 2nd century AD is symmetrical, styled in the Greek manner, despite the Roman origin. A haven for mythical nymphs – beautiful maidens – who personified water, trees and mountains. In the evening moonlight it is breathtaking, another archive of Taormina’s fascinating history. Almost 600 years before this nymphaeum was built, the people of Tauromenion welcomed refugees from the Greek colony of Naxos, who allied with Athens had been defeated by mighty Syracuse. And that’s our next stop, onwards to Syracusa.

Syracusa ~ Ortigia ~ Noto

The great general, Nicias briefed the Athenian assembly that there were seven Sicilian cites equipped just like Athens. The year was 415 BC. Much later, around 40 BC, the great Roman statesman Cicero commented, ‘You have always heard it said that Siracusa is the greatest and the most beautiful of all Greek cities, it is indeed as they say.’

Cicero also noted its well-protected position on the Ionian Sea and now, standing in the great Neapolis Park, I try to envision the enormity of constructing this ancient theatre… one of the largest and most famous in the ancient world. Built in the 5th C. BC and rebuilt in the 3rd, this Unesco World Heritage Site is one of the reasons people visit Syracusa on the south eastern coast of Sicily. Its story is written in the layers of cultural influence, from the Sicils, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans and Spaniards. The island has always been coveted, yet Sicily did not become part of Italy until 1861 and many Sicilians still claim their island heritage before Italian.

I read that in the ancient Greek world, the massive theatre, holding 15,000 citizens, wasn’t solely for plays or entertainment, but was also a place for religious rituals and public assemblies. It was the beating heart of the community, yet curiously the upper gallery was fringed with mausoleums of the wealthy. A counterpoint to the Greek theatre is the nearby Roman Amphitheater home to gory gladiatorial spectacles. Similar to the Colosseum in Rome, it was one of the grandest in the Mediterranean. As interesting as they are, nearby Paradise Quarry is incredible to see. Providing the stone for the theatres and the neapolis (new city), standing inside its cool enormous caverns is breathtaking. Naturally, I’m enchanted by the lush, extensive garden that now populates and softens the once stark lines of the quarry. Wild capers drape from the walls, orange and lemon trees transform it into the paradise that it now is.

Long before preservation of antiquities became popular, the fate of many ancient structures was to have their limestone blocks appropriated, stripped for projects of the time such as fortifying the ancient seawalls of Ortigia. This small island is the historical heart of Syracusa, first settled by the Sicels, before the Greek colonists arrived. So yes, the Neapolis built in early BC’s was the new city. It’s quite simply mind-boggling.

Our B&B is on a typical narrow street, barely wider than my arm’s length. Quaint balconies, potted palms, dozing neighbourhood cats and striped sun shades. Turning one way takes us to the sea, turning the other leads us through a labyrinth of antique streets, converging on the spectacular Duomo di Syracusa. Built directly over and fused into the ancient Greek Temple of Athena, it anchors the grand piazza, a resplendent emblem of the layered history, 3000 years in the making. At sunset, golden rays dance in the sky, upon the limestone, filling my traveller’s soul… Sicily continues to astound me.

A day trip to Noto is a must from Sryracusa – a mere 30 minutes by train – and a good excuse to sample the renowned granita at the esteemed Cafe Sicilia. This historic cafe was featured on Netflix’s Chef’s Table. Unfortunately, the signature speciality granita di mandorla – almond granita – isn’t available so we sample other flavours; fig and chili is the winner. Granita is a refreshing Sicilian desert, somewhere between sorbet and ice cream and one of the island’s many specialties.

In Noto, the impressive Baroque buildings and ornate balconies gracing grandiose palazzos are its true speciality. After a devastating earthquake in 1693 destroyed the old town, Noto was rebuilt using golden-hued limestone. The elaborate, wrought-iron balconies supported by carved figures are impressive and widespread. I also can’t help but notice the plethora of vintage Fiats. I’m besotted with these lightweight iconic city cars built between 1936 to 1955. Could I pack one up and ship it back to Canada? And there is the question, how will I ever go back home? Allora, there’s still more time… Palermo and Cefalu are next on the itinerary.

Palermo ~ Cefalu

The train journey across Sicily from Syracusa to Palermo unveils the unique Sicilian countryside. As the landscape slips past our window, dry, sandy, hues give way to verdant fields of grain, citrus, almond and olive trees. Colonies of prickly-pear cacti show off their flowery fruit against the deadly spikes. Once-loved farm villas are testament to the honest, timeless endeavour of farmers who have long tilled this fertile soil. As we near the northern coast of Sicily, we see a countryside that is incredibly fertile and a proliferation of modern farm estates. The rhythm of the train and the undulating flow of the land are peaceful and evocative. Ahead, the vibrant capital of Palermo awaits.

Only about 2700 years old and facing north toward the Tyrrhenian Sea, Palermo is everything all at once. True faded glory and rapturous grandeur. The past is unpolished, raw and honest. First impressions hit me all at once – busy, vibrant, a little grimy, and as always with palm trees, the tall lanky palms capture my heart..

I stand in the middle of Quattro Canti, four roads grandly intersecting, and I soak it all in. This crossroads at the historic centre radiates out to the ancient four quarters of the city. Also called the Theatre of the Sun, at least two corners are always bathed in sunlight. Construction, by order of the Spanish Viceroys, commenced in the early 1600’s. The four Baroque concave and symmetrical facades, are a history lesson unto themselves. Statues of the Spanish rulers of Sicily, Charles V, Phillip II, III, IV, occupy the second tier. Look high up and beautifully carved female patron saints are honoured… Christina, Ninfa, Olivia, Agata. Back down at ground level, the four seasons are represented in intricate fountains.

I imagine the time when the newly installed landmarks and piazza were the cutting-edge in urban planning. I see the nobility in fine carriages, the swirl of a ladies fine silk crinoline, a Capuchin friar in sombre brown rushing past to the nearby church. The weight of history embodied here clashes somewhat with the present day. Tourist golf carts vie for tourists alongside more traditional horse and carriage rides. Street hawkers with an eye on the weather forecast offer umbrellas alongside long-established bazaars. Ancient stone streets now littered with far too many cigarette butts and local graffiti adorns many city walls. Palermo is a little gritty along with the grand and historic.

Unfortunately, we come down with a virus and have to take it a little easier than usual. Still, I muster the energy to treat myself to a pricey glass of wine at the Grand Hotel Et Des Palmes. Sitting on the outdoor terrace overlooking rooftops, one appreciates how embraced Palermo is by the surrounding mountains such as Mount Pellegrino. I sense that the original streets and piazzas were aligned to create sight lines to the peaks. Without a doubt Palermo is essential to see, to stitch together the full, incredible layered story of Sicily.

We complete this sojourn with a relaxing stay in Cefalu to the east. It’s precisely what we need to recover and our stay at the Insulae Resort is fabulous. We finally relax, read and write. We wander into the town for a slow stroll and a sunset drink overlooking the sea. A feeling of gratitude washes over me. Sicily has always been on my wish list and I’ve fallen for its ancient land and cities, the warm, friendly people, the excellent food and wine. I say a silent grazie millie as we board the flight from Palermo to Venice… Sicilia, I hope to return.

Mar12

72 Hours in Madrid and Toledo…

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The Le Taberna del Foro is lively and crowded. It’s Friday evening in Madrid and a three-hour flight from Edinburgh lands us in time for drinks and tapas. We slide into a tiny table for two near the pie-shaped bar, lined adoringly with as many books as wine bottles. I order a glass of secco blanco, Bruce decides on a vino tinto and we expectantly unfold the pristine map of Madrid… the promise of a colourful canvas of streets and architecture, of life out to all four corners, a new city for us both!

After having checked into out hotel near Madrid Atocha, the main train station, we haven’t wandered too far into the surrounding charming neighbourhood. I admit to having felt a little overwhelmed by the thought of this capital city, conveniently situated in the middle of Spain, yet at once it feels familiar in its obvious elegant grandeur. We pour over the map noting the iconic sites – those must visits in any city – yet for us it’s more about the outlaying neighbourhoods, the barrios which give all Spanish cities their unique character.

Saturday morning beams sunshine and warm temperatures for mid-November. The crowds are tremendous with locals, Spanish day trippers, tourists alike, and not surprisingly! This is the political, economic and cultural centre of the country with the second-largest GDP in the EU. Madrid is an iconic city and of course we beeline up the Grand Via to visit the landmarks – The Royal Palace and Almudena Catheral, Plaza Mayor, Puerto del Sol. The grand central square is an enduring symbol of the city and resplendent in century-layered architecture. Originally a bustling market, the plaza has also hosted bull fights, royal ceremonies and tragically, trials during the Spanish Inquisition. King Philip III sits atop a bronze equestrian statue paying homage to the reach of Spain in the late 1500’s… Kings of Portugal, of Naples, of Sicily, even Lord of the Seventeen Provinces of the Netherlands. The Philippines, a former Spanish colony, is named after Philip’s father, the II, also known as Philip the Prudent.

With the main sites orientating us, we stroll. Like the Italians, the Spanish love to perambulate their calles; always well dressed, well perfumed and with animated conversation. We meander, seemingly traversing the entire city that day. We leave the busy Gran Via for the intimate neighbourhoods of Salamanca, Lavapies, La Latina and more. The narrow streets are flourished with petite intricate wrought iron balconies, muted pastels and cozy tree-dappled plazas dotted with neighbourhood tapas bars. We chance upon a rose garden still abloom, quiet calles of towering cyress trees, pigeons frolicking in marble fountains, local gossip mingling with strains of classical guitars… all touchstones of life in this grand, yet surprisingly intimate city.

By 7 pm, we chance upon the smallest of bars with rickety vivid-green tables and a tapas menu that I’ll dream about for years. Alas, the kitchen doesn’t open until 8 so we have no choice but to order a bottle of roja and relive the day. Seventeen kilometres of bliss, excellent local food here and there, and admittedly because of the beautiful weather we hadn’t been enticed to join any inside tours. Just a spectacular day of soaking up the essence of Madrid.

“If Seville is a gentle Spainsh guitar tune, Madrid is a full-on flamenco dance,” I muse to Bruce. I fell in love with Seville on a previous trip and ideally one should visit both. If crowds and distances are difficult for you, Seville will give you all the flavour you need, yet the transportation system in Madrid is efficient and accessible. My feet are worn out so we plot tomorrow’s endeavours with a slightly slower pace, which we both agree must include The Prado Museum!

The Prado Museum is what the Louvre is to Paris, the British Museum to London, the Uffizi to Florence. Before losing yourself in the Prado, first wander its environs as the museum is nestled on the edge of the grand El Retiro Park. And the Retiro is to Madrid what Central Park is to New York City, what Hyde Park is to London, or Stanley Park to Vancouver… parks that are the breathing lungs and oases of calm. El Retiro is just that, a sprawling Unesco World Heritage Site, a former royal park with 19,000 trees, art galleries and a lake. Opened to the public in 1868, one can stroll, row, pedal, play tennis, or enjoy a picnic in the grounds.

I absolutely adore museums of all kinds and like markets in a city, museums are also the touchstone of its citizens… the guardians of art and history, of a people’s story. The building that today houses the Museo Nacional del Prado is a splendid work of art in itself. Designed in 1785, it is sprawling, stately and the custodian of some 2300 paintings. The predominate mood is that of Tenebrism – dark, gloomy, mysterious – common of Baroque paintings and Diego Velazquez did this exceptionally well. A leading artist in the court of King Philip IV, the museum holds a vast collection of Velazquez’s celebrated paintings with Spain’s dramatic history coming alive on the evocative canvases. Masterpieces from Titian, Goya, Raphael and El Greco also regal the walls, testament that The Prado has certainly evolved since it opened in 1819 as a Natural History Museum.

Late the next morning we hop on a Renfe train to Toledo, barely an hour’s journey south-west. A short walk from the train station reveals the ancient city nestled along the Tagus River. This World Heritage Site by UNESCO is immediately dramatic. Perched imposingly on a hilltop for defense purposes, it calls itself the ‘city of three cultures’ – Muslim, Christian and Jewish. All of their architectures still a mosaic of hues, cobblestones and ancient wooden doors. The Archways of the Alcazar welcome you in.

The Romans called this Toletum, incorporating it into their empire after a battle with Celtic tribes in 193 BC. This town of non-citizens is where one could obtain Roman citizenship in exchange for public service, and build they did! The Roman circus – an open-air venue for chariot races – along with an amphitheatre was one of the largest in Hispania, once the name for the Iberian Peninsula and now part of Spain. The circuses teemed with public entertainment to keep the population content and to prevent unrest. Many of the new citizens would have also helped build splendid villas for wealthy elites in the 3rd and 4th centuries as the city became a literary and ecclesiastic centre well into the the mid 700’s.

Toledo also became a major cultural centre promoting productive cultural exchanges between the Islamic world and Latin Christendom. Its long history of bladed weapons production and glass manufacturing is still evident as you wander the quiet streets into the old quarter. Winding cobblestoned lanes harken to a celebration of cultures and religions, each giving the city a rich architectural and artistic heritage. Today the city celebrates the harmonious living between Muslims, Jews and Christians alike.

We happily dine in an Arabic restaurant, we savour the evening dusk and then the illumination of Toledo’s architectural wonders. It’s now eight in the evening, the streets and plazas begin to fill for evening strolls. For us, it’s time to catch the train back to Madrid. Time to savour the joys of jumping on a train. Time to plot tomorrow’s adventure!

Jun30

Notes on a train boarding pass… Zagreb, a welcome to Croatia

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It was almost noon as the train rolled into Zagreb. We had left Ljubljana early morning, wending our way along the banks of the Sava river, through Slovenia’s pastoral countryside of summer greens, tidy chalet-style farm houses and tall church steeples.

At a nondescript station, the train stopped abruptly. We were at the Croatian border, a sister country also once part of Yugoslavia – the former federation of the southern slavic peoples.

Guards stamped our passports with curt efficiency (and a charming small train icon). Croatia, until recently absent from my travel wish list, now laid before us.

As I write this now, on day six, how fortunate I feel to be meeting Croatians in their own country. They are disarmingly gregarious, welcoming, and prone to robust outbreaks of humour.

As to the sites and the history? Beautiful and richly layered.

The drawbacks? It is scorching hot, summer-tourist busy, and that’s before we’ve even reached the epicentre of tourism that is Dubrovnik. Yet already, I have developed a fondness for Croatia, for its people and place.

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We’ve journeyed through the Slovenian hinterland before, the views are familiar, yet on the Croatian side of the border, the countryside was not quite as picture-perfect. Absent was the pristine orderliness of farms and villages, those neatly stacked woodpiles and signature window boxes in blossoming reds.

We passed through towns like Zadine Most, Sevinca, Blanca Rozno and Libna. At each station I noticed a station master standing at attention as the train passed. In Slovenia they were dressed in blue shirts, navy trousers and berry-red berets. In Croatia, their shirts shifted to white and each man, or woman, stood as if a sentinel as the train passed.

I began to watch for them, with just a hint of anticipation. I imagined the station masters’ presence as assurance that the trains are running as they should, that all is in order – my mind drifted to the heartaches of this once war-riven region .

Today, the trains are efficient, safe, economic and as always, I relish the unhurried pleasure of train travel. For does not a train journey ease one more gently into a new country, allowing it, mile by mile, to introduce its signature and beauty?

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Zagreb…

We alight at Zagreb, the once-ornate station now showing signs of neglect. Across the street, a park greets us, modern bright blue trams glide past grand buildings. I immediately love that hydrangea is prolific in green spaces and in planters; splashes of colour against the terracotta roofs and cobbled streets.

I try not to compare Zagreb to the more-polished Ljubljana, our ‘home base’ for this past month, but Zagreb at once feels different.

The city is wrapped in much the same layers of history, yet perhaps it reveals its treasures more slowly. But then how better to delight than rounding a bend to come across the chapel within the Kamenita Vrata, the stone gate that guards the old upper town, or encountering the impressively coloured tiled roof of St. Marks. And within half an hour of arriving, I’m welcomed in traditional Croatian style with a glass of chilled local wine. It is the perfect introduction to this beautiful country.

 

The market just off Dolac Square is winding down as we stop for a late morning coffee at Cafe Opatovina. The café has front row seats to the busy market, its chairs mostly occupied by older men, gently rotund, straw hats shading tanned faces, some reading the morning paper, others chatting animatedly. All are already enjoying a beer or glass of wine. As in neighbouring Slovenia, anytime of the day is wine and beer time.

Outsized umbrellas shade both produce and vendors and after coffee, I take note of the cast-iron scales weighing the fruit and veg. I have observed these intriguing contraptions in markets far and wide and notice that these possess a unique ‘holder’, almost like a bucket. And as in India, the vendors rent the scales on a daily basis. I offer a ‘Dober dan,” as greeting to the young man operating the scale-rental stall. I learn that he charges only 13 kuna (about 2 US dollars) for a rental and his face tells me that he’s mystified at my interest.

Meanwhile, my travel companion has ventured off to St. Mark’s to survey the intriguing tiled roof that bears this country’s coat of arms. I’m happy to be alone for an hour or so as it often opens different doors. So it is here that I enjoy a pleasant and unexpected welcome to Croatia.

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I meander through the nearby market stalls; amply stocked with lace and aprons, wicker and honey. A small tavern in hues of Greek blue is tucked alongside and ever curious, I take a peek inside.

Five men, of a certain age, are nestled inside the postage-stamp of a bar, though I soon learn its actually a private club. It’s a cool refuge from the heat and I’m immediately invited to join them.

I’ve read enough about Croatian culture to know that it’s impolite to refuse and after all, the church bells have just chimed noon! I accept a glass of  dry white and join the locals on the long banquette. It seats maybe six people, the exact width of the club at the back.

“Zivjeli”, Cheers! Their toast is wholehearted and genuine.

I ask Branco, Miro, Nikola and Seavo if they come here often. They’re deadpan serious when they retort, ‘every day, and all day’.

When they that learn that I’m Canadian, they’re surprised to hear that our capital isn’t Vancouver or Toronto. Ottawa is indeed a revelation. We discuss the recent Raptors win – big news in basketball-crazy Croatia. Another glass of wine is placed in front of me before I can refuse.

When the ‘men’s club’ discover that I’ve spent time in Slovenia, Branco nudges his heavy glasses up on his nose and settles a little deeper into the sofa to qualify the situation in Croatia.

“Here’s not as rich. Many young people leave Croatia,” he laments. “The retirement pension isn’t enough and we can’t work even if we wanted to. It was better when we were part of Yugolsavia.”

Yet Luca, positioned by chance under a poster of his home town on the island of Hvar, listens to the conversation. He interjects only cautiously. He’s debonair in a movie-set kind of way with a white fedora and a thick moustache complimenting his handsome face. He becomes a little more mysterious still when he mentions that he’s spent time I San Francisco, but doesn’t elaborate. The discussion trails off to handball, local wine and our upcoming itinerary.

“Go to Jelsa for sure,” Luca suggests just as an older gentlemen, with the face of a cherished grandfather, rises from the bar to shake my hand. He proffers me a piece of notepaper. On it is a name of a distant relative.

“In case, you’re in Toronto, go visit. Tell him you met Nikola in Zagreb,” he says with the genuine warmth and another handshake.

It’s time to take my leave and my attempt to pay for my wine is emphatically rebuffed and I accept gratefully. “Hvala lepa,” I say, thanking them for my ‘official’ welcome on Croatian soil. They ease themselves off the banquette.

“Time for lunch,” says Miro. He gives me a final wave from the doorway.

I disappear into the streets of Zagreb’s old town to find Bruce and over a late lunch, we brush up on Croatia’s history. As a country at the crossroads of Central and Southeast Europe, it borders Slovenia, Hungary, Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro. Its people are a legacy of their maritime past and history of a former territory of the Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman and Venetian Empires… and that’s just the recent past. Even the Greeks and the Romans built on what came before. As Miro had mentioned at the club, “We are a proud mix of everything.”

As we glide out of Zagreb on the 3:20 to Split, I’m appreciative for this snapshot of a city that despite being the capital, is often overshadowed by Split, Dubrovnik, and the much vaunted Adriatic coast.

By 9 pm, Croatian flags fluttering on lamp posts welcome us into Split. The station master, tips his berry-red beret and we enter a city for the ages…

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Sep8

The Grand Bazaar in Pondicherry and a train passage to old ‘Madras’…part two

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“Bonjour Mademoiselle, ca va?” asks the shallot seller. His smile is radiant, his demeanour peaceful. He shifts and shakes his shallots in a slim basket, removing their skins and depositing them lighter and more saleable into a substantial basket. The shallots are the sellers only commodity this Sunday morning at Pondicherry’s Grand Bazaar.

If you’ve watched the movie Life of Pi, you’ve briefly glimpsed Pondicherry. The narrative begins here, the film sweeps through parts of the old town including the expansive bazaar. Founded in 1827, it’s about the size of a football pitch, and we had been told to not miss it.

Pondicherry’s rich heritage is revealed here; the sellers, the produce, the decorative flower garlands created and sold for cultural and religious occasions. As I experienced in Kazakhstan, a market is where the fabric of a city reveals itself. A place where the murmur of regional languages, the aroma of exotic spices and unfamiliar produce beguiles you. An experience where the cultural thread that stitches a community together heightens the senses – market places are a traveller’s touchstone.

The shallot seller is proud to be of French ancestry, common in this once French port on India’s South East Coast. Pointing to his talika spread across his forehead, he makes it clear that his devotion is for Shiva. The broad stripes, painted or smeared from ash, are worn proudly on followers of the Hindu deity. The seller motions to his stripes and white dot, “Shiva is love,” he tells us in dreamy affirmation. I marvel that he sits, sifting his produce and smiling contentedly, almost in the pathway of the bustling bazaar…in complete serenity.

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Most sellers have a stall, a perch, a ‘hole in the wall’ from which to sell. Many have their own small puja (shrine), a smattering of religious calendars and a hefty ancient scale beside them. Some have a speciality item, others sell it all. Red for apples, tomatoes and luscious pomegranates. Green for coriander and limes, curry and betel leaves, peas and lady fingers…you know them as okra. Purplish eggplant IMG_1117and orange for carrots and mangos.

In Southern India bananas straddle both the yellow and green spectrum, their bunches often sold on thick stalks…ready to be steamed, fried or roasted. Banana leaves are vital as ‘plates and platters’. Practical yet with a side benefit – it is believed that antioxidants are transferred to the curries and masalas from their thick, waxy leaves.

I feel I’m in the way as burlap sacks of beans, groundnuts and garlic are heaved high on shoulders and humphed past me. I’m cautious underfoot for squashed oranges and smashed corn husks, for the odd rat that darts in and out. I dig my hands into stuffed, rolled down sacks, trickling and rolling rice, myriad beans and lentils through my fingers.

I’m thankful for sincere smiles as I make my way through the crowded lanes, haggling and chatter filling their space. My curiousity is most often met with warmth and returned smiles. The odd person reminds me they are busy trading and understandably, my camera isn’t welcomed by all.

The volume of produce is staggering, yet somehow it seems to get sold. This is where the people of India procure their food. Not at sterile well-lit grocery stores, but at bazaars, at markets, at roadside vendors.

As colourful as the canvas of fruits and vegetables is, the cultural complexities of the flower and petal stalls are even more intoxicating. These petals of jasmine and lotus, chrysanthemum and oleander, roses and marigolds, are transformed into the dainty, the neck-sized and a variety of shaped garlands for welcoming and worshiping. One might even wrap a garland around an auto rickshaw…yes, they can be purchased by the meter. They can reach seemingly gargantuan proportions and be elaborately decorated; they have to be seen to be believed.

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Flower petals are bought cheaply by the bag, both for wholesale and for personal use. It isn’t uncommon to come across ladies sitting on street sides conversing and threading, petals slowly forming a garland. Yet most garlands are threaded at a maker’s stall.

I meet Chandra and his two sons. Their hands are swift and supple as they thread jasmine and roses. “It’s a family business,” I’m told. “My sons are following my foot-steps.” Small businesses such as Chandra’s are the backbone of India and the garland business is prolific.

img_4516They are offered for worship, draped around doorways at a housewarming, a new motorbike or auto rickshaw may be blessed with a garland, a bride and groom exchange them three times during a wedding. They are also woven into a lady’s plaited hair, especially here in Southern India.

I’m told that each Hindu deity has a unique garland: Goddess Lalitha prefers hibiscus, Lord Vishnu wears tulasi leaves, Lord Subrahmanyan likes to be draped in jasmine, whereas Mahalakshmi likes red lotus. Ancient kings appointed keepers whose only role was to tend flower gardens – cultivating precious petals for daily devotions, never to be sold. It is also rumoured that these royal gardeners did not marry.

When I wander to a tucked away lane and find garlands as tall as myself, it crosses my mind to take one to our hotel as a kind gesture. I realize it’s prudent to ask if there’s a special meaning attached to the over-sized creations, “Oh yes madam, those are for funeral!”

The rules for the flower pluckers, the sattarars, is fascinating…and yes I use the word ‘plucker’. In India, the word pluck is always used in reference to flowers. You do not pick flowers, one plucks flowers. It seems the rules for sattarars are rather specific, whether it be for the plucking or the making of garlands.

Flowers should be plucked in the early morning, ideally after having bathed. The flowers or petals should not have been smelled by anyone. They most definitely should not be used if they’ve fallen to the ground. Namajapam, or the repetition of holy names, should be done while plucking.

While constructing garlands the petals and other material such as banana tree fiber used as the base should be kept on a table but ideally above hip level – a flower for God should not touch the feet. I note that Chandra and his sons were building their garlands above the hip, their creations then displayed above them. I realize I had lifted one gently to my nose to appreciate its fragrance. Did I unwittingly break a rule, or does that only pertain to the loose petals?

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It seems the fragrance of jasmine, the most cherished scent of Indian flowers, is meant to be enjoyed. When their delicate ivory buds are threaded into gajras, not only do they decorate women’s hair, it is believed the scent reduces anxiety, emitting peace and happiness. Ancient Hindu art, chiseled some 2000 years ago, depict goddesses with delicate gajras enhancing their thick locks. And so it is, still today.

I stand close to ladies at a temple and the scent of jasmine lingers. More of those exotic scents and vivid colours that this traveller soaks up. I breath it in and cherish the scene. The images that await me in the coming day, further affirms my love of travel.

We journey back to old Madras (Chennai) by train. Not in first class or in air-conditioning, just the type of train that millions of passengers travel in daily. The kind of train with only bars on the windows and rickety old fans whirling above simple seats. The kind of train that costs less than a dollar to ride 160 kilometres or so.

We are the only foreigners, first aboard, and firmly planted next to the windows. This is important as the bench-seat for 4 will fill to 5, 6, maybe 7 by journey’s end.

img_1418-2Barely ten minutes out of Pondicherry a time capsule awaits. As the clatter of the wheels settle to a rhythmic, soothing pattern, the city gives way to a beautiful patchwork; palms, rice, vegetables and flowers. From these fields come the produce, the bounty found  in Pondicherry’s Grand Bazaar.

Against this verdant backdrop, ladies swish in bright saris as they tend crops and herd flocks. Small villages – simple buildings roofed with palm-fronds and tin, bullock carts trundling down narrow lanes – an old age farming culture stocking India’s bazaars and markets.

The train halts or passes through lyrically named towns like Valavanur, Vullupuram and Vikravandi Mailam. At Tindivanam it gets busy, the 4 seater long-bench is now a 6. A sinewy fellow in a vivid orange lungi asks to borrow the Times of India, a rural family boards dressed in fresh linen and shiny saris – their young daughter toys with a new cell phone, a young professional strikes up a conversation. Might he get a photo for Facebook with our son?

The train screeches to rest at platforms, sellers jump on, plying the aisles…roasted groundnuts, guavas, biscuits and papers. The chai sellers need only to latch their aluminum urns onto a window bar. Tiny cups of sweet chai pass through the gaps; it’s common to treat your fellow passenger. As passengers disembark there are nods all around, perhaps a handshake, we’ve become acquaintances. “Very happy you are traveling the train,” they say.

Temples peek over groves of palm and trees of mango, children splash naked in ponds, water buffalos laze close by. At Melmarmuvathur, dusk settles in and the sultry evening finally offers a cooling breeze.

And the light casts different hues. Green fields deepen to emerald and hills become shadowy. The smell of the sultry air changes.

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Our young friend Anand shakes our hand warmly. The train has rolled into his station, he’s home to visit his recently widowed mother. We regret that we hadn’t exchanged contact details.

The scene changes at Chengalpattu Junction, on the outskirts of Madras. It’s now 7:00 p.m. and crowds of young professionals have left work in suburban offices and await their train into the city.

The fields give way completely to a rainbow of tall skinny homes, to the crush of the city. A milky, full moon dances over the lights of Madras. I close my trusty Moleskin and pack away my travel notes…the images dance vividly in my mind’s eye.