Disapproving FedoraMan and Watery Iced-Lattes

Oxford, England.

As I sit in one of Oxford’s average cafes, praying that I remember not to place any weight on the left-hand side of the table, since it would result in it jerking up, which would then result in my iced-latte—which is way more water than is acceptable, even at Starbucks, and much too warm for it to be marketed as an iced-anything—to become airborne for an immutable second, before it gracefully lands on my laptop, people around me are actually working. Imagine the horror. I can hear the barista with the perfect hair, clamouring in the kitchen, cleaning up before the next round of loud tourists and caffeine-deprived students inundate this quaint, black-and-white-interiored cafe. The electric roar of the coffee machine as it cleans itself commingles with the clings and clangs of the glasses he is putting away. Originating somewhere above my drenched head, George Ezra’s voice augments this…melody. 

  I glance outside. The beautifully banal brick houses with the beautifully banal flowers would have been a pretty sight, were I not tholing the regal process of hydrosis. In normal people talk: I am sweating my ass off. A man donning a tatty black t-shirt, distressed jeans, and a burgundy fedora—I didn’t even know they did Burgundy fedoras—catches my eye. This is not the sort of attire your average person in Oxford tends to find appropriate to wear outside the safe confines of his/her home.  And it is certainly not the attire your average seventy-year-old in Oxford tends to find appropriate to wear anywhere. Seeing the youthful lovebirds on the other side of the road, FedoraMan shakes his head. A quick rightward glance tells him that an Indian girl, in her early twenties, who prefers her coffee overpriced and watery,  had witnessed the whole thing; he, then, goes on to purse his weathered lips, shaking his head in a conspiratorial manner and I, having all the time in the world to procrastinate doing my assignment, indulge him by shaking my head right back in disapproval of the blatant show of sopping flesh on the historical streets of this slightly lovely, slightly drab, and extremely conservative town.      

 

  The boy sitting on the rectangular table outside, running interference between me and my co-conspirator, along with the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, which look like they hadn’t been cleaned since the first university had been founded here, remains oblivious to everything—from the seventy-year old with a fedora in this heat to the meaningful moment I had just shared with a stranger who might, or might not, be a pervert feigning reactionaryism—as he pours over a copy of “You Do You”, which matches the colour of his T-shirt. 

  As I contemplate all this, there is a flutter in my peripheral. I turn around in the most inconspicuous way I could manage. My best friend doesn’t think that turning around and gawking is low-key. Doesn’t she know that in the age of self-absorption, nobody pays attentions to anything that cannot be instagramed or tweeted about? And doesn’t he know I am a little too everyday (I refuse to use the word basic) to grace those social media sites with my attention? I see a girl, who, by the way, has nothing to do with the movement which had first caught my attention, enter the establishment. I see the exact moment the heat in the I-do-not-understand-what-ventilation-is coffeeshop slaps her blushing cheeks, for it renders her eyes into sewer-green globs and her nose becomes a crooked, but still picturesque, lane; as though she had opened a refrigerator with an open pickled-sandwich, which had been there for a little too long. As she uses the very same khaki foot, which she had used to step inside, to all but run out of this respectable establishment, I drink the last of my very last iced-latte in Oxford, hoping she does not bang into the FedoraMan and cripple him on her way out. 

Hues Of Blue

Amalfi, Italy, 2017.

  I just stumbled upon a few pictures of the magnificent Amalfi on my Instagram feed and they transported me back to my ephemeral visit there this summer. I am not quite sure when Amalfi made it to the list of places I absolutely wanted to go, but it did and I am glad it did. The funny thing is I did not even want to visit it - too many tourists milling about. Instead I wanted to go to Capri. Fortunately, we - Kevin and I - were running short on money in the last leg of our trip and the trip to Capri happened to be a "little" out of our budget. This is where the humble/gruelling six hour journey and eight euro tickets to Amalfi come save the day because there was no way that I was leaving southern Italy without lying on a warm beach with water the colour of sapphire.

  The beach was as amazing as I had pictured it to be with the exception of pebbles in place of sand, which scorched your feet the moment you stepped on them. Idiotically enough, we forgot to carry sunscreen with us. My excuse was that I expected Kevin to bring it since he was always uber prepared. Needless to say, my tan was epic! Or as the aunties back home would say, 'What happened to you? You've become a little dark.' I had to exercise major self-restraint every time one of them said this by not rolling my eyes. It was just a tan, for God's sake; it was temporary!

  Coming back to the point. The first thing we did upon our arrival in Amalfi was hop on over to the first public bathing spot we could find and strip down to our bathing suits. We spent many an hour there, me in the water and Kevin on the beach. Since the summer days are so gloriously long and warm, I seriously contemplated skipping visiting the actual town. In the end, the Indian guilt won and after much procrastination on my part, we wrapped up our things, donned on our regular clothes - me, my dress and him, his shirt and shorts - and we marched into the town. I am so glad that we did because the town was every bit as splendid as the beach. It possessed a certain charm that Naples lacked. It's streets and it's square with the church, which reflected in the late afternoon sun, and it's hidden passageways, which remained unchartered by the tourists appealed to a part of my conscious/unconscious mind; I'm not sure which it was.

  Their was a band playing at the foot of the grand staircase which led to the gleaming church. Or was it a parade? My memory fails me. Whichever it was, there was music. Music which was as sweet as the sea water, I had previously gulped, was salty. We strolled the streets with the music caressing our senses; every shop we passed was either showcasing Amalfi's plump citrous yield or its proud glasswork.

  When we were finally cramped in the one bus which was going back to Sorrento with an entire class of American college students and everyone else in Amalfi, I was lucky enough to find a seat; thus, avoiding sitting on the hard ground or, as the somewhat young boy did, lie under a seat for the one and a half hour ride. The sunset was beyond splendid; I watched it its entirety as our bus traversed the narrow road on the edge of many cliffs. I saw the soft but bright orange differentiate itself from the dark sea, I also saw it gradually transform into something softer - almost, tender - until it turned into a hue of blue and I could no longer tell where the sea ended and the sky began. There was something almost magical and  utterly hypnotising about it.

Sleepless Nights Spent Discovering Verona.

A little over a month ago, after months of overthinking, I undertook my first solo trip, my first stop being Verona.

Not many people know that the famous play, Romeo and Juliet, written by Shakespeare was based in Verona, Italy. Let me put it this way, after spending a little time in that magnificent city, I cannot even imagine that play being based anywhere else. Way to go, old man! 

My journey to Verona was one that was both: extremely long and exhausting. I took a train from Dornbirn, Austria to Lindau, which is at the Austrian tip of Germany. I, then, took another train to Munich Passing, from where I changed to a Schnell-Bahn that dropped me to the airport. 

I flew from Munich to Venice for 36 Euros, from where I then took a train to Verona, which in turn cost me another 10 Euros, and another two hours of my already short trip.

I reached the Porta Nuova train station in Verona around 4:30 pm. It took me another thirty minutes for me to walk to my Air B&B, which would have taken exactly three minutes by bus.

Once I reached my accommodation, I did all the necessary things- turn on the air conditioner, change out of my sweaty clothes and FaceTime my parents.

I finally got out of my room around 7 pm to head to the Verona Centrico, where all the action takes place.

Once there I made my way to Piazza della Erbe. I have to admit, a market in full swing is not what I expected to find over there. That evening I decided not to click pictures and to just enjoy my surroundings. Verona is what one expects Italy to stereotypically look like - cobbled streets filled with colourful old houses with beautiful flowers draping the balcony railings, outdoor restaurants and cafes filled with tourists and locals alike, cooling off after a hot and exhausting day with the Veronese drink- Spritz.

I then enjoyed some Bruschetta and a Spritz at a restaurant near Piazza della Erbe. I have to say that I find 12.50 Euros a little to much for an Appetiser and a drink that was practically a local drink.

They even charged me for the bread!!!! 

The bread!!

Your girl just had 80 Euros for the span of three days, including the transport charges.

So, yes, your girl was being extremely CHEAP. 

Hell, it took me months to save for this trip.

After dinner, I walked around a little more. It was finally getting dark. 

P.S. I love summer for the longer days.

Back to the point, I had promised my Dad to be home early, so around 9 I leisurely started making my way back to the bus stop from where I came.

*drumroll*

The last bus had left a few minutes before I reached.

It cannot happen. Right? Especially since my Google Maps showed me that there should be another bus leaving in 5 minutes time to take me back. So, naturally, I whip out my phone to recheck what I read, and *dum dum duuuummmm* it dawns on me that: one, in Europe the public transport timings change in the night, and two, the bus that is supposed to take me back to my B&B leaves from some other bus stop.

WHATTTT???

Google Maps says that the place is only a few minutes away but since I do not know the area and since it was already dark, I decided to go to the next big Piazza - Piazza Bra. It was the biggest and the most happening place in Verona, so it is just common sense that there should be a bus that will travel to my intended destination, right?

Nope. No such luck.

Now the problem with Piazza Bra is that there are quite a lot of shady people, who come out after sundown over there. By the time I reached the bus stop over there, you know, that I am already hyperventilating, but for my sake I put on a brave face and try to figure out a way back home.

The second problem with Piazza Bra is that along with the shady people, there are a LOT of tourists, who were just as clueless as me.

In the end I just ended up taking a bus to Porta Nuova, hoping that the last bus of the night had not yet left. 

At Porto Nuova, which was filled with even shadier people, I was at a loss as to whom I should ask about how I should make my way home.

I just asked the least shadiest person I could find, and as my luck would have it, he too had no answer to the question I held so dear to me, 'Which bus travelled to Santa Lucia?'.

So there I stood, hyperventilating, when the Gods, finally, felt sorry for me and sent a bus that stops at Santa Lucia. Thank fuck!

My Air B&B was not in the main city, meaning that it was somewhere pretty deserted. Now pair that with it almost being 10:30 pm with me, a girl, who does not speak the language and was so exhausted that she would not be able to throw a punch to save her life. 

To say that I was shitting myself the entire way; from the moment I got down at the bus stop to the time I reached my room would be an understatement.

Well, I reached the apartment without any instances occurring. Just when I start thanking my stars for letting me reach home safely, I realised that the main door of the apartment does not have a lock.

Why, God? WHYYY??

After a couple of minutes of cursing in the dark hallway, I make my peace with the situation and settled for just locking my bedroom door and praying that no one breaks in the wee hours.

Fast forward two hours later, just as I find my eyes drooping shut, I hear the main door being opened, and someone entering.

Although the rational part of my brain said that it was probably just another guest, renting the other available room in the apartment, it did not stop me from shutting my phone and hoping that the person assumes the apartment to be empty, just in case it really was a burglar. :P

I know, I know I should have listened to my parents when they told me that I was too young to watch all those horror movies. I guess, it is a little to late for that now. X_X

Me writing this blog proves that I made it through the night (Phew, right?).

All in all, that first night in Verona was definitely an experience that my parents shall never hear about.

Stay tuned for my next day in Verona. :D