I was trying to book tickets to India, and guess what! on top of the taxes, they charge you September 11 security charges! Really, why does Heathrow charge Sep 11 charges - what happened in UK on any Sep 11?

As an aside, if anyone knows any cheap ways to get home from any European city, please let me know.

The silverware glistened in the golden light from the elaborate chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She looked up to admire the sixteenth century painting that was beyond the light. A slow breeze from the sea side, and the waiter rushed to hand her a pashmina, which she really wouldn’t have needed if she hadn’t let vanity talk her into wearing his favourite shoulder baring black dress. The tripes a la mode de Caen was heavenly. As were the chardonnay and then, the platter of cheese that came with it. “Camembert, Neufchatel, Pont-L-Eveque, Livarot,…” she couldn’t even focus on the waiter’s captivating discourse on the Norman cheeses. All she could think about was that, it had been eight days.

She glanced at her watch. No, it had been seven days, twelve hours and fifty minutes. To be a bit more precise. Not really precise. To be really precise, she would have to go into seconds. She considered whether it would be too anal to delve into that. “Is something wrong?” his voice woke her from her momentary lapse. She should not let it bother her. Eight days ago - we are back to being imprecise now - she had decided that she could live without it for eight days. And she was almost there. Just this dinner and then the night and then by mid-morning, she would have it. Again. Available. Anywhere. Anytime.

She hated being so addicted. As a kid, she had heard stories about alcoholics. How they had no control over their lives. How they squandered their money, beat their wives and eventually ended up bankrupt and homeless. She had read about drug addicts in the newspapers. She had wondered why anyone would voluntarily give up control over their own bodies, their own selves. How anyone could give in to hallucinations and speed trips and be at the mercy of dealers. She had scorned at smokers and the scary statistics about the damage done to children because of the parents’ chain smoking. In fact, she had even helped out in the Quit Smoking campaign in her office, all the while not quite understanding why people couldn’t wake up one morning and kick the habit. In fact, she abhorred addictions of all kind.

She refused to admit that she was addicted. She stared at his deep dark eyes and tried to think of the eight blissful days they had just had. She wanted to focus on the beautiful beaches they had lounged in, the charming chateaus they had slept in and the quaint French streets they had wandered in. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. And that led her back to it. Maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of it too. No, this is anal. She chided herself. It is just 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds more. Oh darn, she had done it. Precision was a sure give away for obsession. “Cafe, mademoiselle?” she was jolted out of her trance again. She resolved she won’t let herself be addicted. She won’t think about it anymore. She will have some good coffee and then, some fine conversation will now follow. She will look around and enjoy the wonderful art that was on display at the restaurant. She will have a wonderful time. She imagined a thick black blanket in her mind. She covered her obsession in it, tied with a thick blue rope, placed into an solid copper box, closed it with its ornate heavy lid and pushed it into a dark corner of her mind. Not to be opened again. Until it was time.

And then, it was time. 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds were over. She clicked on the small orange icon with the three small men. She entered the eight magical numbers, clicked OK and waited. She felt the joy of watching a lotus blossom. And then there was light. You have new mail. Happiness. Bliss. Joy. Contentment. Was it wrong to feel happy? She looked across the table. His face radiated the happiness too. He looked up and smiled.

Some obsessions are just not worth fighting.

Continuing from the last post on Rouen, lets get on with the walking tour around the city.

A short walk from the Notre Dame cathedral will bring you to the L’aître Saint-Maclou. But on the way, be sure to observe the beautiful half-timbered houses (below).

The houses are characteristic of this area of France, but you will see some of the best specimens in this area. Also, if you look carefully, in one of the buildings, you will find a way of building in which each floor juts more into the street than the one below - giving the building the appearance of an upside down staircase, and this has since been banned in France. You will also pass by a small courtyard, which seems as nondescript as any other, but was popularly known as the Booksellers courtyard and is where all the literati came to get fodder for their brains. We also passed by some street singers dressed in period French costumes.

Before you finally reach the Aître Saint-Maclou , you will also pass by the St.Maclou church (below), built between 1437 and 1521. Built in a flamboyant Gothic style, the most notable feature of this church is its five paneled facade, arranged in the arc of a circle and is composed of a pyramid-like succession of triangular lines that give it its own special grace and charm.

The Aître Saint-Maclou (below) has a strange history - It dates back to the Great Plague of 1348. The Great Plague also known as The Black Death, was a devastating pandemic that first struck Europe in the mid-late-14th century, killing between a third and two thirds of Europe’s population. There was unprecedented demand for burial grounds, and the Aître Saint-Maclou was one of the buildings built to meet this demand.

The building is now home to a Regional Fine Arts school, but the morbidity of its original purpose is well reflected in the macabre carvings of human skulls, bones, hourglasses and gravediggers tools on the half-timbered building that surrounds the central courtyard. Look carefully, and you will also find a cat’s skeleton that was later found in the walls, eerily preserved under a glass case.

From the ghoulish Aître Saint-Maclou, a not-so-long walk brought us to the St. Ouen’s abbey (below), one of the most powerful Benedictine monasteries in the Normandy region. The abbey is said to have been founded in 750AD, and it remained an active monastery till the late 18th century, after which it was used as Rouen’s town hall for a short period of time, while the power of the monastery was at its peak. Built mainly in Gothic style, the inside of the abbey is impressive for its bareness, huge size and exceptional lighting. The narrow pillars, the use of vertical lines and the absence of any chapels in the nave further accentuate the perception of size, while the large windows on three levels gives it the unusual lighting.

Dig a bit into Rouen’s history and there is a chapter that most locals won’t be proud of, and that is the burning of Joan of Arc in the city’s market square on 30 May 1431, in the midst of the hundred years’ war. A heroine at 17, Joan was convicted of heresy at 19, and burnt at the stake at this very place.

The old market square still exist, even though it has changed since. But you will also find a a memorial site here, which includes a huge cross, a statue of Joan of Arc, a church and a small museum.

In the next installment, we will go outside Rouen to explore its scenic surroundings.

The Sep 06 issue of National Geographic Traveler has a comprehensive listing of classic travel books. As they say:

A good travel book has wings and the ability to transport us, word by word, tale by tale. It introduces us to the people and places that make travel—and, one could argue, life itself—worthwhile. Good travel stories are, in a word, magic.

The list includes such gems as Amsterdam by Geert Mak, Seven Years in Tibet by Heinrich Harrer and In Tuscany by Frances Mayes and many many more. Check it out here.

From “artists” who can make 30 paintings a day to those who can transform a masterpiece to a likeness of your loved one, China is fast claiming to be “The McDonalds of the Art World”:

Some five million oil paintings are produced in Dafen every year. Between 8,000 and 10,000 painters toil in the workshops. The numbers are estimates: No one knows the exact figure, which increases by about 100 new painters every year. But it’s not just professional copy painters who are drawn to Dafen — graduates of China’s most renowned art academy also come here. They complete only a small number of paintings a month and earn as much as €1,000

More at Der Spiegel

S&I started out on late Friday afternoon, around 5:30 pm, and thanks to the horrendous Friday evening Amsterdam traffic, reached Rouen, our first stop, around 1am. Despite the occasional drizzle and the emails I had to send out from my car before I left the Netherlands, it was a beautiful drive. Plain open fields with cows, sheep and the occasional horses, interrupted once in a while with windmills - the Netherlands is definitely a beautiful country to drive through. Enter Belgium, and suddenly the quality of roads goes down by several notches - blame it on the roads or the weather, but I was pretty happy when we hit France - I am not a fan of paying high tolls, but they certainly keep their roads well. They even have resting places near the highways, which would be such a luxury in the Netherlands. We drove into Rouen past midnight, with a very impressive view of the Notre Dame cathedral, which made the decision of where to start the visit the next morning a very easy one.

After a good night’s sleep, we set out to explore Rouen city. Now, I am not sure what you have heard of the French, but I was completely surprised by how nice they were. Maybe its just the Rouen people and I shouldn’t be too quick to contradict popular opinion , but when two language-ignorant foreigners stumble onto a bus stop, its not in every country that the general population volunteers to help them out. Armed only with a pamphlet on Rouen’s cathedral, “Bonjour” and “Merci”, we must have looked very helpless, for a bunch of passengers took it upon themselves to make sure that we reached our first stop. From the yellow lady who talked to the bus driver for us, to the old man who looked back at every stop to make sure we didn’t get out ahead of time, to the Moroccan woman who the yellow lady put in charge when she had to get out, the bus trip was one big adventure for everyone else, while S&I decided to relax with no worry of getting to the right place.

The old city centre is a maze of quaint old streets lined with beautiful half-timbered buildings. The occasional beautiful ornate doors and walls and bright flowers hanging from the windows add a special charm and beauty to the streets. The numerous antique shops with their collections, artisans hard at work in the shops where they dispay their wares and the art shops carrying old French paitings to contemporary art and street singers entertaining the crowds all make a walk through the streets a pleasant experience. Most of the monuments in the city are within walking distance and a pleasant walking tour could easily cover most of what Rouen has to offer.

The Rouen cathedral (above), which has been the subject of many renowened paintings, most notably by Monet, is a a classic Gothic example of ecclesiastical architecture. Its construction was started in the 13th century, but continued till late 16th century and according to Wikipedia, was the tallest building in the world from 1876 to 1880. Does’t the glory sound more like an Olympic title valid for 4 years? But the church tower has managed to hold on to the title of being the tallest church tower in France.

The architectural beauty and grandoise of the cathedral is best appreciated during the day, but do not miss the light show at night, which starts at 10pm every night in August (it starts at 9pm in the other summer months) - complete with music that befits each segment of the light show, it is an amazing spectacle that often makes you look around the crowd just to reassure yourself that you are still in Rouen in the 21st century - not in a spooky 12th century desolate building, not in someone’s M&M factory outlet, not in the middle of a striped nightmare. Thanks to modern lighting technologies, inspiration from Monet’s colourful impressions of the cathedral and the Rouen tourism bodies, the visitors are treated to a delightful visual spectacle of a monument of varied shades and hues.

After our morning tour of the cathedral, we walked through the Rue du Gros Horloge, a lively shopping street, with many shops still housed in traditional half-timbered buildings. A short detour took us to the Palais de Jusitce, or Hall of Justice, a beautiful example of civil architecture from the Late Middle Ages. Near the Palace of Justice, is the metro station, during the construction of which, archaeologists discovered the remains of a 3rd century Gallo-Roman settlement at the very spot.

The Gros Horloge (above), which literally means a ‘big clock’ is really that, but very ornate and beautiful. The clock archway, which has an amazing representation of the Rouen court of arms, and the clock faces that only have a single hand to indicate the hour, date back to 16th century. At the bottom of the clock near the number VI, the divinity associated with the day of the week is supposed to appear on a chariot at noon. Unfortunately, we were not at the right place at the right time. On the top of the clock, a globe indicates the phase of the moon.

More on the beauties of this wonderful city coming up soon.

48 hours - that’s all that it takes to drive me nuts. I am torn between the umpteen things that I have to do (like bringing my clothes to the dry cleaners), the umpteen things that I want to do (like curl up on my sofa and read all day long) and the umpteen things that I shouldn’t do because this is my darned vacation (like check my work email every two hours just because it blinks with new mail). Now I remember why I never take leave and sit at home for no reason - this post is to remind me the next time I am overworked and dream about hartals.

I think I will make a to-do list tomorrow - is it just me or can’t “normal” people get on with life without a predefined set of things to do?

Did everyone really like Brick Lane? I just don’t get why there were so many rave reviews.

We planned to go to Italy. We planned and planned again. And planned over again. And then, we ended up in France. Normandy to be exact, with a small detour to Brittany. Nevertheless,the holidays were lovely, as they always are. Normandy has a lot to offer - from sun kissed beaches to historical D-Day monuments to marvellous cathedrals and châteaus (more on them later). But after 2327 kilometres on the road in a span of 10 days, it feels good to be back home. Good to come back to the unfailingly gloomy Dutch weather, which almost always surprises you with a glint of sunshine, just at the moment when you have completely given up on it.

And its really good because I have five more days before I start work again - one more glorious week of doing what I may please. I woke up today morning to a lovely cup of coffee (the French make terrible coffee, BTW, and for one week, my caffeine thirsty soul have just about been hanging in there) and a audio rendition of Naranath Brandhan - if you are not from Kerala, chances are you have no clue what that is - it is a famous poem by V. Madhusoodanan Nair, and literally means the mad man of Naranath.

Now, lets not really read too much into why I am attracted to mad men the first thing on my free Monday morning (free Monday morning!yoo hoo! Sorry, I can’t seem to get over it). Be that as it may, Naranath Brandhan is a very interesting character in Kerala folklore (and if you understand Malayalam, I would highly recommend the poem).

He was one of the twelve sons of Vararuchi, one of the nine wise men (Navaratnas) of Vikramaditya’s court. To make a very interesting story short ( I will hopefully get to the long version sometime), Vararuchi married a Parachi, one of the low castes of the time. They went on a trip (the ancient version of honeymoon, I presume), during which they had 12 children (I wonder at which stupid period in our history we decided to shorten honeymoons), whom Vararuchi insisted they abandon on the banks of Nila river. The 12 children, subsequently, grew up in 12 different home, in 12 stratas of the society, from the highest to the lowest. And every year they came together for annual family gatherings and such(so much for the caste system, really). And all 12 of them have their own stories, but Naranath Brandhan remains my all time favourite.

If you are in Kerala and would like to trod the untrodden path and not just the backwaters and the beaches and the tea resorts, make a day trip to visit the places of the 12 kids of Vararuchi - the amazing thing is you still find vestiges to most of the stories when you go back to the places where Vararuchi’s wife abandoned them. And the locals and the direct descendants of these families would be happy (or they were, several years back) to regale you with very interesting stories and tales of family traditions.

Well, enough of France and Kerala. Amsterdam is where I am. With this filler post, I leave you till I get some time to sort through the pictures and write some travel notes (if intentions ever come to fruition).

The title has nothing to do with the Gay Pride parade (which is incidentally held this weekend in Amsterdam - if you live in or around Netherlands, its worth the trip to Prinsengracht to watch the Canal Parade - otherwise, watch this space for photographs!)

End of digression - the title is from this week’s Economist, where they say women have won the sex war (subscription required).

Wise chaps seeking professional advancement should therefore spend their free time with groups of women, boning up on how to undermine somebody’s confidence while pretending to boost it, and how to turn an entire lunch table against an absent colleague without saying a mean word. Such skills are likely to have a greater influence on their lifetime earnings than the ability to spin an icosahedron.

Economist has never struck me a great supporter of women (the last time I remember reading about the issue was in a rather poor article, “Sex changes” last June.) This one is slightly better, though I am not convinced it is actually written in a positive note.

I don’t necessarily care for a “victory”, equality is good enough - but I am definitely not complaining when they conclude that women are better suited for modern professional life!

Once upon a time, I used to love blogging. When I would have a thousand ideas brimming in my head waiting to find a life on paper - when I wrote because I couldn’t not. When I checked my blog everyday without fail, often along with my morning coffee. When everyday I found something new to write about.

And then work got to me - in between 18 hour working days, writing seemed such a luxury. Thoughts that were not strictly useful for getting things done were pushed away from my mind, to make way for the practical and tangible. I almost abandoned my blog, averaging about one post a month. Which, I know, is very pathetic.

Now I want it back. I want to have a few thousand ideas in my head. I want to feel the urge to write. The impatience when you are in a traffic jam on your way home, because it is keeping you away from your keyboard. The excitement when a piece you just finished writing turned out to be much better than what you had imagined about it in your head. The total and complete, and almost therapeutic, sense of freedom when a nagging thought has been broken down and analysed and penned down, and finally laid to rest.

But somehow I seem to have lost it. For the last few months, I didn’t write because of lack of time. But now its summer (or used to be, if you live in Amsterdam), people are on holiday, life is more happy, I do have time and guess what! I just cant seem to write. When you don’t do something for sometime, you just sort of lose it. So, if you are a regular blogger out there, don’t stop - even if you feel like your world is collapsing around you and you barely have time to breathe, let alone the grocery shopping and the laundry and the umpteen boring things that makes life go on in a socially acceptable fashion - even then you should continue. Or you will be a victim of inertia, just like me. When you write, you cant stop and when you stop, you can’t start - who else can you blame but good old Newton, with the apple on his head.

I dont want to lose my love of blogging. I will write, even when I have nothing to write. And soon I will have something to write. And then I will be back to a thousand ideas in my head again! If you have any brilliant or not-so-brilliant ideas to get out this rut, I am all ears..! For now, I keep my fingers crossed!