Solino

India for beginners

or: a survival manual

Now this is not as bad as it sounds, India is not the jungle (ok, partly it is but not the part I (temporarily) chose to settle in) and the chances of survival are pretty high. But there are certain differences and points I would like to draw your attention to:

Walking

Watch where you step. I'm sure your parents have been telling you this since you first started walking but seriously: Watch where you step. Because in addition to the footpath being extremely uneven and low hanging tree branches getting into your face, the spot where you naturally would have set your foot next might simply not be there. Or already occupied by a - mostly biscuit coloured - dog. Or move away from right under your foot. Or turn into a puddle, depending on the time of year.
 
Traffic

Traffic might look chaotic at first (who am I kidding - it is!) but there is one rule: anything goes. And as opposed to driving/riding/walking in Europe where the rules watch over you, here you're responsible for yourself. You're treated like an adult, capable of making your own decisions and judging when would be a good time to cross a road or squeeze in between a few other vehicles. So yes, keep your eyes open at all times. Which doesn't mean you can't wedge your phone under your helmet to keep up the chat once the light has turned green..

Prohibitions

"No parking for two wheelers" can be found right above a row of parked motorbikes, "Stick no bills" is written between two advertising posters on a wall and the foot of a "No plastic zone" sign is covered in discarded bags and empty bottles. Prohibitive signs are seldom more than a suggestion. 'Who is he/she to tell me what to do' was my friend T's very apt remark when I posted the picture of another such incident on my second India trip and that seems to cover it. And trust me, there will be a time when you're happy about it. For me, it was at the dance performance I attended with K., coming right from school, not having eaten anything after breakfast (about 8 hours ago). In the foyer, snacks were available, so I bought a piece of something and a cup of tea and headed for the hall. The sign of "No food and drink" threw me off for a moment but then the idea of 'Who is he..' popped up in my head again and I entered anyway. Nobody cared.

Shopping and bargaining

A lot of the shopping here happens on markets or in slightly run down looking stores. In Europe, that would be a sign of bad management and poor quality of the wares. Not here. It's simply common to know exactly where to go for something specific (the key word is Thippasandra, right, V.?!). Small shops signify that they specialise in one product or range of products. A shop entirely for shelves, one for bedding and cushions and one for chairs and tables are perfectly normal. Slight 'Run-downishness' just means that you pay for the product and not for the upkeep of the store.

Of course, products have prices. In most privately owned shops and especially market stalls, these aren't fixes and you would be surprised by the percentage that can be shaved off the original price. Bargaining is important here. If you don't do it, both you and the salesperson will be unhappy. You because you know that you've paid too much. 'Firangi special' my friend M. used to call that. And the salesperson because they didn't demand an even higher price from you to begin with. My bargaining strategy is usually such that I think of a price I am willing to pay for a specific item. If the asking price is more, I say what I'm ready to pay. Agree? Great. If not, I move on, more often than not being called back. If the price they demand is within my price range already, I generally ask if that is the best they can do and that normally takes off at least a small proportion as well. 'I'm too cheap not to bargain', I once admitted. 'No, you're too Indian', V. replied with a smile.

Dates

6 pm. 'Can you teach me for like an hour after class, please? I didn't get it.' - Sure. 'I'll come over around 6.30, ok?!' - Definitely.
9 am. 'Are you free this morning till 11?' - Yes. 'I'll be there early, around 10.30, does that work for you?' - Of course.
Overlapping dates. My first reaction would be to say no, to try and reschedule at least one of them. But living in India has taught me that this is rarely necessary. 6.30 can easily turn into 7 or even 7.30 .. 8.00, especially if TC. is involved (you know who you are!). 10.30 plus 'Sorry, I overslept' will give you a good hour extra. I never really had two dates or appointments getting into each other's way, so you can confidently say yes to whatever you are planning and scheduling without the fear of an imminent clash.


Dinner Invitations

'Come over at 8, we'll have dinner.' Done as said, shortly past 8, we arrive. The table is in the last stages of being set, we make small talk for a while. Then we move to the table, dish after dish is set before us. The hosts only sit down to eat with us when we insist, still hesitantly. Then, dinner is over, the conversation is slowing down. I whisper to M. that maybe we should get going, having read something to that extent in one guide to India. 'No, it would be rude to leave right after dinner', she replies, because yes, at home it WOULD be considered rude. As the conversation is not picking up again, I thank our hosts profusely and suggest that it is late and we should make a move. In their faces, I see agreement although they were undoubtedly happy to have us. M. is surprised. 

Yes, Indian dinners are different. The conversational part happens before the actual meal, hardly during and definitely not afterwards unless you're with really close friends. And then you wrap it up. Thank you, bye, see you soon..

Food

What to say about Indian food? I love it and it loves me. India is a paradise for vegetarians - if you're not sure what you're about to eat, the default option is generally vegetarian. As a first time traveller, you're not supposed to eat street food. When did I start doing that? Oh yea, on day 2 of my first trip here. Oh, but the consequences .. were zero. Nothing happened. Even after the second time, third, fourth. So I decided that it's all a question of your attitude: If you think that you will catch something from your food, you will. But if you - or me - think you won't, well then that's what happens. In two prior trips and by now a good half year of living in India, I've never had a serious problem and intend to keep it that way. And yes, I try anything I'm offered as long as it's veg.


That should conclude my blog which was long due, some might even say overdue. If I've left anything unanswered, if you have any 'doubts', as my students are prone to saying, please feel free to ask :-).

"Five minutes, madam"

... or: How I spent a day at the FRRO

The FRRO? What on earth is that? Is it contagious? Is there a spray against it?
If you're a foreigner, lucky/stupid/adventurous/adjective of your choice enough to go to India and are planning to spend more than six months here (which I am), you will have to register with the FRRO, the Foreigners Regional Registration Office. "They don't trust you people", you said and that is probably true. Registering sounds easy: you go to an office, passport, work contract and possibly copies thereof in hand, show them to a friendly clerk, fill in a form and that's that, right? Wrong.

The adventure "registration" starts online where you fill in a form, upload a photo and get an appointment. You are supposed to show up no later than two weeks after arrival in India. Note: the day OF arrival counts, too. So in my case, the last fee-free day - I arrived on the 16th August - would have been the 29th, not, as my calculation of 16+14=30, the 30th. Anyway. So you filled in that online form and sent it off into the world wide .. you know. When you're about to choose an appointment date, the site tells you that the next possible one is after your legal period of registration, the above mentioned 14 days, and you better "rush to the FRRO" immediately. Which I did. Not the next day but the one after that, the 30th, because I was waiting for another document to bring in.
 
During about an hour of standing in line, I notice that everyone else seems to have a form on top of their paper pile that I didn't think of bringing: a printout of the online form. Why would I print that out, I had thought, I sent it to them and they acknowledged its receipt. Turns out, as the friendly man at the "Help & Scrutiny desk" let me know, you need it in print. Knowing their potential clientèle, several copy shops, stationery shops and even a travel agency offer this service for a small fee. Armed with my Application ID, I entered one of those shops and requested them to print out my application. Now in order to do that, you have to choose an appointment date. Travel agency guy did that and the 4th September was printed on top of my form. I didn't pay much attention to this, the "scrutiniser" all the more. "Your appointment is the 4th", he informed me, and that's also where I learned about the two weeks having ended the day before. No, they could not process my documents today. "Come back on the 4th. We don't have your application in front of us before that." Fine, I packed up, a little frustrated and decided to make the best of my remaining day off.
 
Fast forward almost a week. The 4th September had arrived. I had decided to be there particularly early so that I would definitely be done by noon and arrive for class on time (in retrospect, I'm giggling about my naive ideas). So let me give you a little overview about the D-Day .. err .. R-Day:

6:30 am. My alarm goes off. I beg it for an additional 9 minutes of slumber which it grants. Then I haul myself out of bed, shower, have breakfast, get dressed etc. I re- and double check all of my documents with the list another teacher had sent us after her successful registration just two weeks prior. I grab copies of everything, my passport, pictures and head out at 7.30 am.

8:00 am. Although the FRRO officially opens at 9.30 am, a relatively long and colourful line has already formed outside the gate. Roughly an hour later, the gate opens far enough to start letting the masses in. First stop: Help & Scrutiny Desk (believe me, I'm not making that up).

This time, the 'scrutiniser'has nothing to say about my documents, he tells me to proceed to the "Tokens & Queries" counter to get my token, a piece of paper, stating that I have token number 7A. This surprises me a little because there were definitely more than 6 people before me. The mystery is solved on the 1st floor (or second if you count the groundfloor as 1) where there are five counters, lettered from A to E.  My first impression of the large waiting room is however that it is freezing in there. Fans whirring, A/Cs blasting at full power. 'Poor employes', I'm thinking, 'working in this freezing hell day in, day out'. 'Poor me' is what I think later, and not just because of the cold.

9:35 am. The clerks are starting to take their seats, two people behind each counter, to work more efficiently I'm sure. The token numbers are lit up as well as announced over speakers. When the sign at counter A shows 7, I head over there and present my documents not without pride, considering their comprehensiveness. You would think. First point of critique is something that I initially hear as 'Viginals, viginals! Where are the viginals?'. Seeing the question marks on my face, the employe repeats slightly slower 'Where are your originals?'. Oh. Oh damn.
I need the originals too? Apparently yes. Ok, my mistake. He keeps going through the paper pile, grabs my rental contract and is unhappy again. Since the institute I work at doesn't own the property I stay in, I will either need the contract between institute and house owner or a personalised letter, stating that 'we, the ... institute provide accomodation to Ms. ...'. To my question if I can bring that tomorrow, he vigorously shakes his head no. Today and only today or I have to get a new appointment and start a-fresh.

10:20 am. Fine. I start to run home (which is just a half hour walking distance) to grab my "viginals', call N.K. in panic who promises to email the responsible at the school to write a letter that I can then pick up before running back to the FRRO.
The auto drivers outside, not unlike a flock of vultures, offer me a ride for the mere cost of 100 rupees. Just for the drive home naturally. I laugh and decide to walk instead. After about 500 metres, there is a lone auto standing and the driver offers thedistance for 30 rupees, still a bit too much but a lot more reasonable. He drops me home, I'm about to pay him when the idea hits me to keep him for the entire tour FRRO - home - school - FRRO. He agrees, demands 200 for the entire trip, waiting times included and I sighingly agree.

10:45 am. When I reach the school, Ni. hasn't received any email and does not have a clue of my predicament. Quickly, I explain what I need, she seems to understand the urgency, tells me to wait in the teachers' room because it will take '5 minutes'. (Btw, whatever you're waiting for in whichever situation in India, the waiting time will always be '5 minutes') I remind her that I have an auto waiting, she nods and I close her door from outside. After '5 minutes' that can hardly have lasted more than 15, she hands me the document, I make a copy (just in case) and hop into the waiting auto.

11:15 am. I walk past the line, show my token number to someone who then lets me pass and walk right up to counter A, as previously agreed. He takes my original documents and then pauses at the letter Ni. just composed. 'It doesn't have your name' and points to the part where it says 'guest lecturers' instead of 'Ms. S.T.'. In my mind, I am strangling Ni. right now, outside I say something along the line of work contract, guest lecturer and please. The employe is human (super-human? humanoid?) after all and lets it slide.
 
I am aware that I will have to pay a fee for registering late, after that legal period of two weeks. How exactly that is going to happen however, I don't know. One of the two behind "my" counter is about to send me off to the bank when the other one intercepts. Let's get the approval first and then you go is the essence of his statement. Fine, I sit back down and wait. And wait. And then wait some more. Slowly, I'm starting to panic. My class starts at 1:30 and I'm not sure I will be done by then. Another frantic message to N.K. She promises to start my class if I don't make it in time. Message to K. who assures me that she can take over after the break, just in case. Phew, I'll owe them forever but that's settled then.

1:40 pm. A board downstairs announces that lunch break is between 1.30 and 2.30 pm. And while there was no sign of slowing down one floor up, my stomach is starting to grumble. Breakfast at 7, now it's almost 2 - you do the math. In the waiting room, there are officially no "eatables permitted", a rule people seem to stick to, as opposed to the no mobiles rule that we collectively ignore.
The employe from counter A waves me over, tells me that it's lunch break now, I should go grab a bite and be back in 30 to 40 minutes.

1:45 pm. Outside the building, I blink into the unfamiliar daylight and ponder where to eat. I remember the rule K. and I established the other day: it's good where many locals go. Looking around, I see a cafeteria type place (not unlike Chaitanya's - the gobi manchurian place for the initiated) and walk in. A few minutes later, I'm enjoying tea and a veg grilled cheese sandwich, washing it down with a cup of water.

2:10 pm. I am back in the waiting room, announce my presence to the duo behind counter A and sit down again. A few minutes pass until I am called over. Oh and being called doesn't mean by your name. No, by now, I had become 'Number 7, Germany'. They hand me a paper slip, to be taken to a bank of my choice and exchanged - together with the required cash - for a DD (demand draft) in favour of the DDO, Bureau of Immigration, Bangalore. A friendly Korean lady who is here for the second time advises me how to get to the nearest bank. She also tells me that I need to be back within an hour, the process takes 20 minutes and the bank is 10 minutes away if you walk (with two children maybe but it took me hardly more than five minutes), 'so you need to hurry'.

2:20 pm. Out on the street again and just when I'm turning towards the given direction, one of the vultures approaches, starting to tell me tales about a bank. 'I can walk' I tell him and walk I do. Without a problem I find the bank, hoping that it's not their lunch break now but luckily, that was from 1:30 to 2:00. I enter and approach the first person sitting there and tell them what I need. They send me to a grey-haired gentleman who asks me to 'takeapinkchallan'. 'Sorry, what?' In slightly reduced speed, he repeats 'Take a pink challan!'. No idea what a challan is but I walk towards the spot he points at and see a number of differently coloured papers, the word challan on a sign above them. I pick a pink paper and turn questioningly back to the gentleman. He nods his approval and I return. He sends me to another desk. 
I explain the story again, drop my 'challan' and the slip from the FRRO on his desk and wait for things to happen. Passport and a proof of residence, please. I hand him my passport and rental contract, the only document they didn't need in 'viginal'. He looks at both and asks if I don't have a copy. No, sorry, I don't. Well, we need a copy to proceed here. And of course there is no copying machine in the entire bank. Offfff course not. I ask him for directions to the nearest copy shop but either I misunderstood him or he wasn't all that sure himself, there were no copy shops to be found anywhere near. At another travel agency, I stop and ask the guy where I can get a copy. Not here, so sorry, although I clearly see a fax/copying machine/printer combo sitting there. He directs me to another place that indeed does photocopies.

2:40 pm. Back at the bank, slightly out of breath. Finally, the clerk dictates my data to yet another person who then types them into a computer. We fill in the 'pink challan' as well and I am being sent to - believe it or not - a fifth person in this bank. After handing her cash and challan, picking up my passport and asking if that was definitely all, I head back to the FRRO.

3:05 pm. I show my DD to the person who decides - somewhat similar to Petrus - who can go up and who stays down. 'Do you have a xerox copy of that?', he asks. Of course I don't, so I rush out again to get another copy. Better make it two. Copies in hand, he lets me pass.

3:10 pm. Reporting back to counter A, I see them slightly impressed at my speed. They send me over to the DD counter, yes, they have one just for that purpose where I hand in the note and return. 'You can collect it at 5 - 5:30' I am told. No point in leaving now, so I sit down, take out my book and wait. Every now and then, I glance up but actually I am sitting close enough to the counter that I wouldn't miss 'Number 7, Germany!'.

5:35 pm. As even the longer time has elapsed by now, I walk up to the counter again to check how things are progressing. 'Five minutes, madam!' Apparently, my registration is ready and just needs to be signed. I sit down and go back to my book.

6:05 pm. 'Number 7! Germany!', I hear and jump up. They tell me to sign here, here and here, hand me the 'Registration Certificate/Residential Permit' and I am free, free! I am finally done dealing with them! 
Until December of course.
 

Bonding in Gurgaon

Some of my readers may know that I'm just starting out on a new adventure: living and working in India. How did I do that? Well, I guess I just really wanted to. For more details, please re-read Bangalore, part II.

Oh yes and while I am going to write every now and then, I will not commit myself to a post every day or even every week. I'll write when I'll write, when I'll feel like it and have nothing better, sorry, nothing else to do. So check back here from time to time, I might just have spilled out a new post.

Exactly a week ago today, I left home for Delhi, on the one hand because a direct flight was a lot more expensive but mainly because one of my best friends, N., lives here. He was the first person to talk to me on my first Indian chat site and for the past six and a half years, we've been close through thick and thin. Last year, he got married and as I couldn't be there for technical and other reasons, we thought it a brilliant idea if I interrupted my journey there for three days and spend the weekend with him and his wife Su.

He arranged to have me picked up from the airport - with a very personal placard (poor driver had no idea why I was laughing out loud) - and dropped at his office where he received me with open arms, regardless of the pouring rain. Oh yes, the weather in Delhi seemed very unusual to me: It was warm but rained regularly so that the streets were muddy and clothes and linen were always a bit damp. Another surprise: in addition to the ever present biscuit coloured street dogs and the occasional stray cow, there were black pigs running around in their residential area. At night, they had disappeared and nobody cared enough to know where they were going, until I asked Su. who told me that they sleep in the bushes, where else could they hide?!

The first night at their place was spent chatting, bonding, drinking, eating and all this fun stuff. They live in Gurgaon which is quite a bit outside the city of Delhi where we were invited to a party the next night. Covering 75% of the distance took an hour, the remaining 25% about another hour, just to give you an idea of the Saturday evening traffic. R. and V. who held the party had not heard of me until that very day but welcomed me into their home as if I was part of the family. We ate, drank, danced (me too and nobody got hurt!), drove around, singing in the car and eventually spent the night there. 

After a quick tea the next morning, we did what I would call 'sightseeing light': Qutub Minar, the Old Fort, India Gate (towing of the car included, luckily, freeing it was a rather painless and quick affair), Dilli Haat (which is like a smaller Shilparamam with more food) and of course lots and lots of chaats. 

Sunday evening was meant for shopping (Sunday! Evening!), beauty parlour (where my designated guy attempted to wake up every cell in my feet, legs, head, arms and shoulders with repeated tight slaps and a vigorous massage - more details available on demand in a separate post, just let me know), mehendi and eventually a movie. Since Hindi movies don't normally come with subtitles in cinema, N. picked an English one, The Conjuring. A horror movie worthy of the name, not that I have a lot to compare it with. It was scary and during more scenes than one, my hands covered my eyes until I felt it was safe to continue watching. In retrospect, I would have preferred a non-subtitled Hindi movie, heck, a movie without subtitles in any language as long as it isn't horror!

After the movie, we had a quick snack based dinner in a nearby mall (On Sunday night!!) and eventually headed home. It was decided that we would all sleep in the same room as nobody felt up to staying alone in one room ('Look what she made me do!' - those who saw the movie will shiver at the reference.). 

The next morning, I was picked up by the same driver as on Friday ('You have my number?' - 'Yes, yes.' - 'Ok, you call me because - all India permit.') and safely deposited at Delhi's domestic airport, headed for my new home: Bangalore.

Heaven shall burn*

I was going through the Wacken interviews of the last couple months or years and came across one with Maik, the guitarist of Heaven Shall Burn (*yes, that's what the title is all about, don't read anything more into it please). The band has the same origins as me, they hail from a town no more than 50 km from my own hometown in the lovely state of Thuringia. They're metalcore representatives  - to me, metalcore is a genre of metal, think whatever you want about that - and pretty thoughtful guys altogether, a fact that shows in their lyrics as well as their statements. Vegans for the environment without judging anyone who isn't, opposed to hunting as a hobby for the upper class and capable of wording their thoughts very eloquently.

In this interview, Maik was asked about their first song in German that appeared on the new album, how come and why haven't there been German songs before. He gave a very interesting reply, in fact, it is pretty much the reason why I don't blog in German either: 'It is very difficult to write good German lyrics [or texts, in my case] that sound neither embarrassing nor solemn'.

Writing in your native language should be the easiest thing. But if that language is not English, a few factors speak against it. First of all, you can reach a larger (net) audience, using English. Most everybody who regularly roams around the world wide web has at least a basic understanding of it. Then, using your own language, you tend to use clichés, commonplaces and platitudes, the above mentioned 'embarrassing and solemn'. You are tempted to show off your command of the language by using 'big words'. In English, you are - ok, I am - forced to write simpler. If I want to express a thought, I have two, maybe three ways of doing so, not an endless number of options and synonyms. I will usually be short, preferably clear, understandable and not overly (I said usually, ok?!) long-winding.

Makes sense? I thought so.

Reality bites

I don't like to lie. Call it laziness, lack of imagination or whatever you think is apt. Of course I had a phase in my childhood (funny how everything seems to go back to one's early years) where I discovered the magic of lies. 

My parents asked me something and instead of telling them the truth which would doubtlessly get me into trouble, I served them a convenient lie. Ok, they'd say, and in my mind, I would go 'Huh. That was easy. Who knew.' I, the little child, had won a (however small) battle over the all powerful, all knowing parents. I got away with a lie, I avoided the ugly consequences the truth could entail. In the future, I used this trick more often because it was just so easy. Until one day, they knew. Mum knew. Nevertheless, she asked me. I lied, denied, made up a story, tried to cover up the results. But she knew and told me so. 

In the course of my life so far, there were often situations where a (white, grey or outright black, to stay with the colour metaphors) lie would have been the easy way out. Mostly, I chose the truth .. and regretted it occasionally. I'm far from perfect, in fact, I screw up as often as the next person. Disappoint friends, forget appointments, hurt loved ones and generally do things that I'm not proud of. 

If it concerns people I don't care much about, I might lie. Missed a dentist's appointment - 'Oh, sorry, I wasn't feeling well'. Late to class - 'Traffic was horrible today'. 

But when it comes to the people I feel close to, like, love, I tend to choose the truth. Even if knowing it might hurt them. Even if I leave it to them to deal with the facts. Even if it is something that I'm not proud of and that I'm emotionally detached from.

A few times, I later found out that someone close had lied to me. In retrospect, I questioned the entire relationship. Where else have they lied? Why did they have the impression it would be better to hide the truth from me? Was I imagining the closeness? Finding out about the lie hurt me and made me angry, a lot more than the ugliest truth would have. 

So besides being too lazy to cook up a storyline and stick to it, telling the truth is a question of respect in my eyes. Omitting information is a different matter to me though. If something doesn't matter anymore, I don't feel compelled to bring it up. If an answer is bound to hurt me, I will not ask the question. If it doesn't concern me, I don't need to know. If it's in the past, it doesn't influence my present.

(PS: I am well aware that this is not just a question of truth and lie. But since it happened and you asked, I had to be open about it - we have always been ourselves with each other. And I'm insanely sorry about having hurt you.)

Swing swing

The working title for this post was 'Mood swings' but that does not quite hit it. My mood doesn't swing all by itself, rainbow blues probably excluded. It is rather so that other people have quite a strong influence on it. Not random people of course - I'm not psychologically instable (I think) - but those close to me.

My mother is in a bad mood because her knees hurt or because my father exasperated her - I look for the fault in myself. 

My close friend is monosyllabic bordering taciturn because of a stressful day at the work she hates - I wonder what I might have done wrong.

You leave abruptly and with an unusually cold goodbye - I nearly cry myself to sleep from worry.

Why is it that the people around me influence my mood and my thoughts to that extent? Shouldn't I be stronger, more independent than that? Is it low self-esteem, not enough positive feedback at a young age? A mix of all I reckon. 

So dear readers, if you have children, please encourage, support and reinforce them, they'll need it.

Gone

The spring from my step,

The spark from my face,

The smile from my eyes,

The lightness of my being.

Bring them back!

The One

When I think of my favourite accessory, a few things come to my mind: The silver payals I was given in India and that I haven't taken off since then (pretty uncomfortable in boots though). The purple pashmina stole that has saved me from freezing several times but whose best quality is that it was chosen by you. My iPhone that is my camera to go and my connection to the world everywhere I roam.

Yes, these might be valid options but they are not the one. To make you understand which one it actually is, I have to back up a bit, almost 15 years to be precise.

It was the summer of 1998. My semester in Geneva had reached its peak; with the visit of my friend, I had finally met some locals, and now these locals invited me to a Celtic festival in the bordering France. Of course I went, expecting a fun day but not much more. Upon arrival, the music, the atmosphere, the information about the Celtic culture and origin spoke to me immediately. I felt the music inside me, resonating and vibrating in me as I described here before.

In retrospect, I wonder why I was so surprised about this. All the signs pointed towards it. First of all, I'm from Thuringia, and Thuringians are the epitomic children of Thor, the Norse god. Consequently, I am a legal descendant of these Thor worshippers, the Celts. 
And then my name! If you know my full name or even the name I would have gotten if I were a boy, you know that they couldn't be any more Nordic if they tried.

Anyway, as the night advanced, so did the magic. The sounds moved me, I even joined a Celtic dance without hurting myself or others! In this summer, we went to another festival of this kind and as a memory, my friend from Geneva bought me a pewter necklace with a Celtic cross pendant. Is that it, you may wonder, the mysterious favourite accessory? Breathe easy, it is not.

For this, we have to jump closer to the present time, to the year 2002. At the time of the 'millenium flood' in Germany and Poland, my friend and I spent a sunny vacation in Brittany, Northern France. Now this area, Brittany, Normandy and around, is the heart of the Celtic culture. You can tell from the architecture and jewellery, the monuments and cemeteries as well as the language, Breton, one of the Celtic languages like Gaelic or Welsh.

At a small town market that we visited, I finally saw it: a pair of small silver triskele ear studs. Triskeles are one symbol of the Celtic art and so they practically called out to me. Initially, I wore the ear studs as a pair but since I have an uneven number of ear piercings, wearing just one was simply more practicable on the long run. 

Since that day about 11 years ago, not a day has passed when I wasn't wearing at least one of these earrings. It is my good luck charm, a remembrance of my heritage and yes, a pretty piece of jewellery:

Must love dogs*

The first dog in my life was Danny, aunt I.'s and uncle H.'s giant collie. He was a huge jumpy fur ball that was obviously not aware of his size. Full of energy and excitedly curious about every visitor, he fascinated as well as scared little me, no more than 4 years old at the time. So after some high-speed patting and cuddling each time we visited, I became overwhelmed and aunt or uncle would put Danny back into his den.

Different village, different dogs: My mum's cousin and her husband, also known as aunt and uncle M. - coincidentally, both their first names began with the same letter -  had Daisy and her son Blacky. Daisy was an adorable white spitz, Blacky (no points for guessing here) her black fuzzy-furred son. They both lived in aunt's and uncle's large yard and garden, without permission to enter the house at any point. The closest they ventured were the few steps that led up to the entrance door where they used to settle down peacefully.
Believe it or not but in the first years of visits there that I remember, I haven't been  - just like the dogs - inside the house even once. We used to visit for no more than an hour or two, a time span not remotely long enough to get enough of these two creatures who, while announcing every visitor with menacing barks, turned into the sweetest pooches on earth as soon as the door opened and they were patted hello.
I was so taken with them that I begged to take one home with me. 'Okay, if you manage to carry him to the car, you can take Blacky home.' Never underestimate the willpower of a 5-year-old who really wants a dog: I picked up the 20 kilo canine and half carried, half dragged him to our Dacia. To my major disappointment, my parents had only been joking and I had to leave him behind again.

Somehow, there was never a right time for me to have a dog of my own. Not when we lived in the village because we all were out of the house for a big part of the day. Not when I was a university student because I always lived in shared apartments and spent a year studying abroad. Not now that I'm renting a place by myself because it is on the fourth floor (nope, no elevator, it's an older house) and tiny and the dog I envisage to get is at least knee high (my knee). And not even in India where there is no dearth of dogs in all shapes and sizes - not colours though: four out of five Indian street dogs are biscuit coloured, probably to be camouflaged in the dust where they spend their days. If I bring back a dog after my stay there, it would have to go into quarantine for four (!) weeks .. and I could never do that to a dog. Of course, I can't leave it behind either, so no dog for me in the foreseeable future.

My parents on the other hand never showed any particular interest in owning a dog. So when one day during my semester in Geneva, I received a letter, containing a piece of half-melted candy that had a bit of light brown and grey fluff stuck to it and the words 'we have a surprise for you', I was not sure what to make of it. Turns out the surprise was my parents' brand-new puppy, a cuddly little Havanese by the ferocious name of Zorro.
Cute thing but somehow, our relationship never evolved beyond friendly-polite with a dose of respect from his side and a pinch of indifference from mine. There are probably two reasons for that: the fact that I wasn't 'home' very often and so couldn't spend a lot of time with him. And then I blame my mum. Ok, 'blame' is a bit of a strong word but the problem is that she sees dogs as humans. Free will and freedom of choice included. However, if you don't train a dog and show him who's the boss, he takes this role, and so Zorro more or less ruled the house. But not with me, mutt! I will not let a dog walk all over me, as dinky as he may be.

Since then, a good number of four-legged ones crossed my path .. students' dogs, friends' pets, strays. The latest addition to the canine parade is my parents' new pup, Miro, formerly known as Eduard:

*PS: The title of this post was borrowed from the movie by the same name.