On a hot day, we climb the Great Wall of China. Not, unfortunately, at Simatai or Mutianyu, the less touristy sections of the Wall near Beijing, but at Badaling. Badaling is 70km from Beijing, the nearest the Wall comes to the capital, and the most commercial and crowded section.

Hanging on to the iron railing that snakes up one of the steeper sections of the Wall, I lean over at a crazy angle of 45˚, trying desperately to adjust my centre of gravity to match the gradient. From one of the upper curves of the Wall, I look down and feel faintly sick as I watch the crowds push on. I am reminded of something a Taiwanese friend had told me: the Chinese word for crowd is people mountain, people sea.

Come August 2008, and the mountain will grow taller, the sea wider. For the 550,000 sports enthusiasts and 10,000-odd sportspeople expected to arrive for the Beijing 2008 Olympics, the city’s going to be spiffy and cosmopolitan. The sights will be spruced up, the hotels plush. There will be English-speaking student volunteers to guide you around, and shiny malls with the biggest brands in the world. Yep, the Games are going to be big.

That is something peculiarly appropriate to the nature of Beijing. In the Forbidden City, the larger than life aspect is expected–after all, everyone knows the Chinese emperors lived in style–but just about everything in Beijing seems to be larger, older, more spectacular, more completely unbelievable than almost anywhere else in the world.
There is, for example, the Yonghegong Tibetan Lama Temple, a busy but charming complex of prayer halls, clouds of incense, white silk scarves, and trees laden with ripening persimmons and pomegranates. I walk through the temples, admiring the gilded Buddhas, twirling the prayer wheels outside each hall till I reach the last one. This is occupied by the pride and joy of Yonghegong: an 18m high statue of the Maitreya Buddha, carved from a single block of white sandalwood.
Craning my head to look up at it, I realize that it is not just the mortal sportspeople who are in the business of bettering the best. Everything in the ‘Northern Capital’ seems to be vying for the Guinness Book. And to leave Beijing after watching just the athletes break records would be as incomplete an experience as tasting only the crisp skin of a succulent Peking Duck.
So, in between the opening and closing ceremonies, pencil in a visit to the Forbidden City, with its 8,000 rooms and lacquered and painted palaces. Push and jostle with the crowds for a glimpse of the exhibits–porcelain, scrolls of calligraphy, jewellery, imperial seals, weapons, even outsize drums. But there are quieter corners: The Museum of Clocks and Watches, hidden behind a screen of pine trees, is deliciously quiet and home to some fascinating timepieces, from diamond-studded pocket watches to huge clepsydras that rise halfway to the ceiling.

Ditto with the Temple of Heaven, Tiantan. Like the Forbidden City, Tiantan isn’t one building, but a series of structures that sprawl across acres of land; in this case, lush parkland dotted with gnarled old junipers. The most important building in Tiantan rejoices in an equally grand name, the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest. It’s flooded with tourists when I arrive, but this temple is so huge, it dwarfs everything.

I circle around the hall, admiring the triple eaves of the roof–painted in blue, red, green and gold–and peer into the red lacquered interior, where the emperors once prayed for the prosperity of the land. It’s stunning, and I discover that this particular building is made completely of wood, without the use of a single nail.

The second discovery is even more striking, not to mention disconcerting. The all-wood structure of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest was struck by lightning in 1889 and burnt down. A subsequent enquiry revealed that prior to the fire, a lowly caterpillar had crawled all the way to the golden ball that surmounts the building, thus defiling it–attracting the bolt of lightning as heavenly retribution. Fanciful, but what really shook me was the fact that 32 court officials were executed for having allowed the caterpillar to get up there in the first place.

That the imperial family was decidedly imperious in its dealings comes as no surprise. The Empress Dowager Ci Xi, who virtually ruled China for 47 years in the late 19th century, for instance, used public funds to build the vast Summer Palace, a series of pavilions, temples and halls on the shores of Lake Kunming. In a darkly humorous bit of irony, Ci Xi actually used embezzled naval funds to get an opulent boat carved out of white marble for the Summer Palace.

To get away from the crowds–the Bird’s Nest, as the National Stadium is fondly called, can seat 91,000 people–take yourself to the Dazhong Si, the Great Bell Temple. It’s now a museum for bells, tucked away in a quiet little corner of north-west Beijing. Its bells range in size from tiny thumb-sized midgets to iron leviathans carved all over with Chinese characters, cranes, clouds and dragons. The pièce de resistance is a bell that hangs all by itself in the very last hall, and weighs all of 50 tonnes.

That’s still 13 tonnes short of Beijing’s biggest bell, which hangs in the Bell Tower. A vertiginously steep flight of 80-odd stone stairs, in a narrow and dark stairwell, leads up to the Bell Tower. I’ve never been scared of heights, but by the time I reach the top–and like an idiot, glance down–I’m sweating. But the bell, towering massively above, is majestic and impressive. Quintessential Beijing.

Will the Games match up? We’ll see.

(First published in Lounge, December 2007)

In the early years of the 17th century, a powerful but eccentric nobleman built a pleasure resort against a backdrop of the wooded hills outside Salzburg. Archbishop Markus Sitticus named his pretty yellow palace Schloss Hellbrunn. Unlike his contemporaries, however, Sitticus had little love for gilded chandeliers and brocade drapes. So he set about filling his palace with oddities that appealed to him. Paintings of rare birds and fish filled two rooms; another room was painted to depict a Roman forum. An octagonal chamber with an aperture in its domed ceiling was painted a deep, flaming orange in colour.

But it was in the gardens that Sitticus allowed free rein to his eccentricity. The Wasserspiele–the water garden–is a medley of pools filled with fish; channels of rippling water; grottoes; and fountains.

We went visiting one hot afternoon, and it was the fountains that caught us unawares.

Walks through the Wasserspiele are always led by a Hellbrunn guide, and we soon discovered why. Our guide, who looked deceptively charming, did just what Markus Sitticus probably did to his unsuspecting guests four centuries ago. A surreptitious flick of a lever, and we found ourselves soaked from water spewing from hidden fountains. On either side of a path we’d been strolling along. From beside a grotto where we’d stopped to admire a pair of hydraulically powered miniature figures. And, most humiliating of all, from the centre of stone stools on which we’d been graciously invited to seat ourselves. At the end of it all, drenched but inexplicably happy, we wandered through the park, past the small white pavilion in which I am sixteen going on seventeen was filmed in The Sound of Music. Schloss Hellbrunn, we decided unanimously, was enchanting. Quiet, lovely, charming–and full of surprises.

And that is how I’d sum up Salzburg itself.

This city by the Salzach River is one of those examples–fortunately not too rare in Europe–of a city that combines history, culture and scenic beauty in equal (and generous) doses. On the outskirts, green pastures studded with wildflowers extend into wooded hills that loom high in a clear blue sky. In the city, the copper green domes and spires of the cathedrals dominate the skyline. The gardens are crowded with flowers, the Salzach twinkles in the sunlight. Picturesque? Undoubtedly.

The Alstadt–the Old Town–is the historic heart of Salzburg. This is where the Archbishop Princes once ruled; and the cobblestones still ring with the clip-clop of horses’ hooves as they pull along carriages. We sat one day in the Alstadt, watching the carriages trundle by while we admired a century-old combination thermometer, barometer and hygrometer that stood in the square. When the beckoning aroma of kaffee mit schlag–coffee with cream–pulled us into the nearby Café Tomaselli, we succumbed to temptation. A plump waitress in prim black, with a white apron, appeared with a huge tray crowded with apfelstrudel, topfenstrudel, tarts and cakes smothered with cream, custard, and fresh fruit. Would we care for some? Oh, yes, we would–who couldn’t?

There are other cafés in the Alstadt. Other restaurants too, including an Indian one which proclaimed daily specials we’d never heard of. There are boutiques and shops too, selling everything from high fashion to souvenirs. But the Alstadt isn’t glamour; it’s history. History breathes, lives, proudly preens itself here.

The most imposing reminder of Salzburg’s political history is the Residenz, the administrative headquarters for many centuries. Its luxurious chambers and state rooms are impressive, and the small but excellent collection of art in the Residenzgalerie includes stalwarts such as Rembrandt and Breughel.

And then there are the churches, of which my favourite is the unusual Stiftskirche St Peter. St Peter’s is in stark contrast to the gloomy, forbidding interiors of many of Austria’s other churches, including Vienna’s Stephansdom and Salzburg’s very own Franziskanerkirche. Here the walls are airy and pristine white, picked out in a delicate grey-green; murals cover the ceiling, depicting the life of St Peter.

The Franziskanerkirche is much older than St Peter’s, and darker, quieter, more sombre. A young monk, clad in the brown habit of the Franciscans, stood outside, talking earnestly to a lady. Inside, an older colleague knelt in prayer. The quiet dimness of the Franziskanerkirche, I thought, was conducive to prayer.

The Salzburg Dom, built originally in 774 AD but destroyed and rebuilt many times since, is the third of the three main churches. Decorated with frescoes and stucco work, the church proudly acknowledges that this is where Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was baptised 250 years ago.

And that pride is well-deserved–Mozart, after all, is Salzburg. The music he composed is played all across the city. His smiling face is emblazoned on the gold foil on chocolates; his distinctive signature scrawled below. The souvenir shops sell tiny handmade replicas of violins, small enough to fit in your fist. Liqueurs named after Mozart’s sister Nannerl (an accomplished musician in her own right) are on sale. And everyday, there’s a patient crowd of music-lovers waiting for the Mozart Museum in the Mozart Geburtshaus to open at 9.

The Mozart Geburtshaus, where Wolfgang was born in 1756, blends the classicism of Mozart’s age with more modern styles. Wooden floored rooms, stark and austere, hold displays of the composer’s possessions: a silk wallet, a violin he owned as a child; an alabaster tobacco case. There are locks of his hair and sheets of music written in his own hand. The walls of one room are chocolate in colour, with Mozart’s biography scrawled all across in large sloping white letters. And there is the room that portrays Mozart’s Salzburg: an upside-down depiction, three-dimensional and mesmerising. A model of the city hangs from the ceiling, the spires and domes reaching down towards a dark floor studded with star-like lights.

Yes, the Mozart Geburtshaus is a tribute to Mozart; but it’s also a tribute to Salzburg. And a well-deserved tribute at that, to a gentle, soothing city that’s easy to like, hard to forget.

(First published in Lounge, May 2007)

Pondicherry has a strangely surreal feel to it.

It’s not as if India is short of places with a colonial past. Just about every hill station in the country, from Nainital to Ooty, has its clutch of old stone churches, its Mall Road and its little shops selling jams and marmalades. Many also have old cottages with fireplaces, shady verandahs and spooky stories of Raj-era ghosts. That, however, is where it invariably ends. The colonial past is just that: the past.

Pondicherry is a different kettle of fish altogether, somewhere between a hearty bouillabaisse and a spicy, coconut-scented meen kuzhambu. The town divides neatly up into the Tamil quarter and the French quarter: the latter so Gallic, it’s an unashamedly antipodean version of a sun-drenched seaside town somewhere in southern France. And the French air of Pondicherry isn’t restricted to a few old colonial churches–although there are plenty of those–or some shops selling French wines. No; it all goes much deeper than that.

Our first morning in Pondicherry, we wake to a breakfast of strong coffee, buttery brioches and mouthwatering croissants. The stewards have soft accents and roll their rs much better than I ever managed in three years of studying French. And the Pondicherry map we’re graciously given by the manager is a deluge of French names: Rue Dumas, Rue Mahe de Labourdonnais, Rue de la Marine, Rue Suffren, even a memorable Orleanpet.

A day’s wandering through the streets of the French Quarter, and we experience a distinct sense of déjà vu. The pale yellow and ochre houses, with their white trim and wrought iron window grills, look familiar. The Cluny Embroidery Centre on Rue Romain Rolland has a façade that curves delicately above a wooden gate with an antique knocker. The street names, stenciled in neat white letters on deep blue rectangles of metal, are nailed precisely at eye level at each street corner.

Surely we’ve seen all of this before?–in Paris, perhaps. The quiet streets, the bicycles outside the houses, the flowering trees along the pavements: all of it is straight out of the Mediterranean.

But we turn a corner, and suddenly we aren’t sure any more. Goubert Market, which sounds deliciously Gallic on the map, turns out to be firmly Tamil in flavour. It’s a covered market teeming with people who sell everything from fish and dried shrimp to coconuts, huge bunches of bananas, and vegetables that we don’t even attempt to identify.

Outside Goubert Market, a policeman is busy directing traffic. And unlike other police constables all across India, he’s not wearing a beret or a Gandhi topi. His uniform cap is a kepi, bright red and with a black peak. The last time I saw a policeman wearing a kepi, he was a Parisian gendarme.

Opposite the French consulate on Rue de la Marine, a coconut seller plies a brisk trade, handing out tender green coconuts to thirsty people like us. Further along, on Rue Dumas, a rickshaw-puller, bright calico lungi tucked up about his knees, sits on his haunches eating his lunch. His rickshaw, standing on the narrow lane beside him, is like any other you’d see in this country: shiny red seat, spindle-thin wheels, and vividly painted flowers on the aluminium backrest. Among the flowers, like on thousands of other rickshaws all across India, are painted the names of those whom the rickshaw-puller holds dear. His daughters, perhaps, since they are all female names. And what names: Bernadette is one I still remember.

In a city where rickshaw-pullers are related to women called Bernadette, we’re not really surprised when we notice an old family photograph at the hotel where we’re staying. The Hotel de L’Orient was once a villa owned by the Sinnas, a family of merchants. Opposite the hotel’s reception counter is a quaint black and white photograph of the family, dating from the early 1900’s. It’s a classic photograph: women draped in demure saris, moustachioed men wearing huge turbans. Very Indian–until we notice the names written below. There’s an Edouard here, a Thérèse there, other names straight out of 19th century France.

This completely unexpected mix of India and France is what really makes Pondicherry so appealing. The churches, for instance (and Pondicherry has many of them, all with mile-long French names) are a lively hybrid of architectural styles. The Eglise de Sacre Couer de Jesus, a somewhat startlingly vivid combination of white, deep green and scarlet, contains stained glass windows depicting much-loved French saints, Joan of Arc included. The terracotta tiles framing each window, however, are straight out of a south Indian brick kiln–and the Madonna near the altar wears a sari.

The Eglise de Notre Dame des Anges, a replica of the cathedral at Lourdes, is not quite so obvious a mélange of East and West. The pale lemon and peach exterior hides a sober interior covered in off-white plaster, worked into elegant floral patterns. The same plaster is used in the framed depictions of the Stations of the Cross, a series hung all around the church–and labelled only in French. The church, we learn, is more commonly known to the local Tamils as Kaps Kovil: the Church of the Capuchins, since the Capuchin monks were the original builders of this church.

A minute’s walk from Kaps Kovil, and we reach the seafront, a stretch of grey sand and black rocks. A circular white building labelled Douane (the French word for Customs) dominates the promenade, the Indian tricolour fluttering jauntily above it. Alongside is a low white lighthouse, and a short distance further, at the corner of Rue Mahe de Labourdonnais, is the World War I Memorial. Stark white columns flank the poignant life-size figure of a soldier, clad in a greatcoat and leaning on his rifle. The words above–Aux combattants des Indes Françaises morts pour la patrie, 1914-1918–are only in French. No English.

Which is perhaps the most telling statement there can be about Pondicherry. Unabashedly French, though with more than a hint of native colour.

Enticing? Absolument.

(First published in Lounge, November 2007)