8 Countries in 5 hours

On Saturday, May 9th 2009, embassies of the European Union in Washington DC opened their doors for the public. I was looking forward to the day and was planning to visit as many of them as I possibly could. A could not accompany me and the thought of walking around on Mass Ave by myself on a hot muggy day wasn't quite appealing. Thankfully, E and E joined me and saved the day for me.
The entire experience was a lot more fun and rewarding than I had anticipated - the art work and furniture in the residence of the Dutch ambassador, the exquisite wood panelled walls of the embassy of Luxembourg, a walk in the manicured gardens of the British Embassy, learning more about Slovenia and Latvia while sampling their baked goods etc. However, the two highlights of the entire tour were the visit to the Italian embassy and the embassy of Portugal.

At the Italian embassy, I had randomly picked up a tourism brochure of the region of Veneto and was browsing through the many photos of the landmarks of that region, when E pointed to a picture of a beautiful sun-soaked piazza of a small Italian town, Marostica and said that she and E got married right there. Now for someone who comes from a nondescript plains of Central India, this is a whole different level of cool. I do not know of anyone else who can claim being married at a place featured in a tourism brochure. Bellissimo!!
The second highlight was the visit to the embassy of Portugal. After waiting for about an hour in the line outside the embassy in the hot Sun, we were let inside and while we were whispering under our breath that this better be worth the wait and the sunburns, the usher informed us that the Ambassador himself will be addressing us. We were escorted inside his office and he spoke to us for a good 20 minutes, patiently explaining us the glorious history of Portugal (mostly the sea explorations), his functions as the Ambassador and the relations of Portugal with the United States. He was gracious, witty and patient in answering our questions - even after a lady from our group almost offended him by asking if the Dutch colonized Portugal! Later on, he stopped me and had a one on one conversation about his friendship with the previous Indian Ambassador to the US and his fondness towards the Indian culture. The Port wine we sampled after that brief rendezvous tasted sweeter than it actually was.
If you ever find yourself in DC in the month of May, watch out for the events calendar for this once in a year opportunity. Not only will you be glad you did it, but you can boast that you visited a handful of countries in a span of hours - we did 8 in 5 hours. Anyone keeping records?

Dwarka-Somnath - Part 2

Apologies for the delay in the second part. No excuses, was just being lazy. Part 1 can be viewed here.

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I woke up at 9 AM with bright sunlight pouring inside the coupe despite the tinted glass windows. Everyone else in the coupe was awake and busy in many morning activities – drinking the sugary sweet chai, reading newspapers, eating breakfast etc. I peeled myself from the berth when the train was about to reach Rajkot. Most of the passengers were deboarding at this station (to attend ‘Pinkoo the Deekra’s’ birthday gala I suppose). I got down from the train at the platform in Rajkot, a sudden wave of heat engulfed me and flushed any remnants of sleep from my system. The platform was buzzing with the usual chaos found at any major Indian train station. I treated myself with chai and fresh dosa while absorbing the surroundings. After about 30 minutes of leaving Rajkot, the landscape changed drastically. I believe this is when we entered Saurashtra. There was hardly any vegetation, flat expanses of land dotted with thorny shrubs spread all the way to the horizon. Holding a cup of chai I decided to stand by the door of the coach. Watching the landscape with the wind on your face from a 130kmph speeding train is an experience that is not to be missed on Indian trains. The many farms with their neatly marked boundaries, the hamlets, the nehars (irrigation canals), the huge transmission towers arranged in a straight line, women washing clothes on river banks while their children wave frantically at the speeding train, bullock carts and tractors waiting at railway crossings – all glimpses of the real India.

Just when I was romanticizing the lives of these people who you see for a few seconds from the train, I saw what seemed like a cluster of hundreds of tall black poles at a distance. As the train moved closer, it revealed itself to be a massive construction site of a large upcoming factory. The tall poles were nothing but massive cranes. A few hundred yards from this site, I saw a vast expanse of what appeared to be man-made ponds which contained a type of liquid (I want to say water, but am not entirely sure what it was) which was an unnerving shade of pink. Was it industrial waste? Was it a secret experiment site of the Government? There was no way to know. Anyway, these sights made me get back to my seat and pull the curtain on the window pane and got back to reading Friedman’s “Hot, Flat and Crowded”. Coincidence, aye!

A little later, the landscape changed to flat grassy lands dotted with many windmills. Seeing the implementation of alternative energy generation in this remote corner of the country was an unexpected sight. From here onwards, the windmills pretty much became a standard part of the scenery.
Somewhere after having lunch I slept again only to wake up when the train reached Dwarka at 3 PM. We got down at the small station and walked out to fetch a ride to the hotel we were staying at. The outside temperature was somewhere near the boiling point of water. A wind was blowing sand in my ears and eyes and every other exposed orifice of my body. A horde of rickshaw-wallahs, tongawallahs were ready to sell their services to us. “Jai Dwarkadheesh” was written on pretty much everything that one could write upon – walls, backs of rickshaws, little flaps with tassles on the rickshaw wheels, the many saffron flags fluttering from the sideview mirrors – yes we had arrived.

After checking into the hotel and a much needed cold shower, we headed towards the Dwarkadheesh temple in the town. It was about 5:30 PM in the evening and the heat was more manageable. A balmy sea breeze was blowing in the air and I was ready for the temple experience. As we got closer to the temple, we could see the cone shaped tower from a distance with a mighty saffron flag fluttering at its top. We entered and checked in our shoes, cameras, backpacks etc. at the entrance. We had to go through a metal detector to enter the temple – a necessary evil as a result of living under the constant shadows of terrorism. Anyway, once inside that temple door, a sensory experience much too familiar yet unique to any large Hindu temple begins – the sounds of many bare feet slapping on the smooth stone floor, the combined smell of - flowers, milk, yoghurt, coconuts, vermillion, incense sticks and burning camphor fills up your nostrils, constant clanging of the temple bells titillate your ear drums and the cold feel of the stone floor punctuated with little pinpricks of rice on your bare feet.

While we were soaking up the atmosphere, I was astonished at the amount of money people spend in the name of God/religion. I saw a board with a list of people and their donations – it ranged from a hundred rupees to some with a few million (these funds could have been put to use to build some better roads or providing water to the townfolks – water is a pricey commodity in this part of the country). Then there were the religious hawks, waiting for their prey - the temple priests who pounce on an ever streaming flow of devotees with offers of helping them with the darshan or with some kind of a puja ritual. I could feel the bile rise in my belly and before it spewed out of my mouth, I shifted my attention to the ornately carved stone walls of the temple.

The temple is truly a beautiful edifice, carved out of limestone and sandstone with a five storey tower. A massive flag is hoisted on top of this tower. The flag is changed four times a day marking each “pehar” of the day. You can sponsor the flag changing for some obscene amount of money and if you have any such plans, you will have to wait at least 16 months before your turn.

There weren’t a lot of devotees at that time of the evening. The prayer call was at 7 PM and it was only about 6:15 PM. My parents wanted to attend the prayer ceremony, while I was impatient to explore the streets of the town. So I stepped out of the temple and walked into one of the narrow lanes in front of the temple. It was dusk and there was a cool breeze blowing bringing with a faint salty smell of the sea. The lane was narrow, just wide enough to fit a Maruti 800 and an average adult side by side. There were shops selling religious artifacts – idols of Krishna made from various materials, puja malas, religious books and other paraphernalia. One interesting fact I noted that none of the shops were selling the ubiquitous flute which is pretty much a part of any Krishna image I know of. Curiousity got the better of me, and I questioned a shopkeeper about this missing “basoori”. The response was equally interesting – Krishna left Dwarka with his flute to a nearby forest called “Darookavan” where he eventually died as a result of a misdirected arrow of a hunter. Since Krishna took his flute with him on the day he died, the flute is not sold, displayed or played in Dwarka. This is exactly why we as a people are an interesting species. Who else would come up with such quirky rules and practices?

There were tourists all over these narrow lanes exploring the shops and haggling with the shop-keepers. One lane split open into two and then those in two other, it was a magical maze buzzing with activity. I tried to imagine the real Dwarka from the ancient times. It is said that Krishna had the city built on land reclaimed from the sea. The city was supposed to be a well planned township and was a home to a huge affluent community. The Hindu texts and scriptures describe an incident when the sea water rose and engulfed the entire city (Tsumani?). The Dwarka that stands today is not the one that is described in these stories.

After wandering around in the narrow streets of the town, I met up with my parents outside the temple and we promptly set out in search of food. On the recommendation of our hotel manager we found ourselves at a restaurant named Bajrang Dining Hall. Gujarat is renowned for its simple, delicious vegetarian cuisine. This place offered unlimited food for a fixed price – the Thali dining experience. The restaurant interiors were simple: benches and chairs lined in rows like a classroom with ceiling fans and fluorescent lamps. Busboys scurried around wiping the tables, and setting up stainless steel plates with about 7 mini stainless steel bowls for the next set of customers. Saying that the food was delicious is an understatement. There were no complex flavors or exquisite tastes, it was a fare rooted deeply with the local region – vegetables, lentils, rice, yoghurt all grown or harvested in the surrounding region. It was an immensely satisfying meal bookended with a glass of cold fresh chaas (buttermilk). We meandered through the streets back to our hotel room.

Tomorrow, we would venture to Bet Dwarka - a small island regarded as a portion of the real Dwarka and then drive down South, hugging the Gujarat coastline, about 300 kilometers to the holy city of Somnath. While we were planning on the stops along the way to Somnath, my thoughts kept going back to the flute story.

Dwarka-Somnath: Part 1

In my recent trip to India I visited the coastal region of the Western Indian State of Gujarat. The primary reason of the trip was to take my parents to the religious sites of Dwarka and Somnath. Before I proceed with the travelogue, I will have to confess my religious beliefs to you all - I am a non-believer when it comes to any religion. If one has to put me in a conceptual religious bucket, yes I am a Hindu by the only coincidence that I was born to a Hindu set of parents. Do I identify myself with being a Hindu? NO. The primary reason probably is because religion was pretty much shoved down my throat (just like most of us who grew up in the middle class Indian families). Anytime when I asked the validity of the religious rituals that I was being asked to perform they were met with the same answer – “Because you should”. A seed of disdain was sown and watered by the continuous “you must” attitude by the religious folks around me. It was intensely frustrating that I should spend my valuable childhood fun-time doing unfathomable archaic pujas and other rituals. All my rebellions were squashed with alarming alacrity by all the adults around me. As far as I can remember many of the family trips we took were centered on a religious site. In most cases I was dragged along by force rather than by choice. So while some of my friends took trips to such exotic sites as Mount Abu, Goa and Kashmir I was visiting another temple in some nondescript village. Guess what - the seed that was sown above, started to get rich nutrients to sprout into a healthy sapling.

As I grew older, this sapling thrived into a gigantic, strong tree. During my teenage and college years my rebellion took the shape of complete non-participation as I preferred watching pimples form on my face and then dry out, than join my God-smitten family to these temples. Now that the hormones of youth have stopped messing with my brain I regret not going on these trips - not because I have accepted the religious part of it – but because I could have visited these places and kept myself away from the “religious” aspect of it and could have explored the town/city/village. So this time when opportunity knocked, I opened the “let me be an explorer” door of my mind and dove right in. Before I go any further I would like to warn my religiously inclined readers that some of my comments might offend you and your beliefs.
Day 1 - Bombay Central Station
In order to get to Dwarka from Bombay (MNS be damned – Mumbai just doesn’t do to me what Bombay does), we boarded the Saurashtra Mail from the Bombay Central station. Train stations in India open a floodgate of sensations which cause your mind and body to react in ways that are beyond your control. The Bombay Central station was lit up for the ongoing Durga festival. There was a local band setting up a mini-stage for some kind of a performance scheduled for later that night. People from all walks of life were scurrying around in all possible directions. A unique smell that can be felt only on large train stations crowded my nostrils as I was looking for the platform number of our train. We boarded the ‘Mail’ and settled in our assigned seats. The term ‘Mail’ for a train is a leftover legacy from the Colonial years. The English introduced the rail system to India (for which I am much thankful). Back in the days, certain trains were designated to carry postal mail across the length and breadth of the country. These trains were named as mails for obvious reasons. (Incidentally, the mail has its named carved in Hindi film music history via the chartbusting hit song of 1942 Toofan Mail sung by Kanan Devi.).

Once aboard the train, my father got in his element of what fathers of my generation do – check if the seats are really our own, adjust and readjust the luggage such that it is not easily visible to thieves, lock the luggage using long windy shiny steel chains with miniature padlocks which can be opened by a simple hairclip (these chains are then looped through many hooks and joints - it’s a sight to see him retrieve his bag out of that tangle when it’s time to deboard), ensure that we have enough water to last through the journey and the list goes on. It was a good refresher for me since I had not travelled with him in ages now. Anyway, the train got on its way and people started filling up the rest of the seats at Dadar and Borivali. Pleasantries were exchanged, utterly useless information was passed amongst all parties in the coupe, such as – “I will be getting down in Rajkot since my sister-in-law lives there. Its’ her son’s Pinku’s first birthday you see. Bahut shaana deekra che.” Needless to say, I was completely enjoying myself. This was an experience that I had completely taken for granted 12 years ago when train travel was quite regular for me. Today, it was immensely entertaining and on some level comforting. Comforting to see that at the core we are all still the same – still eager to share our lives with complete strangers, still sociable, still so naïve that we don’t know that some of this information could be used maliciously against us. I have yet to see a people who are as naïve and simple as the middle class Indians. I bow to you all. We found out about everyone’s sons and daughters and in laws, and schools and jobs.

Amusing as all of this was, hunger beckoned, it was 9 PM and nobody showed any signs of getting ready for dinner. My mother understood my restlessness (aren’t mothers just great – it’s like there is an unattached umbilical cord between a mother and her offspring) and unpacked the food that she had brought with her. The rest of the folks in the coupe took the inspiration and opened their respective food packets. A thought crossed my mind – these folks just boarded the train from Borivali at 8:00 PM, they could have had their dinner prior to getting on board – why go through the hassle of packing and unpacking and eating in the train? But then I answered my own question – right from the primitive Stone Age human beings, our race has been a fan of communal eating. So, puris, aloo bhajis, parathas, dhoklas, laddoos exchanged many hands and collectively ended up in many bellies. It was an immensely satisfying meal. Believe it or not I was mildly intoxicated by the tasty food touched by many unwashed hands, the rhythmic motion and sounds of the train and the collective odor of food and people. I had not slept for the last 48 hours at a stretch and I was about to crash. I set my berth, spread a clean white sheet, placed the pillow and wrapped myself in the blanket provided by Lalu’s people and slept like a 2 year old.

MIA for a while

Will be travelling to the some of the Westernmost parts of the country in the state of Gujarat. Will be visiting the holy city of Dwarka first - really looking forward to visiting the remnants of the city mentioned in the Hindu mythology. Will proceed to Somnath from there. This temple has been ravaged multiple times by many Muslim rulers/invaders. The current structure was created under the supervision of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. Detail travelogue and pictures to follow in a couple of weeks.

Happiness

I am currently in India on an official + personal trip. I am spending my first week in Mumbai at our office in Powai. I have been here for about 4 days now and there was something I noticed consistently - I look around me and I see smiling people everywhere - the young recruits in my office, the office boys, the cab drivers, the construction workers on the roadside, the mall crowd, the hotel waiters, the kids at the night school (ran in the parking lot of our office by some of the employees), the annoyingly chirpy teenagers flowing in and out of the numerous Pujo and Dandiya pandals strewn across the city, the security guards (you see them a lot in Mumbai - A LOT), the bus drivers etc. All this, despite the horrendous traffic jams, the constant communal tension and violence, the bomb-blasts, the hot and humid weather, the exhaust of a million vehicles, the power-cuts, the drinking water and food shortage, the floods of the monsoon, the plummeting sensex, the rising inflation, awful television shows, Himesh Reshamiya.....the list is endless. I keep poking myself to ensure that I am not dreaming or hallucinating.

I was washing my face to get rid of the grime that I collected from my recent rickshaw trip to a nearby restaurant and while I was shocked at the blackness of the water draining through the sink, I looked up in the mirror and saw a perma-smile plastered on my wet clean face. I guess, it's hard not to get infected by this undercurrent of joy you see on a million faces in this city.

Disclaimer: This is not meant to be a comparison of a Happiness quotient between two nations, neither is it denying the fact that there are probably a lot more unhappy faces around me. It's an observation and not an analysis.

Bachpan ke din

In early 2007, while in India, I visited Sewagram, a small village near Nagpur. This place is famous for an Ashram of Mahatma Gandhi. It was a hot April afternoon and there were not many visitors at the Ashram. I had the whole premises to myself. It's a very peaceful, simple and a quiet place. Regardless of what your opinions are about Gandhi, it's quite a humbling experience to see the lifestyle of this man who shook the mighty English empire.

Anyway, as I was browsing through Ba Kuti (Kasturba Gandhi's hut), I came across a bunch of little kids who were also spending the afternoon at the Ashram. They were from a nearby school and their teacher had left them on their own in the Ashram for a little while. I started chatting with them and they were quite intrigued by the camera hanging around my neck. I happened to capture some photos using my less than amateurish photographic skills. I feel that their expressions conveyed a lack of any judgment, opinion and bias. Their smiling faces are simple and pure. If you look at pictures of adults, you can see a hint (sometimes more than a hint) of the corruption from our experiences while growing up. Adulthood robs all of us from this "simplicity". I guess this is what is called "The loss of innocence".

Travel Idiots

“Travel Idiots” is a term I use for those who constantly whine/complain when visiting different destinations. To me, travel is experiencing a different place, a place that is unlike where you are from, a chance to soak up the food, sights, sounds and the little unpleasantness that comes packaged with unfamiliar surroundings. However, if I am traveling with people who are constantly whining about why the place is so different, I scream inside me – “WHY IN THE FIRST F’ing PLACE DID YOU LEAVE YOUR SAD LITTLE SACK TO COME ALL THE WAY TO ROME AND COMPLAIN ABOUT NOT FINDING TACO BELL OR NOT UNDERSTANDING THE SUBWAY SYSTEM?”

People have fears of all sorts of things - monsters, darkness, rapists, serial-killers, earthquakes, heart-disease, fire etc., what I fear the most is being stuck with these Travel Idiots on one of my travels. And when I say travel, I don’t mean that I have to be in an exotic destination, it could be the town in the next state 100 miles from where I live or it could be the North Pole. This creed of whiners will complain about everything:
Parking whiners:
- They are visiting New York City or any other big city and complain that parking is hard to find or is expensive. My answer to them “Did you not know this beforehand? If you did, why did you not leave your gas guzzling butt ugly mini-van in your fancy suburban house, or if you intend to bring it because of your lazy ass babies then be ready to shell out a hundred bucks for parking or go around blocks a thousand times looking for a spot on the street.”
Public transportation whiners:
- They are visiting San Francisco and complain that the pubic transport system is hard to follow, “It’s so much easier and intuitive in New York City, this is just old fashioned and plain retarded”. To them I say “Can you get to Fisherman’s wharf from where you are standing in your Subway from New York City? So you are stuck with this for now, so while you sit there and criticize to your heart’s content, I am hopping on this slow and rickety cable car, buh-bye!”
Weather whiners:
- They are visiting Rome in July and are whining about the heat and humidity, I say to them “of all the beauty that is around you, of all the centuries of history residing next to each other or on top of each other, of all the sensual pleasures the city has to offer, you are complaining about the heat? You deserve to be butchered in the Coliseum at the hands of a Gladiator”
Food whiners:
- They are visting Asheville or Austin (or some such place that prides itself in allowing only local restaurants to run businesses within its city limits), and are craving for Applebee’s or Pizza Hut and will go to the world’s end in looking for one (yes, there is this group of folks who actually consider Applebee’s as a gold standard in dining experience. More power to them). To them I say – “you should have never left your strip-mall heaven Suburbia, United States”.
Language whiners:
- They are visiting Switzerland and complain that they cannot follow directions or restaurant menus – “Is it French? Is it German? How do I know what I am ordering?” To them I say “why come all the way to this Alpine heaven and then want the menus and the food to sound and taste the same as wherever you came from?”

The list goes on and on, you get my drift.

To me the very essence of traveling is experiencing a different place and everything that comes with it – the good, the bad, the ugly; opening myself up to the idea that it will be different; it will not be like whatever I am used to. It could be dirty, it could be clean, I could have a horrendous lunch or a great dinner, you enjoy it regardless – you say “well that was something new…hmmm didn’t know artichokes could be made to taste like feet”. You get lost on a random street 20 blocks away from the museum you wanted to be at, you say “ohh well, let me check this neighborhood out now that I am here”. You see that the only restaurant in the village is serving whatever they cooked that day, you say “let me try this, I am not going to be in rural Greece again, am I?” You want to sleep so bad after a day of exploring Rio, and you come across a street festival on your way to your hotel and decide to stop by and end up spending the night reveling with the locals. Whatever it is, remember you will not be at that place again ever (in most cases)!! You have plenty of time to sleep when you die, I say. For now, travel and wherever you go - be a sponge, soak it up and bring it back with you, it will enrich you in more ways than you can imagine.

Tony chooses Danya

Danya Alhamrani's video of Saudi Arabia won the fan-atic special. Congratulations Danya. I am sure this episode of No Reservations will give a completely different perspective of Arabia.
Danya's Video can be seen here:

Rebel With a Cause

This is how I will roll this Spring and Summer!

Take us with you Tony

This is our pitch for the "No Reservations" Fan-atic contest. The winner will be declared in April 2008. Until then wait and watch.

Third World Optimism

The other day I was watching one of my few addictions on TV - Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations". The episode was "Argentina". For those of you who do not know Tony's style of travel and food shows, he is not your typical travel show host. His style is more - in your face and borderline rude. He usually visits the parts of cities and countries which will not even make a mention in the regular travel books and shows. So here in Argentina he was strolling in the slums of Buenos Aires and describing the decrepit conditions people live in that neigborhood. To me, it did not look any different from a slum in India. Then Tony made a very beautiful statement:

"And there it is the essential symbol of the third world optimism". The camera panned to the top of a single story cement house and there were those steel rods poking out of the pillars from the rooftops. I could not find an exact picture but here's one to give you an idea what I mean. You can see these in countless houses and buildings in India too.

Tony continued "What I mean is that the owner of the house is saying that - No sir, I am not done yet, I am going to build one more floor up there when the time is right. "

I had never looked at these ugly steel rods poking out of roof tops in that way. Perspective, aye!

Ground Zero

I was in the Financial District of New York City this week. The hotel was right opposite Ground Zero. Here are some shots from the window of the room I stayed in at the Millenium Hilton. Construction continued through the night and it got really noisy. The hotel offers ear-buds on request. The area seems uncannily small for the twin towers to fit in.

Amtrakking

Of all the modes of transports, travelling by trains is my favorite. There is something very appealing about the trains and everything else that comes with travelling by trains - the rhythmic sound, the slow cradelling motion, the ballet of the train tracks when they merge and separete, the views that you see only while travelling by trains. So when it came about that I have to go see a friend in New York, I opted to ride the train instead of driving into the city and thus I found myself on an Amtrak train from Harrisburg to NYC on a cold November morning. I have been travelling by the highly inefficient-overpriced-rarely-on-time Amtrak trains for about 6 years now. I board the train, each time expecting that Amtrak has probably kept pace with the changing times and eliminated the inefficiencies and inconveniences, only to be disappointed and disheartened.

The train announcements remain as mythical and incomprehensible as possible - "Next station is Mchiklakibloeville, doors open on bzzzzzzzz, train will achsghteeeeriin, please be mindful of the gap between the train and the platform. Next station Cghshhhhhiiitotatlerburg".
I make it a point to scan the reaction of the fellow travellers in my coach. Some of them are nonchalant (these are the frequent travellers, they know their stops by now and don't mind the Gaelic announcements). For the uninitiated ones, this announcement sends them in a momentary state of panic and they feverishly start rummaging through their bags/purses to look at the ticket stub or their copy of the "Amtrak in-train announcements for dummies" thinking that there probably lies the answer to the riddle of that message that was just air-waved to them. I cannot help but compare this with my recent experiences of travelling in trains in Switzerland. The names of the towns in the German side of the country are those typical names where they have as few vowels as possible and take a lot to getting used to (Sample these: Lauterbrunnen, Zweiletschunnen, Gruschtalp) , but believe it or not, I was able to clearly understand what the lady in the train was saying when she announced the name of the next station.

Next pet peeve - the sheer number of the ticket checkers. How many ticket checkers does it need for a train ride of three hours and a train with six coaches? I must have noticed at least four distinct homo-sapiens dressed in the Amtrak uniform in my train. None of these protectors of the Amtrak dignity ever carry a single electronic gadget to validate the tickets or to issue a ticket to someone who did the unthinkable of boarding the train thinking that they can buy the ticket on the train. (I must note here that a dehati rail minister in a third world country is soon introducing an electronic hand held ticket validating and issuing machine to its employees.) These four ticket checkers have a very stressful job of taking your ticket, punching two holes in the ticket with their antiquated punching machine, disassociating the stub meant for you from this ticket and returning the stub back to you. Just when you think - "YOU NEED FOUR PEOPLE TO DO THIS?", they make it interesting. At this time, the ticket checker unravels a thin, long green paper stub which has some numbers arranged in the form of a mathematical matrix. This is where all the skills they acquired from the "Amtrak Institute of the Art of Ticket Checking" are applied. He carefully punches more holes in this piece of paper on precisely calculated numbers that he arrived based on some complex mathematical logic. He then slips this piece of paper in a narrow slit on the luggage holder on top of your seat. This green piece of paper (the color of the paper might change depending on what train and which route you are taking - they are not kidding with this stuff - no sir they are not!) indicates what station you boarded and where you will disembark. You are henceforth tied to your seat until your final destination. Try changing the seat in the middle of your journey and don't move the green paper with you. The next time the ticket checker shows up and there is no green paper on top of the seat you are warming, you are in big trouble my friend! You have just yanked Amtrak's chain the wrong way! You have dared to insult the careful research that went into creating this ingenious green-paper-with-punched-numbers system.
You don't believe me -try doing it the next time you ride the Amtrak - just to spice up the routine of watching the dull and boring suburban vistas through the musty windows.

All these ineffeciencies are passed down to the poor traveller in the form of the "put a hole in your pocket" ticket prices. However, the optimist in me is hopeful that someday there will be a mellifluous voice announcing my destination "The next station is Zweiletschunnenville. Thank you for riding Amtrak and have a pleasant day", someday I will not have to worry about the green paper and can nap peacefully or change my seat (just to see the sad malls and the suburban sprawl of the other side). Until that day, this is where I disembark. Happy and safe travels for the holidays.