Europe And The Single Woman

“ Un espresso, s’il vous plait,” I smile back. Eyes lock again over the demitasse cup. Did he actually linger by the table a moment longer than he should have? Was that brush of the fin-gers as he handed over l’addition deliberate? Is there something—a phone number maybe—scribbled behind that scrap of paper? Then, from somewhere within years of rig-orous middle-class conditioning, common sense kicks in—along with a hugely empower-ing sense of liberty. This is me, this is Paris, it’s summer and skimpy dresses time, who cares about the dudes, as long as they’re eye-candy and inoffensive?

To their credit, most are. Wise to the ways of Delhi roads, where solitary women translate into easy game, eye contact is strictly avoidable and one’s space a public thoroughfare, Paris surprises me. Even the huge immigrant pres-ence— largely fromformer colonies, from what I can make out, be it Vietnam or North Africa, with a generous sprinkling of Sri Lankans—seems to have imbibed the Parisian reserve. The only man who approaches me over three days of frantic Metro-hopping and synchronised sight-seeing is an elderly African in royal blue robes. He asks me the time in French—a question that puts immeasurable pressure on my two-semester education—and embarrasses me even further when he looks blankly at my watch. Which, as I said, is a hugely liberating expe-rience.

So, as I rush from museum to arcade, trying to pack in about seven centuries of high art, as many decades of luxe couture and as many meals as the tummy will take into three days, I feel no fear. The scariest thing I en-counter are the gargoyles of Notre Dame; but the snarling faces lose their ferocity when I learn that all they ever gushed out is rainwater. It’s an anonymity different from the one ex-perienced in FIFA World Cup-suffused Berlin, where every citizen seems to be in good-host mode. I expect English to be scarce and appre-hend major communication gaps since my German is non-existent, but even the corner gelato-man makes an effort to string together five comprehensible words.

“The Jewish Museum?” he asks, even as his eyes reveal some amount of skepticism at yet another ghoulish tourist. Then, as if to make up, he leaves his counter with its delicious ar-ray of fruit sorbets for the hot afternoon sun, takes me to the corner of the street and, as we wait for the jaunty all-green walker to show up in the Friedrichstrasse traffic lights, gives me explicit, if broken, directions to the museum. London, now, is a different story altogether.

If I thought this was going to be one place where language would be no issue, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Between North Lon-don, South London, East End, West End, North- ern England, Southern England, Welsh and Scottish—not to mention immigrants of every nationality, skin colour and race—there are as many accents as there are languages in India. Stopping between mad dashes at the July sales on Oxford Street to grab a Prêt-a-Manger sandwich, I stare stupidly at the check-out guy who says something completely incompre-hensible. It takes the nice little saree-draped aunty behind me in the queue—there’s always one when you need them—to translate from English to English.

From dealing with snooty salespersons in London to sussing out the loos in Germany, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. In Berlin, where public conveniences cost money, I learn early that there’s no better time to schedule a museum visit than towards the end of a touristy day. The soaring Jewish Museum, for instance, seamlessly merges design and dis-play, hosting centuries of the community’s his-tory in stunningly audacious architecture, but my bladder, I am afraid, is more thrilled at the sight of the unguarded washroom.

It’s the only cent-pinching concession I have to make through my whirlwind tour. Food can be cheap, if one doesn’t demand star-fare at every meal; travel is reasonable, espe-cially if one procures a carnet of Metro/Under-ground tickets in Paris and London and a three-day all-modes pass in Berlin. The muse-ums are expensive, yes, but what the heck! And that feeling of freedom? Priceless.

A FOOTLOOSER’S GUIDETOCUTLOOSE

If you’re a rocker in Berlin, do the U2 tour. Much of Achtung Babywas record-ed, or conceived, in Berlin, a city long at the edge of truly progressive rock.

The references are scattered through Achtung Babyand the subsequent Zooropa: the U2 underground route, Hansa Studio (where Achtungwas recorded), Zoologischer Garden (aka Zoo Station) on the U2 line and Siegessaule (the golden statue of victory Bono clambers over in Zooropa’s Stay). And, soaring above all this, One, the masterpiece that is said to be about the group’s coming together after a near-breakup but could as easily be about the reunification of Germany (the Wall had just been torn down).

Don’t say: “Xavier Naidoo? Indian!” If you’re a fashion snob in Paris, do pack your regular wardrobe, including kurtis, cropped pants, rolled-up jeans, tie-and-dye tops, block-printed skirts, jazzy Janpath jholas and metallic Kolhapuris. India’s still the last word in street fashion, and this summer is your best bet to wow the west with home-grown labels like Anokhi and FabIndia. Don’t say: “Mango? Indian!”

If you’re a gourmet in London, do experiment, at a very reasonable cost, with the African cuisines. Moroccan, Nigerian, Sudanese, Ethiopian… the flavours continue to be unusual and exciting to Indian palates overdosed on Italian food. Owned largely by African immigrants who find it difficult to find employment, the restaurants use famil-iar vegetables in unfamiliar ways and, well, unfamiliar meats in unfamiliar ways. Don’t say: “Saag, bhindi? Indian!”