Outtakes
Diary Entries
Everyone should carry a small notebook when they’re travelling. You should always have it on you and remember to stuff it in your pocket when you’re getting ready in the morning. (It is important to be diligent about this step.) This ensures that when you notice something funny or odd or pleasant, you feel prepared and vindicated. Aha! This was precisely why you ignored your wife’s eye rolls and packed three pens. Now you can jot down some notes while the scene is fresh.
But, of course, you don’t. Writing anything is much too inconvenient at the time. You are holding an umbrella and your bus is approaching. You will do it later, you think. And then, three days have passed and you are at the airport, sipping bad coffee and flipping through blanks pages and feeling terrible about it all. Next time, you swear to yourself, next time I will journal constantly.
It is a great habit, carrying a travel diary. It is the bit about never using it that leaves you feeling miserable.
Last week, I wrote about the dozen days we spent in Norway and Denmark. It was the ninth time I carried a pocket diary with me, and the ninth time I failed to record most of everything I saw. A few of the notes I did make coalesced into the essay you must’ve read. (What do you mean you haven’t read it? For shame! Go read it now.) Some of the other things I scribbled are documented below.
There is a woman in the check-in queue who is wearing a laundry basket. Upon closer inspection, the basket reveals itself to be a mesh-walled cat carrier. A cat sits inside. Every few minutes the woman leans forward and whispers to it, but the cat’s attitude is one of utter disdain. It is not even looking at her, as if it is sick of her face. (I am told this is standard feline behaviour.) The woman is accompanied by a younger man. A cat hangs off him too, though he does not speak to it with that wild-eyed look. Give him a few years, I guess.
The cats board the flight with us. I am worried they will prove to be nervous flyers and mewl through the night. They prove me wrong and behave admirably. Not a peep escapes them. That human baby though…
Our flight from Mumbai is delayed. It lands in Munich over an hour later than it was supposed to. This leaves us with little time to catch the connecting flight to Oslo. A Lufthansa employee speeds us through immigration. I have no doubt she represented Germany in the Olympic race walking event. She is ambling along, far ahead of us; we are sprinting behind, unable to keep up.
The Munich terminal is a bloody township. We arrived at Gate L. Gate K seems to be in a different pincode. We reach a security checkpoint and the guy manning it is having a bad day. Perhaps a bad year. His face is set into a scowl and he is snapping at everyone within a two-metre radius. I think I see him punch a few backpacks on the X-ray conveyor belt. I step into the full-body scanner, gingerly, avoiding eye contact. I am waved through with a grunt. Simran is not as fortunate. She gets a walloping for not standing at the designated spot. Can’t you see the signs, the man barks. I would have performed my husbandly duty and come to Simran’s defence, but he is quite a burly fellow.
Who made him a security officer, Simran grumbles after she’s escaped, with an attitude like that he should be a butcher.
Twenty minutes later, we reach Gate K4 just in time to see our flight backing away from the boarding dock. The ex-Olympian apologises, not a bead of sweat on her perfect brow. We stand hunched over, catching our breath.
At the Lufthansa Munich helpdesk they tell us we should fly to Frankfurt, and then catch a connection to Oslo. Our reward for this airport hopscotch will be the opportunity to sample an original frankfurter. (The frankfurter turns out to be average. I wouldn’t recommend you missing a flight to eat it.)
What the fuck is up with seagulls? Why are they such dickheads?
You cannot eat anything at the harbour without risking an attack from these goons. Their strategy, I soon realise, is to swoop low and intimidate you into dropping your food by flapping their massive wings near your face. Bastards.
At Oslo, we see one of the seagull mafia dons. This specimen has a rubber bracelet on one foot, probably because he served jail time and is out on parole. He has pilfered a slice of white bread and is pecking at it, strewing bits of food on the ground. He focuses on the centre and ignores the crust, spoilt brat that he is. Whenever another bird comes close, hoping to steal a bite, Don Gull launches a vicious attack. It is no contest, he outsizes all his rivals. A few minutes on, with less than a quarter of the slice left, Don Gull leaves. I suppose he’s had his fill. A few sparrows appear to peck at the crumbs. But the moment another seagull lands next to the tattered remains, Don Gull comes flying in, a comet hurtling towards land. His shrieking makes my skin crawl. And after he’s scared everyone off, he doesn’t even eat the bread. He returned solely to traumatise the other birds (and me). What a fucking bully.
I am all for transparency and openness, I am, but let us be reasonable: Is it necessary that while ordering a cheeseburger I should have to look at gigantic hunks of raw beef?
I cannot avoid seeing them, the carcasses occupy an entire wall. They hang from metal hooks larger than my fist, like meaty exclamation marks. Their size is startling — they seem as big as full-grown cows, which, of course, checks out. You have a nice place here, I want to tell the waiter, but have you given some thought to changing the decor? How about some curtains or something? It’s just that I prefer seeing my food in the cooked form.
Fortunately, we are able to find a table with a view of the street outside. It is an enjoyable meal — the ginger ale chilled, the burger excellent — as long as I remember to look straight ahead and forget what lies behind my back.
The hotdog stand we visit later has no food (grilled or l’original) on display, bless them. This allows me to eat a reindeer hotdog while having only a vague sense of what a reindeer looks like. (I know Santa employs them and that Rudolph has a red nose, but that is the limit of my knowledge.) It tastes like pork, in case you are wondering.
In 2007, a Danish crew sailed 1,000 nautical miles from Roskilde to Dublin on a scientific mission. The voyage was meant to replicate a similar journey the Vikings undertook a millennia ago. The expedition ship was a faithful recreation of a Viking vessel, and the crew used the same tools their forefathers would have relied on to survive the frigid North Sea.
Madcap adventures of this sort are a field of study known as ‘experimental archaeology’. Theory can only get us so far, the logic goes. It is only when we wade into the ocean with medieval equipment that we get a real taste of history. Experimental archaeology has its critics, but I am all for it. In fact, I am ready to offer myself up for experiments.
Didn’t a bunch of kings spend their days sleeping, being fed, and having their feet massaged? What was that experience truly like? Shouldn’t we pay someone to live in similar circumstances and compile empirical reports? I’d be happy to volunteer. Anything for science.
Videshi ice cream. Oh my god. Every scoop is a work of art.
What an honor, and a privilege, to be able to stuff our faces with it.
We are sitting outside a cafe in Copenhagen when a woman wheels a pram up to us. Excuse me, she says with a smile, would you mind keeping an eye on my baby while I go inside. I’ll be right back.
Lady, I want to respond, you want to leave your baby, your baby, in the care of two brown strangers, people you have never met and will likely never see after this brief interaction? Do you know, I consider adding, that folks who do know us, our friend and such, would never leave their kids alone with us? We could be maniacs, or serial killers! Who’s to know? You certainly don’t.
I don’t get to say any of this because she is already gone. Simran and I stare at the pram, not daring to blink. She returns in a couple of minutes, thanks us and walks away before we can warn her to never, ever, visit India with her child.
Haha loved reading this post!
you've cursed the most in this essay. nice to see that :D
very fun article.