National Geographic Traveller India February 2019

F E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 9 • ` 1 5 0 • VO L . 7 I S S U E 8 • N AT G E O T R AV E L L E R . I N

California On the Mind

L’AMOUR, LONG-DISTANCE ODE TO RISHIKESH HYMN FOR THE HIMALAYAS FRIDA FOREVER

THAT

Lovin’ FEELING T R AV E L A S A L I F E T I M E

AFFAI R

N AT I O N A L G E O G R A P H I C T R AV E L L E R I N D I A

february2019 VOL. 7 ISSUE 8

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VOICES 16 THE TIME TRAVELLER’S LIFE Younger years of sketchy sightseeing pave way for the charms of slow travel 18 CREW CUT Travelling with friends is often a recipe for disaster—or is it?

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THE ITINERARY 20 A ROYAL GAME OF CARDS Tracing the ancient card game of Ganjifa, now preserved in Sawantwadi in Maharashtra 24 72 HOURS OF IRISH COUNTRYSIDE

Scenic hiking trails, whiskey tours and a twist on the classic Irish pub in Killarney 30 TRACING SRINAGAR’S CHEQUERED PAST

Shrines with papier mâché work, and glinting naqashi on wood walls: A walk through the old city and centuries past 34 BAVARIA: STORIES SPUN IN GLASS

Driving through the Crystal Route, one dazzling creation at a time 40 MAKE TIME FOR MANIPUR Float across Loktak Lake, trace battle scars, or spot the sangai 46 THE GRAND DOME OF BELGRADE

Almost a century in the making, Saint Sava Church is a true masterpiece

THIERRY GRUN/AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA PHOTO STORY

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Regulars 14 Editorial | 120 Travel Quiz 50 FRENCH FOOD WITH INDIAN ACCENTS

Cari, cabri massale, and samoussas: Reunion Island’s Indian migrants rustle up hearty flavours of heritage 53 FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD

A farm stay in Vapi beckons city slickers for a nature-inspired getaway

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The ADDRESS 56 THE OTHER DUBAI Two Zabeel House hotels open up a new side of the emirate—one with a relaxed, chic style and a neighbourhood stuck in time 60 VACATION FOR THE SOUL Near Delhi, a wellness centre becomes a healing weekend escape

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THE DESTINATION 64 FINDING FRIDA Half a century after her death, Mexican artist Frida Kahlo continues to be a pop culture phenomenon. A writer obsessed goes to Mexico City in search of the woman behind the icon 74 IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE They were separated by 3,000 miles and stubborn about making it work.

Can travel redeem a long-distance relationship?

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82 THE HIMALAYAS: A LIFELONG LOVE AFFAIR

The mountain range takes a Kumaoni woman to the extremes of India’s northeast, Nepal, and Bhutan, and leads her home 90 IT’S NOT LONELY AT THE TOP A writer returns to the ancient pilgrim town 12 times in 12 years, seeking a safe place amid its hanging bridges, hills and hermits

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The Journey 96 EUROPE’S SECRET VILLAGES Discover 23 surprising hamlets that are shrouded in mystery, steeped in history, and blissfully off the beaten path 106 CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’ Aquamarine coasts and olive farms, nested cliffs and pier carnivals—a drive through California’s Highway 1 summons visions in your rearview mirror 112 THE CRUMBS LEAD TO COPENHAGEN

If the global food scene is a flighty fairy tale, you’d want to follow the crumbs to Copenhagen. It has no witch—just fresh wonders for your plate ON THE COVER There’s nothing stationary about love: be it the endorphinsponsored early stages or the warmth of silver hair affection.

THAT Lovin’ FEELING Fitting then, that it should lend its motion to the other great life experience of travel. Whether you love labouring your way up the Himalayas—in an open relationship with its many peaks—or have literally run into your partner in the din of a Vietnamese market, we give you stories that inhabit the curious venn diagram of travel and romance.

Photographer CasarsaGuru captures the sensation as a couple finds their way through an old European village.

F E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 9 • ` 1 5 0 • VO L . 7 I S S U E 8 • N AT G E O T R AV E L L E R . I N

California On the Mind

L’AMOUR, LONG-DISTANCE ODE TO RISHIKESH

HYMN FOR THE HIMALAYAS FRIDA FOREVER

T R AV E L A S A L I F E T I M E

AFFAI R

MAYDAYS/MOMENT/GETTY IMAGES (PEOPLE) CASARSAGURU/E+/GETTY IMAGES (COVER),

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EDITORIAL LAKSHMI SANKARAN

HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE?

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to be; there is no other existence. Climate change, marriages, deaths, protests and politics might have to take a backseat. I am reminded of a wanderlust-happy couple that discovered chinks in their relationship during a road trip through Russia. The woman, upset and distraught, offered a solution: cut the trip short to come back home and rekindle their chemistry. The man, however, wouldn’t give up Siberia, despite a chance at a do-over. Please don’t go getting any ideas about breaking hearts but for some travellers, marital bliss too has its limits.

In finding stories about travel as a lifetime affair, we looked for longevity. We chose accounts of love, which tempered by the prospect of actually living, may have assumed a subdued tenor. But it only took a remembrance or flicker to fan the ardour all over again. One budding artist writes of her admiration for Frida Kahlo, and a Fridainspired pilgrimage to Mexico. One of our own staffers takes a mental journey back to the cities and countries that have bookmarked her blossoming long-distance affection while a mountaineer outlines why the solitude of the Himalayas will never fail to captivate her.

Falling in love with travel is much like falling in love with a song. You wear it out until it makes you sick. But you have to be foolish and always full of song.

FRANCESCO CARTA FOTOGRAFO/MOMENT/GETTY IMAGES

FALLING IN LOVE WITH TRAVEL IS LIKE FALLING FOR A SONG. YOU WEAR IT OUT TILL YOU ARE SICK. BUT YOU HAVE TO BE FOOLISH AND ALWAYS FULL OF SONG

f there is a phrase I would prefer to retire from online bios, personal or professional, it is, “I love travel.” Or some approximation of that sentiment. To clarify, I am not against travellers or those who proudly flaunt their passion for travel. On the contrary, editing a travel magazine has now made me oddly protective of travellers and their ilk. My submission is that “love to travel,” suggested so casually, just doesn’t feel adequate to the depth of emotion it sparks in true devotees.

In February, the month of love as endowed by our great gifting industrial complex, we are wrestling with what “love for travel” means in tangible, life-affecting terms. The early throes of discovering travel might not be too dissimilar to the beginnings of a feverish affair. A fleeting scene, sound or feeling that at first arouses, then enchants and eventually, lures us into a hypnotic state, evoking woollyeyed reveries about what could be.

This world, however, is not the most conducive for long-term passion, the kind that demands unflinching sustenance in the midst of distractions from a thousand notifications. Passion has many rivals to contend with. And in flippantly announcing travel as our first love, we are not fully considering the influence our other paramours (work, relationships or money) exert on us.

Travellers for life are compulsive. They have

OUR MISSION National Geographic Traveller India is about immersive travel and authentic storytelling, inspiring readers to create their own journeys and return with amazing stories. Our distinctive yellow rectangle is a window into a world of unparalleled discovery.

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​Write to me at natgeoeditor@ack-media.com or Editor, National Geographic Traveller India, 7th Floor, AFL House, Lok Bharti Complex, Marol Maroshi Road, Andheri East, Mumbai- 400059.

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA | FEBRUARY 2019

THE ITINERARY MAHARASHTRA

A ROYAL GAME OF CARDS TRACING THE ANCIENT CARD GAME OF GANJIFA, NOW PAINSTAKINGLY PRESERVED IN SAWANTWADI, MAHARASHTRA TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY HOSHNER REPORTER

The Indian Ganjifa set contains 120 cards based on the Dashavatara, the ten avatars of Vishnu.

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s it like rummy?” I ask, trying to make sense of the beautiful cards spread out before me—mythological figures painted in vivid colours with floral and geometric motifs. “Ganjifa is never played with money,” Rajmata rebukes, “the cards have the face of god, and you never gamble with god.”

It’s a balmy February morning and I am with Satwashila Devi Bhonsle, erstwhile queen of Maharashtra’s princely state of Sawantwadi, a twohour drive from Dabolim. We sit in the courtyard of her impressive, 18thcentury red brick palace. A stately octogenarian, Rajmata, as everyone calls her, is inducting me into an ancient card game. Ganjifa arrived in India over 500 years ago and was popular amongst the rajas before cheaper playing cards from Europe arrived towards the end of the British Raj. Despite having all but disappeared

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from the public imagination, traces of Ganjifa still survive in small pockets in Odisha, West Bengal, Andhra, and Mysore, where dedicated communities of artisans strive to keep the cardmaking craft alive. Here in Sawantwadi, a small town set around a man-made lake in the foothills of the Sindhudurg range, under the patient and determined patronage of Rajmata Bhosle, Ganjifa is slowly emerging from obscurity.

“By the 1970s there was just one Ganjifa artist left in Sawantwadi who made one set a year which he sold for 30 rupees,” she tells me. “At the time no one was interested in learning how to make the cards; it is a long and painstaking process with no demand. Most of the traditional artisans had either moved to cities like Bombay or abandoned cardmaking for more lucrative options.”

The royal family decided to employ and train traditional artists to give

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Ganjifa a new lease of life. “It took a while to convince them, to understand and introduce the traditional painting styles, but we now have five artists who produce Sawantwadi Ganjifa cards for us, and get orders from all around the world,” Rajmata says proudly.

The exact origins of Ganjifa are hazy, but the earliest versions of the game can be traced back to the late 14th century around modern-day Syria and Egypt.

Travellers’ accounts speak of Ganjifa’s popularity in Persia, not only among aristocratic classes, but also players in street cafés.

Ganjifa travelled to the subcontinent with the Mughals, the first detailed account of it showing up in the 16th-century Ain-i-Akbari, where it is referred to as a popular pastime alongside polo, pigeon-flying and dice.

The Mughal version of Ganjifa was a 96-card game with eight suits, each

THE ITINERARY IRELAND

72 HOURS OF IRISH COUNTRY CHARM SCENIC HIKING TRAILS, WHISKEY TOURS AND A TWIST ON THE CLASSIC IRISH PUB IN KILLARNEY

BY SARVESH TALREJA

DAY 1 SETTLE IN, SHOP, AND STROLL

9 A.M. GOBBLE A GOURMET BREAKFAST

The Irish are proud of their produce for a reason. In Killarney, this is evident in the quality of ingredients used by Der O’ Sullivan, a family-owned bakery and deli. Pick from treats like Irish soda bread, Atlantic seafood pie, or an assortment of quiches and traditional potato cakes stuffed with cheese. The handmade bread selection here is free from salt, sugar, and yeast.

Der O’ Sullivan is on the town’s main street. Along with a nourishing meal, it allows visitors to get a glimpse 24

of the town milling about its life.

Outdoor seating, regardless of weather, is highly recommended. (12 Main Street; 9 a.m.-5.30 p.m.; meal for two €12-18/`973-1,460.)

12 P.M. HIGH-STREET AMBLING

It would be unwise to not wrap yourself in the high-quality wool on offer in Killarney, with prices lower than Dublin. Stop at Aran Sweater Market, which stocks locally made versions of everything you may need.

The styles of clothing and accessories here are charming

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and traditional. In particular, pick up colourful scarves weaved from merino wool, often reflecting the Irish country with shades of green, blue, and orange.

Drop into a cosy local pub like the Caragh Restaurant & Bar for lunch to sample the lamb shank or shepherd’s pie, assorted local seafood, or boxty, a potato-based Irish pancake with a stuffing of your choice. The restaurant also has a dedicated vegetarian menu, a rarity in these parts. (Aran Sweater Market, College Square; 9 a.m.-6 p.m.; Caragh Restaurant & Bar, 106 New St.; noon-8 p.m.;

ADAM MACHOWIAK/SHUTTERSTOCK (CASTLE), ENRICOBARINGUARISE/SHUTTERSTOCK (BOTTLE)

The grounds once part of the 15th-century Ross Castle now form the Killarney National Park; At the Irish Whiskey Experience you can sample local varieties such as Kilbeggan (bottom).

THE ITINERARY JAMMU AND KASHMIR

TRACING SRINAGAR’S CHEQUERED PAST SHRINES WITH PAPIER MÂCHÉ AND GLINTING NAQASHI ON WOOD WALLS: A WALK THROUGH THE OLD CITY AND CENTURIES PAST BY BARSALI BHATTACHARYYA

The present-day structure of Jamia Masjid dates back to the 17th century. Its grand gates open into the busy shop-lined lanes of Nowhatta.

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BLAINE HARRINGTON/AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA PHOTO LIBRARY

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ipping on some kahwa to start off an elaborate iftar meal in his drawing room in Srinagar, Ferooz Ganai looks surprised when I enquire about visiting the old city the next day. A long-term acquaintance of my family, Ferooz uncle had helped us plan a week-long trip to Kashmir. Now, I wanted to see the architectural heritage of old Srinagar. His surprise isn’t unjustified—Kashmir is better known for its peaks, meadows and cerulean rivers than for its old mosques and wooden houses.

The old city is often the site of political turmoil: it’s the Kashmir telecast live on news channels and usually avoided by tourists. I wait as Ferooz uncle makes calls to ensure no protests or strikes are likely on the day—news in Kashmir travels by word of mouth. Once he is satisfied (he’ll make more calls in the morning), we plan for the next day, taking inspiration from heritage walks suggested in an INTACH guidebook by theatre director Feisal Alkazi.

In the morning, we delve deep into the heart of this 500-year-old city. In old Srinagar, wooden houses stand in clusters, armed personnel are more frequently spotted and graffiti becomes increasingly bold.

Bilaal, who is driving us, expertly navigates the narrow lanes of Nowhatta to the Jamia Masjid, the city’s oldest.

When I ask if he frequents this part of the city, he shakes his head. Last week stone-pelters had damaged his car.

However, there is no cause for concern today, he adds reassuringly.

Jamia is grand yet monastic.

Outside, shopkeepers gear up for the day. Inside, silence fills the vast prayer hall, lined with deodar wood columns.

Built by Sultan Sikandar, father of Zain-ul-Abidin, probably Kashmir’s most famous sultan, the 14th-century mosque was damaged by fire before being rebuilt by Aurangzeb in the 17th century. The grand exterior leads to a picturesque inner courtyard lined with

THE ITINERARY MANIPUR

MAKE TIME FOR MANIPUR FLOATING ACROSS LOKTAK LAKE, TRACING BATTLE SCARS, OR SPOTTING THE SANGAI—HERE’S HOW YOU CAN UNRAVEL THE NORTHEASTERN STATE BY SHIVANI KAGTI

Local folklore says that the 247-square-kilometre Loktak Lake was home to a mythical horned python called Poubi Lai.

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a sumo wrestler springs for a quick smoke break before heading out. The week-long state-run Sangai festival, held towards the end of the year, is underway, and a number of cultural as well as sporting events have been organised as part of the fest.

Incidentally, Manipur is believed to be the birthplace of polo in India, a sport of the kings. Soon, one realises that underneath its unassuming exterior, Manipur is a place of mystery, age-old traditions, pristine natural beauty and eclectic food.

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DRAGON GODS AND BATTLE SCARS The well-maintained Kangla Fort in the heart of the city allows one to step into Manipur’s past—a good place to start your journey. Kangla functioned as the ancient capital of Manipur from where kings of the Ningthouja dynasty ruled over this eastern state from A.D. 33 until the 19th century. It is a spot of historical significance today, as well as a religious site for locals.

Since my travel companions and I are weighed down by an excellent

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he first thing most people would notice about Imphal, Manipur’s capital city, is that it seems to be overrun with shabby, worn down buildings, traffic and dusty streets. And the city often becomes the mirror for the state. But if you have flown over the picturesque Loktak Lake, you’d know there’s more to this sleepy state than meets the eye. And there’s more to the city as well.

At the hotel that our group of six is staying, for instance, international polo players crowd the lobby, while

THE ADDRESS

THE OTHER DUBAI

OLEG_P/SHUTTERSTOCK

TWO ZABEEL HOUSE HOTELS OPEN UP A NEW SIDE OF THE EMIRATE—ONE WITH A RELAXED, CHIC STYLE AND A NEIGHBOURHOOD STUCK IN TIME

BY RUMELA BASU

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The glass-and-chrome Zabeel House is one of the many new swanky facades you can see in the neighbourhood of Al Seef (facing page), which is like a bridge between the new and old parts of Dubai.

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PHOTO COURTESY: ZABEEL HOUSE BY JUMEIRAH

U.A.E.

JERÓNIMO ALBA/AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA XXXXXXXXXXXX (XXXXXXXXX) PHOTO LIBRARY (FRIDA KAHLO), SEAN GALLUP/GETTY IMAGES ENTERTAINMENT/GETTY IMAGES (PAINTING), PETER DAVIES/ALAMY/INDIAPICTURE (DOLLS), JEFF GREENBERG/AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA PHOTO LIBRARY (BLUE WALL), DAVID CROSSLAND/ALAMY/INDIAPICTURE (SKELETON SCULPTURE), SCHNITZLER/AGENCJA FOTOGRAFICZNA CARO/ALAMY/INDIAPICTURE (MAGNETS), ANTON_IVANOV/SHUTTERSTOCK (PAINTS)

THE DESTINATION

You’ll find many Fridas in Mexico City—in the stories you overhear on streets or taquerias, at eclectic art exhibitions, in kitschy markets on tote bags and fridge magnets, but you’ll see her most honest and vulnerable self at Casa Azul, her blue house in Coyoacán.

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MEXICO

Finding

Frida Half a century after her

death, Mexican artist Frida

Kahlo continues to be a pop

culture phenomenon. A writer obsessed goes to Mexico

City, to the home Frida lived

and died in, in search of the woman behind the icon

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By Radhika Raj

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Three years ago,

I chalked out a simple itinerary for a work trip to Mexico City— two days of meetings, two weeks of fervently finding Frida.

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Like all loves, I don’t remember what it was about the Mexican artist that bewitched me 12 years ago; whether it was the intensity of her gaze as she looked back from self-portraits, with monkeys, parakeets, macaws on her bosom. Or the bold pigments that lay her most private moments bare: a metal rod cutting through her spine, her miscarriage, the hurricane that was her relationship with her husband, muralist Diego Rivera. Through Frida, that 20-year-old me was shaken and consumed by a world that could only be expressed with disarming vulnerability and a shocking colour palette.

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ince her death in 1954, Frida has exploded all over the pop culture scene—she’s a feminist icon, queer artist, surrealist, a Halloween costume, a Barbie, Snapchat filter, and very recently, an emoji. Before my trip, I sit at odd hours, manically reading article after article—enchanted as ever by her provocativeness, her defiant unibrow, but mostly, consumed by her story of grief and grit. I speed-read her first biography written in 1983—how she contracted polio when she was six, how she met with an accident so deadly at 18 that 22 surgeries could not fix her damaged spine; her tumultuous Among the displays within Casa Azul, or Frida Kahlo Museum (top left), you will see the artist’s life laid bare—traditional Tehuana dresses that she designed and wore (top right), clay pottery she cooked in (bottom left), and the bed she breathed her last in (bottom right).

E ROJAS/SHUTTERSTOCK (BLUE HOUSE), VECTORCARROT/SHUTTTERSTOCK (SKULLS)

THE DESTINATION

JEFF GREENBERG/AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA PHOTO LIBRARY (CLOTHES), ANTON_IVANOV/SHUTTERSTOCK (KITCHEN), JERÓNIMO ALBA/ AGEFOTOSTOCK/DINODIA PHOTO LIBRARY (BED)

MEXICO

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THE DESTINATION

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WORLD

In the Mood for

L ove

ANDREI MAYATNIK/SHUTTERSTOCK (BOOK), ART STOCKER/SHUTTERSTOCK (COLOUR PAPER) SANTY KAMAL/SHUTTERSTOCK (FOOD ILLUSTRATION)

They were separated by

3,000 miles, and intent on making it work. Can travel redeem a long-distance relationship?

By Kareena Gianani

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THE DESTINATION

Georgetown, Malaysia

he landed in Georgetown after crossing the Strait of Malacca and a sea of doubt. The afternoon had emptied out the streets. Colonial shophouses had pulled their Venetian blinds down for a nap. It was his idea to meet in Penang, to walk under paper lanterns, perhaps share a bowl of laksa on a formica-topped table by the road. She agreed because they hadn’t seen each other in two years, and playing friends had run its course. Over the phone, he promised to see her outside their hotel on Love Lane.

She heard him smile at the pun.

She was dragging her suitcase down the road when she saw him, and was glad she had something to do with her hands. He looked taller than she remembered, but his crooked-teeth smile hadn’t changed. He came in for a hug; she missed it, met him sideways and ended up poking his midriff with her umbrella.

They lived 5,000 kilometres apart, in different time zones, and their first words were about the weather.

Later on that balmy evening, he chose his moment at Lebuh Chulia street, after the antique stores and rattan furniture shops had shut for the day and grannies had emerged with meats and spices to set up food stalls. She’d always remember his question to the background score of a sizzling wok, his face shining in the light of an overhead lamp, just as the flavour of wan tan mee was flooding her mouth. His first words wobbled like the noodles on her spoon. She smiled, slowly biting into the barbecued pork, and before her face went hot with pickled green chilli, she said yes. Yes. They knew that distance would define their intimacy for quite 76

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a few years; love would be in the air, but only if a Wi-Fi connection allowed it. Hugs and hair-ruffles would have to wait three months, sometimes five. We’ll travel, he suggested. ‘New date, new country,’ was his tagline. We’ll sicken airport attendants around the world with our kiss-goodbyes, she grinned.

It worked—for five heady days. They traced down each of Georgetown’s famous 60 steel-rod sculptures—one on each street. They became their treasure maps, their personal guides to the cultural quirks of the region’s Chinese, Tamil, and Malay communities. When the light changed at day’s end, he and she would return to their favourites: that one with the trishaw puller on Soo Hong Lane, the city’s narrowest alley at five feet; or at Canon Street, named after a canon shot fired there during the 1867 Penang Riots. They went to mosques at the wistful call of the muezzin, and teased out promises from each other by lighting incense sticks in Chinese temples.

As the trip’s end loomed close, they clasped their hands tighter, but their silences spawned shapes, like monsters of the night.

How many long-distance relationships had they seen succeed? Who’d move where and when? And why move countries when you could swipe right and left? They’d hurt each other before, hadn’t they? (Yes. Warred and wounded.) Questions piled up faster than answers. They walked past a wall mural of a little boy and girl riding a bicycle gleefully, and watched an old couple click photos beside it. He and she did what all lovers do; they projected their hopes and fears on them, grudged them for having it easy and not knowing it.

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Chapter 1

SHORT STORY

Galle, Sri Lanka

he night they flew into Sri Lanka, a storm shook their airplanes and the sea swallowed fishermen whole.

The room she had lovingly picked in the town of Galle was beaten black-and-blue: part of the roof gone, wet floor, broken shower, the fourposter creaking. He was happy because he could still see the ocean. She wasn’t, because for months they’d been communicating with aids of offence, defence, and mind-reading. And now they couldn’t even agree about demanding a refund and moving.

If long distance sparked love, it also left old resentments simmering on the flame far too long. He was a Ph.D. student, and one trip was all it took to wipe out much of this hardearned savings—trips she took months to commit to, given her work schedule. Her own anxieties were crippling: a future where their careers and lives could meaningfully fit in the same city looked improbable. He hid his fears behind cheery emoticons over text. She blamed the Internet connection and avoided Skype calls if she felt her mask slipping.

They’d imagine landing in new cities, and their old selves moulting. They’d dance in candlelit bistros, climb mountains and kiss in seas. Yet always, with beauty came barbs. In the hill town of Ella, minutes after they’d trekked a peak with a kindly stranger and seven faithful dogs, holding hands in the rain, it happened again. A slant of the eye at the talk of money, a tone imagined when an old lover came up. Skeletons, secrets, scabs and grudges spilled out fast and fierce.

When they began the train ride they had dreamt about for months—the one between Ella and Kandy, believed to be one of the best in the world—their silence rattled around in the compartment. Outside, mist hugged tea plantations that glinted like jade shards, and valleys opened up like newly spun dreams. He and she didn’t hold hands when the mighty nine-arched bridge came into view; neither did they wave at children skipping stones across ponds. Instead, she pointed out he was taking up way too much room and threatened to leave as soon as the train stopped. He asked her to take her stinking shoes as she went. In a few hours, wise old men and women squeezed in beside them, and ribbed him about their future dreams in rapid Tamil. They were married, he said with a shrug, what more could there be. She didn’t look at him the rest of the way.

Months went by, and they admitted that they were both teetering on the verge of giving up. Would she come over to his city, just this once, he suggested. A hometown might salve their battered spirits with some routine and normalcy.

He imagined revisiting his old school with her, and even rehearsed a conversation they could have in that corner with the hanging origami cranes. She flew down, but found him oddly formal, while she craved easy intimacy. “It’s like you have to rewire to my presence,” she teared up on a boat ride. “It’s like starting from scratch every three months.”

He ached for a semblance of harmony, a slowness, to be able to tune in. She was exhausted with his walls and waiting, and needed solutions.

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Chapter 2

PHOTO COURTESY: ISIT CALIFORNIA/MASON TRINCA (AUTHOT), SUNSHINEVECTOR/SHUTTERSTOCK (ILLUSTRATION)

THE JOURNEY

a i n r o f i l ’ n a i C e am r D

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U.S.A.

Aquamarine coasts and olive farms, nested cliffs and pier carnivals—a drive through California’s Highway 1 summons visions in your rearview mirror

PHOTO BY CHRIS AXE/MOMENT/GETTY IMAGES (LANDSCAPE), THOMAS BETHGE/SHUTTERSTOCK (ICON)

By Sathya Saran

The route along California’s Highway 1 packs in breathtaking visuals of the Pacific from over the Bixby Bridge.

Facing Page: The author found herself well-prepared for a Porsche ride in her Biggles glasses and red leather cap.

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THE JOURNEY

It is a cool August morning in Monterey, and we are gathered around the WeatherTech Raceway Laguna Seca. An undulating drive past thick foliage has led me to a jazzy entourage of around 70 international journalists and writers, assembled to mark the reopening of the California’s Highway 1. Following a major landslide, the highway—which snakes past cliffs, farms and beach towns—has been thrown open after a good year and a half.

The highlight of my journey—scheduled along the celebrated Pacific-hugging highway—is going to be my vehicle. My adrenaline, already roofing, explodes at the sight of the 1969 Porsche, redresplendent in the distance, under the coastal sun.

Around me, conversations bubble in alien languages, often aided by a smattering of English.

Amid the hustle of pillions trying to find their driving escorts, I find mine. I walk up to Gary Michael Swauger, whose grey hair and kindly eyes are somehow a reassuring sight. Making our way past vintage footboards and leather seats, Gary and I approach our own gleaming grande dame. Soon, we’re ready to roll.

The cars are flagged off one by one, helmed by the senior-most of the divas, a majestic Courvette from the 1920s. We take a ceremonial ride through the track, which on race days must feel the scorch of hot tires, churning drivers’ stomachs as they take a speeding, 60-foot drop at a turn tellingly called the ‘corkscrew.’ But unlike race cars, we move with a stately elegance, just slow enough to let the beauty of the coastline and the hissing waters below seep into our consciousness. Whales and dolphins live in these waters, but we have no chance sightings. Every once in a while, swathes of mist descend to block the view—with the top down, it turns into a sensory experience. I take photographs of the crashing sea, the cliffs and the 86-year-old Bixby Creek Bridge. By the time we reach Big Sur, the first of our three stops, I’m dressed for the decadence in Biggles glasses and a 108

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A breather at Big Sur merits a Blytonesque picnic of cold meat and fruit drink, tastier for the salty open air

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The rides, all 84 of them, look ready to put their best bonnet forward—shining facades, bright colours, each one raring to go.

U.S.A.

red leather cap that my 58-year-old ‘road friend’ has pulled out of the glove compartment.

The two-hour breather at Big Sur crams in a Blytonesque picnic—cold meats and salads, fruit drinks and finger food that taste better for the salty open air. Luxuriating against sweeping visions of the sea, now rolling and stretching in angry balls of cyan, I am amused by the attention owners lavish on the older cars. As they cool down under shady oak and alder trees, radiators are checked, tyres examined, and notes exchanged over their maintenance. Only prudent, seeing that they have a long way to go before we reach the day’s final destination—Morro Bay. Chatting with Gary, I learn how being a full-time architect didn’t stop him from putting together the Porsche, one replaced part at a time, after he bought it in a rusty, run-down condition 30 years ago. We zip past Hearst Castle, stopping at the Hearst Beach to soak in the scenery. After that it’s just 32 kilometres to the Morro Beach, where the ride will end in a party. I persuade Gary to trust me at the wheel, even though I’ve never driven on the right side of the road. A few shaky moments later, I drive slowly along. My style is impeded by the fact that the seat will not slide forward and the foot pedals are a long stretch away. The old-fashioned brake needs a hard push—I attract eyeballs when I lean back at a weird 45-degree angle to reach it.

Gary is patient, and urges me to try some speed.

When I do, we finally purr along—the Porsche is pleased.

At Morro Bay, a feast awaits. Fried calamari and fish fingers, pastries and artisanal ice cream lull me happy, and like the fussy car owners, I pat the Porsche. Now that I’ve seen her colt-like spirit, she no longer looks her age. Later, Gary offers to drive me back to my hotel along the bay. Now free of the convoy, we coast along at 86 kmph. Inspiring, I tell myself—one is only as old as one feels.

The next day kicks off with stand-up canoeing— for others. I’m determined not to stand up and canoe. I cannot swim and have no intention of drinking sea water until some kindly scribe stops laughing and helps me. So I instead take a walk along the beach, watch otters gambol in the water, and gaze at Morro Rock—a giant volcanic plug that hosts a flurry of birds. Sometimes mist from the sea erases it completely from sight.

I examine its crags and crevices, wondering if it can be climbed, but I’m told it’s out of bounds.

Kayaking (top right) is popular on the Santa Margarita Lake and at other stops along the central coast; Santa Barbara’s bright streets (bottom) lead the way to Funk Zone, a remodelled warehouse housing eclectic restaurants; The road trip acquired a retro charm with a fleet of vintage cars (top left).

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MICHAEL MIKE L. BAIRD FLICKR.BAIRDPHOTOS.COM/MOMENT/GETTY IMAGES (KAYAK), BY BILL PERRY/SHUTTERSTOCK (CITY) FACING PAGE: PHOTO COURTESY: VISIT CALIFORNIA/MASON TRINCA (CAR), MIDORIEX/SHUTTERSTOCK (BIRD)

A Rocky Romance

THE JOURNEY

The If the global food scene is a flighty fairy tale,

Crumbs you’d want to follow the crumbs to Copenhagen.

Lead to

just fresh wonders for your plate

Copenhagen

By Fabiola Monteiro 112

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PHOTO COURTESY: COLUMBUS LETH/COPENHAGEN MEDIA CENTER

It has no witch—

DENMARK

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Nyhavn Harbour, flanked by 17th-century townhouses and modern cafés, is a popular summer haunt; Smørrebrød (facing page), a Danish open sandwich, tickles the tongue with grilled sirloin, pickles and other toppings.

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THE JOURNEY

Michelin-star restaurant.

“Green peas, with last year’s ceps,” the menu reads. Peas are far from my favourite vegetable, but these are sweet and fresh, a testament to the region’s summer produce. The soup is topped with dainty magenta and blue cornflowers, and I’m surprised by how delicious it is. But at Copenhagen’s 108 restaurant, that’s not 114

SIMPLICITY SHINES At 108, a sibling to Noma, ingredients are foraged from woods outside the city or plucked from the kitchen garden

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA | FEBRUARY 2019

Noma 2.0 Copenhagen, the Danish capital, catapulted onto the world’s food map a little over a decade ago. In the early 2000s, there was a stirring in the Nordic culinary scene. Chefs came together to sign the New Nordic Manifesto, a 10-point list of rules that includes reflecting seasonality in meals, promoting Nordic ingredients, and being mindful about animal welfare.

One of these chefs was René Redzepi. Redzepi is the force behind Noma—the restaurant that topped the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list four times before shutting a few years ago, only to reopen in a new location earlier this year. Thanks to Noma, a spotlight shone on Copenhagen’s burgeoning gastronomic milieu.

Today, the city’s food offerings promote the principles championed by the New Nordic Manifesto. Street-side stand Den Økologiske Pølsemand serves up hot dogs that are 100 per cent organic. In the neighbourhood of Nørrebro, Bæst crafts organic pizzas (said to be some of the best in the world) with handmade mozzarella. Andersen and Maillard, a coffee roastery, turns their excess steamed milk into creamy coffee ice cream. Even the 7-Eleven convenience stores, a common fixture on street corners, stock quality ready-to-eat meals, paleo desserts and gourmet chocolate bars. There’s a great appreciation for good food, even if it’s a basic hot dog or a quick ice cream, and it’s infectious.

Perhaps this isn’t entirely a new thing—the Nordic tradition of being connected with nature goes back centuries. These values find place at restaurants like 108 (dubbed Noma’s sibling; also from Redzepi), where simplicity shines. Ingredients are foraged from woods outside the city or plucked from the kitchen garden. Noma 2.0 designs its menu around seasons and the availability of ingredients.

Through the winter months of January to April, Scandinavian seafood takes centre stage; come warmer weather, the menu turns green; and when the forest season (when foraged ingredients and meat take centre stage) rolls around, mushrooms and meats take over.

Currants and Consonants A couple of days after my meal at 108, I get a crash course in Danish food from Maria Beisheim, who runs Copenhagen Food Tours. Maria, who studied archeology and has a specialisation in nutrition in the ancient world, regales me with tales of “deep-fried fat sandwiches.” “My grandmother would cook rye bread with deep-fried fat—it tastes better than it sounds,” she explains. I cringe at the thought of full-fat lard slathered over anything, but can imagine how fortifying it’d be in the dead of winter, when temperatures hover around the 0°C mark.

It’s mid-July now, positively scorching—there’s a heat

PHOTO COURTESY: THOMAS DEGNER/COPENHAGEN MEDIA CENTER FACING PAGE: PHOTO COURTESY: MARTIN HEIBERG/COPENHAGEN MEDIA CENTER (GARDEN), PHOTO COURTESY: BÜRO JANTZEN/COPENHAGEN MEDIA CENTER (CAFÉ)

Of all the things, I’m having a pea-andmushroom soup at a

the only surprising thing. For a fine-dining restaurant, 108’s vibe isn’t ostentatious. There are exposed brick walls and wooden tables with no tablecloth. No need to dress-up to dine well either—laid-back jeans and t-shirts, summery cotton dresses, anything goes.

DENMARK

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Moments of hygge unravel, walking down the romantic Tivoli Gardens (top) or in the city’s buzzing eateries (bottom). Facing Page: The dishes at Copenhagen’s 108 bear the lushness but not the affectations of a high-ranked restaurant.

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