Com ci, com ca

Yeh duniya

The other day I found myself thinking about the different types of travellers.I was unpacking my bag on my return from a week long trip to the west coast. A mere drop in the ocean of laundry that had to be run on our return.

There’s 2 types of travellers I could think of, off the top of my head. The first who have an itinerary for each trip. And the other who view a holiday destination as just another location to do the shit they would do at home.

One of the more entertaining trips I have been on saw me travelling with members of both sects. One contingent spent the whole day in a resort pool while another not so gently told us that we had 134 minutes to see all of the Vatican.

I’m probably somewhere in the middle myself.

I know I chafed at the idea of having to do the Vatican in 134 minutes. 

What the fuck is that? 2 loads of laundry?

 I also have responded puritanically to moments when I realized I was in the company of people whose idea of a holiday  just to stay indoors and get bombed in a villa the entire time they were in Goa. 

I remember feeling second hand suffocation as I sat in the dimly lit hall, filled with smoke. I could feel the hot day slipping away outdoors as I tried to make an exit.

I know if I had stayed longer than an hour I would have found myself in existential territory. 

Heavy thoughts. Thoughts heavy enough to warrant being narrated by someone. Someone with a Marlboro tinged accent like it was a US commercial from 1963.

What is travel anyway? What is its purpose? Why does a person travel?

A change in scenery perhaps. Living in a land locked city made the 20 hour bus journey to Goa worth it. Even though the name Paulo still gives me an involuntary back spasm. 

Or to meet new people. 

I will never forget that girl from Quebec that we shared a 4 room dorm with. It was in the Lake District in the UK. Besides her, it was me, my brother and sister in law. After a long day of hiking and drinking gin in the sun, we shut the lights off early.

After 20 minutes of hearing a snore that sounded like a truck engine showing off, I heard Apoo hiss to Kau to stop it so everyone could sleep for him to whisper

“It’s not me!”

I realize of course, there are people who have no interest in any of these. The ones most likely to think of travel as something that culminates at a mall next to their house. 

The lack of interest is just a symptom. The underlying malaise is a feeling of deep conviction that the world and its inhabitants outside of a 5 km radius are not worthy of attention. 

If you had to put a face to this, it would be Amrish Puri from the mid 90s. Think of him in DDLJ or Pardes. Technically in both of these movies, he was like that token uncle in every rich Indian family, an NRI Bhakt.

But his energy matches the insufferable people I’ve met who never leave a place. From Mylapore to Malabar hill. Who have the same attitude.

Yeh duniya ek dulhan - dulhan ke maate ki bindiya

This person is not one for travel. Because the essence of travel on some level is to be curious. And this is not a strong suit for the Amrish puris of the world.

Not that this extends to travellers that they encounter either. Imagine a frog in the well who also has social anxiety. I can’t hazard a guess on how many people there are like this. I’ve been blessed to only encounter this on rare occasions.

Like that bar in rural Czech Republic. Where the sight of my brother and I walking in, with beards to boot made everyone stop in their tracks and stare at us. 

Or that ruin bar in Budapest. Maliha and I took more time to get the bartender’s interest than it takes a drunk person to complete a captcha code. In case that seems innocuous, we were 2 of the 6 patrons there.

Living in Canada has spoilt us to some extent. And it’s because Canada, especially the further you get away from Toronto, prides itself on being polite. Not always friendly, but always polite.

As my friend jokes about the time his parents lived in Manitoba, you were likely to get a “Have a good weekend” after you got mugged.

Which is why Quebec is such a shock. Despite being in Canada (for now), polite is not the first thing that comes to mind. If you have never visited, imagine having to interact with Trump supporters who sound like Emannuel Macron. 

At this point us visiting has become an annual ritual. And yet each time, there’s a feeling of being unwelcome.

The language barrier is the first challenge. The struggle for English speakers is obvious. However, it is also an issue with French speakers. As I witnessed with my father in law, who lived in Paris for many years. Quebecois and French seem to have the same relationship as one would expect between a dosa made in Madhya Pradesh and Malleswaram.

But there’s also a feeling that there’s some sense of superiority to the rest of the country. Maybe it’s because the superciliousness is a faint throwback to what I’ve witnessed in Tamil Nadu

But in Tamil Nadu, I never had to ask myself if there was also some baggage of race. When someone at a grocery store counter asked Mali “where are you from” it did not give the same energy as “thambi ku yendha ooru”

I was thinking about it on our most recent trip when we were at dinner. It was a beautiful lodge on the banks of the river Saguenay. 

Our server was visibly exasperated and exclaimed “oh my god” when we asked if she could repeat what she said in English.

After spending 8 painful minutes ordering something that was vegetarian and with no dairy, we waited for the food. As we were served course by course, my mind wandered. I thought of how Quebec was what dragged me back to earth. And reminded me that I still live in a foreign country.

Toronto being an outlier because I can’t think of another place where a white teenager would say “move banchodh” so I didn’t get hit by his scooter.

As we got served the appetisers, I zoned back in. Our unfriendly server had warmed up to us as Amal had charmed her with her few words of French.

“Sill woo play”

After a main course, which was very good and a gin and tonic, my mood improved. The beauty of the surroundings and being on a family trip with the whole family after ages had an effect. I was feeling warmer feelings about my new home, Quebec included

Our server came back with dessert

“This is a local specialty. Maple pudding”

As I took a bite, the heat rushed to my face. This dessert had an uncanny resemblance to Gulab Jamun. I felt like that reviewer in Ratatouille at the end of the movie. Or Amrish Puri in a mustard field.

“YEH MERA QUEBECOIS”