The heartstrings of flamenco

The largest cluster of guitar makers in Spain live in Granada. Is there something special in the city that inspires music and its makers? 

For nearly 50 years, Antonio Marin Montero has been taking blocks of spruce and shaping them into the body of a woman. His description of a guitar, not mine. We’re in his tiny workshop in Granada in southern Spain, talking about his life’s work – how to make wood sing. Guitars in various stages of development – from foetus to rock star – are everywhere. Nylon strings, glues, tools, measuring tape are littered on his table. I can almost imagine a cigarette-sized pencil tucked behind his ear.

To look at Antonio or his studio, you really can’t tell he’s one of Spain’s most famous luthiers. There’s no signage or window display outside, no scurrying assistants inside. It’s just him and his nephew in a sea of sawdust. His face wears the untroubled kindness of septuagenarians (like the Dalai Lama). And even though his guitars sell for thousands of euros and there’s a waiting list of years (yes, everything in the plural), he doesn’t think twice about giving my Spanish translator and me the time of his day.

Tree rings of a guitar

In soft tones and animated gestures, he takes us through the process of turning a dead tree into live music. A single concert guitar is assembled with wood from four different continents – the Americas (Southern and Central), Northern Europe, and Africa. Spruce, cedar, Indian Rosewood, and mahogany are the most favoured while in flamenco guitars, it’s cypress sourced locally from Spain. With both, the method is similar. Wood that’s been dried for several years is cut into pieces, then shaped, and the mouth carved out. The bars of harmony are put in, the back fitted, and the varnish done. Crafted by hand, the whole process takes a month or two, and according to Antonio, about 15 years to master. But there’s also a trade secret. A good guitar maker should be able to hear wood and whether it has good sound, the way a composer can hear an unwritten melody.

If fellow guitar makers are to be believed, no one could hear that whisper of a rhythm better than another Antonio and Spaniard – a man commonly known as Torres.

Antonio Torres was so cunning at his craft he could create a guitar out of thick paper, if not thin air. Built in 1862, his papier-mâché model survives in Museu de la Música in Barcelona, and can still be played! Over a century ago, he was the one who perfected the symmetry of a guitar. His innovations such as domed soundboards and figure-of-eight plantillas influenced the make of most acoustic and classical guitars. And even today, an original Torres would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars – a fret-by-fret copy wouldn’t come cheap either.

Etched in wood

But apart from his models, guitar makers seem to have borrowed his muse as well. Torres started off in Granada, set up shop in Seville, and finally settled in Almería. He never worked outside of his homeland, his beloved Andalucía. Today there are nearly 35 guitar makers, perhaps the largest group in Spain, who work and live in Granada. I have to ask Antonio Marin, of all the historic and sun-soaked cities in Andalucía, why have they chosen this one? In an answer laced with affection and sweet pride, he says, “It could be the romance in the city.” (I agree. It isn’t easy to hold on to your heart in Granada.) But then he becomes serious, “Or maybe the humidity. It helps in keeping the wood stable.” So romance and heat is all you need to build a guitar. Maybe these creations are women after all.

Lament of the gypsies

We finally take his leave to experience the sorcery of flamenco from the people who feel its song in their soul – the musicians. If an electric guitar is a bold shriek, the flamenco guitar must surely be a deeply felt moan.

In a softly-lit pub called Le Chien Andalou, three guitarists are building up to a crescendo. One of them starts singing an impassioned tune – his voice going down like bourbon, when a dancer in swirling carmine and tough-as-nails heels joins them on stage. Her movements are filled with pain and despair and raw, naked fury. The whole room can sense the desire in the song, the lust in the beat. At that moment, as he croons and she turns and the guitars thrum, each of us can feel what it’s like to be abandoned by love. The chords of flamenco manage to tug at our heartstrings in the way only heartache can.

Published in Mumbai Mirror, April 21, 2013. 

Art of the matter – São Paulo

Love it. Hate it. Face it. Graffiti plays its part in making any city wonderful. This issue, we focus on São Paulo.

Graffiti is the mole on Marilyn Monroe. A city may be prettier without it, but also far less interesting. And São Paulo is nothing if not interesting. Exploring some of its neighbourhoods is like walking through a comic strip. Colours scream on the walls; characters frolic. Here, the best art isn’t found within a museum. Rather, a museum is founded around it.

The Open Air Museum of Urban Art was created with 68 pillars under three metro stations. Painted by different generations of artists, it’s a nod to all the grafiteiros who’ve given São Paulo so much of its character over the decades. The aesthetic changes from pillar to post and is a short master class in audacity.

For a longish session, head to the paint-soaked Batman Alley in Vila Madalena, whose concrete has been a canvas since the ’80s. With new artists constantly painting over old designs, the lane is never the same shade. And there’s so much psychedelia on the walls, it looks like someone gave crayons to a four-year-old. While in another part of the city, few artists actually did.

The Spanish collective Boa Mistura let kids pick up the brush when they set out to change perspectives in a favela. Vila Brasilândia has different words painted – Amor (Love), Orgulho (Pride), and so on – that can only be seen from a specific perspective. While talking to Time Out São Paulo, they said they wanted to show that “there may be chaos in favelas, but if you look at it from a certain angle, you can see beauty and sweetness too.” It’s this spirit of inclusiveness that makes São Paulo so different. The artists here don’t just want to shout their presence, but get everyone to listen. The 6emeia project by Anderson Augusto and Leonardo Delafuente is one such example. By creating characters out of storm drains and manhole covers in Barra Funda, they’re getting locals to interact with the city.

São Paulo has an energy (or anger) that produces true madness. From world-famous artists like Os Gêmeos, Nunca, Speto, to local taggers like the pichadores, this is a city that’s always staging a riot. Difference is, it’s usually with colour.

Published in TimeOut Explorer Jan-Feb 2013.

Art of the matter – Cape Town

Love it. Hate it. Face it. Graffiti plays its part in making any city wonderful. This issue, we focus on Cape Town. 

Graffiti artist Freddy Sam is like a model student among bad boys. In Woodstock, the arty precinct of Cape Town where he lives, he paints portraits on abandoned buildings. In the nearby Percy Bartley orphanage, he puts up murals and conducts weekly art workshops. And in his free time, he invites graffiti artists from across the world to come to Cape Town and leave their (paint-spattered) mark behind.

Now if only everyone loved their home this much.

Graffiti is often considered a form of vandalism. But with every piece of work I’ve seen and every artist I’ve met, it feels more like a homage to the city. A gesture of how much the artists love where they live – akin to a boy giving a rose to his girl. And most of the artists of Cape Town have reserved their grandest gestures for Woodstock. As a former industrial suburb, Woodstock’s unused warehouses became the space for galleries and studios to come up. And come up they did. Its many cottages and old factories are now covered with the best street art you’ll see in the city. And it also houses A Word of Art – an exhibition and residency space for international artists that’s hosted MYMO from Berlin, Boa Mistura from Madrid and David Shillinglaw from London. They’ve all left Woodstock far prettier than before they arrived.

But it’s the local artists of Cape Town who are truly striving to engage with the community – be it with gangsters or old aunties. They keep coming up with projects that take on a life of their own. Like artist Falko’s ‘Once upon a town’ and ‘Darling made me do it’ that were meant to create public interest in towns about an hour away from Cape Town. He created split-pieces, that is, one image divided into sections and painted on different walls, by collaborating with other artists. Today, the three towns – Mamre, Pella and Darling – have become tourist places in their own right. The ‘Freedom Charter’ project by Faith47 is another example where she’d taken quotes from the original document written by the African National Congress and put them all over Cape Town, sometimes with archangels falling over them. It’s this unique kind of creative activism that’s helped the city become the World Design Capital 2014.

For nearly half a century, South Africa was divided in two colours. To walk around Cape Town and seeing its multi-hued walls, you’d think it’s making up for all the lost time.

Published in TimeOut Explorer Mar-Apr 2013.

Rhinestones in the rough

Seven unusual things to see and do in Jaipur that lay its alliterative stereotypes – castles, colours and camels – finally to rest.

At the recent Jaipur Literature Festival, a writer noted that he didn’t attend the famous parties, instead “took an autorickshaw into town, looking for trouble.” I couldn’t give a visitor better advice.

Jaipur is in its streets. In the bazaars that are as unruly as its moustachioed men, in the sun that blazes as hard as its jewelled women. In a single day, you’ll meet craftsmen who are true artists and shopkeepers who are true con artists. You’ll encounter locals who are loud but kind and eat meals that are plain, yet delicious. Jaipur is gaudy and demanding and too often bogged down by its own history. Which is why if you want to see its architecture, skip the forts, havelis and fake villages. There’ll be plenty to admire when you’re walking around. Instead, hop into a rickshaw and let the city tell you some fresh stories.

1. Be gentle with giants

Last year, a girl in Prague had asked me what it’s like to ride an elephant, assuming of course, that all Indians had done it. I wish she’d meet me now so I could tell her. Elefantastic at Amer is perhaps the nicest way for you to get up close to them. The man behind the giants is Rahul who knows them like they’re childhood buddies. Which, incidentally, they are. His family has had elephants since the last four generations and today there are 24 in his care. In six hours, you can ride, paint, wash and feed them. And if they’re in a playful mood, even indulge in a spot of tug of war.

Elefantastic, 90 Chandra Mahal Colony, Delhi Road, Amer. 098285 35777. rahul.elefantastic@gmail.com. Rs 5,100.

2. Jaipur (on) foot

If things had turned out right, Jaipur could have been the aesthetic capital of India. In 1727, Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh had invited artisans from across India and set aside areas for specific crafts, with the intention of creating the most enviable of courts. Savants like him may no longer exist, but the neighbourhoods do. In a neat grid off MI Road, you’ll come across many of our dying arts – Bhindon ka Rasta and Kalyanji ka Rasta for marble carvings, Khazanewalon ka Rasta for stone idols and sculptures, Gopalji ka Rasta for precious and semi-precious stones, Ghatgate Bazaar and Loharon ka Rasta for works in iron, Maniharon ka Rasta for lac work, Nahargarh Road for local musical instruments and Thatheron ka Rasta for copper and brass works. If you prefer gleaning more knowledge while you wander, Virasat Experiences has a great walking tour as well.

Virasat Experiences. 098282 20140. http://www.virasatexperiences.com. Daily at 1.00pm and 4.00pm. Rs 1,250.

3. Go with the wind

While I can’t recommend Jaipur enough from down below, it’s quite something from up high. From the moment you see heated puffs of air inflating harlequin balloons to the sun sneaking up on the city’s sandstone, Sky Waltz’s hot air balloons is one photogenic ride. With different launch sites, you could choose to fly above lakes, palaces, forts or hills.

That is, the breadth of Jaipur’s history and the length of its geography.

Sky Waltz. 097172 95801. goballooning@skywaltz.com. Daily rides at 6.45am and 4.00pm. Rs 10,000.

4. Celebrate with the single ladies

The first time I heard of Gangaur, I thought it was a bit sexist. Actually, it was quite sexist. Celebrated mostly by unmarried women in the hopes of snaring a good catch, the women in my family would spend 18 days after Holi singing, making rangoli and laughing themselves silly. In time, I saw that men were the last thing on their minds – they were too busy bonding with each other. It’s a sweet custom that’s celebrated with the most fanfare in Jaipur. Here, you can see a long procession of elephants, palanquins, chariots and folk artistes make their way from the City Palace to Talkatora during the day. If you’re in the neighbourhood on 13 April this year, do drop by.

5. Cast the dye

Walk along the banks of Sanganer (16km from Jaipur) and you’ll see cloths drowned in solid colours and left high and dry. It’s like walking through real Pantone swatches. As an important textile unit, Sanganer is a photographer’s delight. Spend half a day here and you could learn everything there’s to know about colouring fabrics and handmade paper. For those looking for a more firsthand experience, Anokhi Museum lets you paint your own T-shirts with wooden blocks. Get your hands dirty with dainty floral designs.

Anokhi Museum, Chanwar Palkiwalon ki Haveli, Kheri Gate, Amer. 141 253 0226. http://www.anokhi.com. Open Tue-Sun, 11:00am-4:30pm. Rs 30.

6. Feel at home

No person could forget a meal at my mother’s table. Not because of the food itself, but because the portions are as generous as her heart. The hospitality in our homes is so embracive that anyone visiting would feel like a long lost cousin. And that’s one good reason you should try a homestay in Jaipur the next time instead of an uninspired hotel. Pride Homestays has 34 homes to choose from depending on your budget. You could stay in a house that’s practically a mansion with sprawling lawns and stuffed leopards. And because this is Jaipur, there’s a good chance your hosts will be long lost royals.

Pride Hospitality, Hotel Clark’s Amer, Shop 7-8, JLN Marg. 093513 53858. jaipurpride@gmail.com. Rooms start at Rs 1,980.

7. Buy made-to-measure

Embroidered peacocks chasing each other on a strip of cotton, hot indigos and burnt cerises clamouring for attention. If this is casual dressing in Jaipur, imagine what the classy would be. Couturiers are drawn to Jaipur like moths and stores like Hot Pink, Saffron, Rasa, Nayika and Miraangi are proof of that. For those looking for cute and rural accessories, Anantaya by AKFD is the place to be and for those wanting to go bankrupt, the rose-cut diamonds and emerald-dripping chokers at Gem Palace should do just fine.

Hot Pink, Narain Niwas Palace, Kanotha Bagh, Narain Singh Road. 141 510 8932; Saffron by Nidhi Tholia, C72-B Sarojini Marg. 098281 65614, 141 236 9986; Rasa, S-55 Ashok Marg, C-Scheme. 141 403 8584; Nayika, Tholia Building, MI Road. 141 236 2664; Miraangi, A-3, 1st Floor, Bhawani Singh Road, C-Scheme. 141 222 0985; Anantaya by AKFD, B-6/ A1, Prithviraj Road, C-Scheme. 141 406 8400; The Gem Palace, MI Road. 141 237 4175.

Published in TimeOut Explorer Mar-Apr 2013.

Skeletons in Paris’s closet

A rundown of the catacombs, graveyards and other cheerful places to visit, the next time you’re in the City of Light. 

“Do you know where Oscar Wilde is?”

A question that would have sounded perfectly reasonable in 19th-century London was being asked in 21st-century Paris. Stranger still, it was met with a polite and inquiring stare. Of course, one of the caretakers of Père-Lachaise Cemetery knew where Oscar Wilde was. In this confusing maze of white gravestones, his was the most visited of all sites. “Take second right, first left, walk straight.”

Despite his crystal clear instructions, I was lost again. The satirist’s final resting place was proving to be elusive. Just as many of Paris’s secrets have been.

Scratch below the surface

Books may have been written about what lies beneath the pyramids of Louvre, but operas have been written about what lies under the city. The quarries of Paris, popularly but incorrectly referred to as the catacombs, store quite a few enigmas in its alleys. Mainly because the Parisians have found more uses for them than the Swiss have for their knife.

When the Phantom of the Opera needed a private corner to win the affections of his lady love, it was to the tunnels that he went. (Nothing spells romance like dank sewers and rats, of course.) The Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, and the Plaster of Paris all owe their existence to the limestone and gypsum excavated from within. World War II saw both the French patriots and German Nazis share this space as bunkers. And most recently, an underground film club thought it had the perfect lighting to screen movies.

But the reasons why any, or all, who wish to visit the underbelly of Paris do, are the six million skulls and bones stacked neatly like plates.

Burying the hatchet

The Catacombs of Paris form the heart of the 280-km-long quarries that are filled with tibias and femurs of those who couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. In 1780, Paris’s largest cemetery, the Saints Innocents Cemetery, was closed because of the sheer numbers that had been allowed to entomb there despite the lack of space. Frequent exhumation and decomposition had made the neighbouring areas insalubrious and impossible to live in. It was then that the decision was taken to move them to the disused subterranean quarries. Silently and always by night, tipcarts loaded with human remains were transferred till more cemeteries were built.

Inside the netherworld

I’d waited for two hours and climbed down 19m into the darkness to see this strange, strange place that clocked a permanent temperature of 14°C, irrespective of day or night, winter or summer. It’s not like the place needed any more chills.

My audio guide was clutched tightly in my hands as the gentle voice took me through its history, formation and other oddities. Like how Paris’s extensive Metro network comprising 16 lines and 300 stations was somewhere above us. (Comforting, that). And how famous jurist and intellectual creator of the Statue of Liberty, Édouard Laboulaye could be resting among the remains I was about to see.

The entrance to the ossuary welcomes with a line in French that translates to ‘This is the empire of death’. And then follows it with happier thoughts about the fragility of human life. Arranged in an orderly fashion, the skulls and bones were piled forming walls, decorative façades and circular pillars. The intermittent crosses and plaques were accommodated with little effort. And the 780m-long corridor continued as a stark, spooky, and in-your-face reminder of the inevitable.

As I came up for air and sunshine, it was with a bit of relief. My next destination was yet another place to pay my respects to Paris’s dead.

As white as a ghost

Looking at the beautiful, never-ending marble tombstones of Père-Lachaise Cemetery, it was hard to believe some of the sad stories therein. Of incorrigible writers who died too bitter, of renegade musicians who died too young.

The largest cemetery in the city, Père-Lachaise was built along with three others after the Catacombs had been exhausted. Today, it has more than 300,000 interred and a funeral was going on even as I visited. Under a radiant canopy of trees, every sepulchre stood out in its own way. Be it with unique sculptures, intricate architecture or messages and photographs left behind. I passed by memorials for those who’d died in wars, as also for those in the Holocaust; families who’d lost a beloved recently and fans who still couldn’t come to terms with their heroes’ passage.

One of the heroes being a quite, unassuming grave nestled aptly in the Poets Corner—Jim Morrison. Broken alcohol bottles, fresh flowers, cover art of his albums, candles and his photographs were strewn around. People were sitting around looking at nothing in the distance. His headstone bore a Greek inscription that roughly translated to ‘True to his own spirit’. Standing above his body, thinking about his life, his music, a quote credited to him comes to my mind, “Where’s your will to be weird?” Where, indeed.

The importance of being

A lot further along, after a few more maze-like twists and turns, was Oscar Wilde. A man, who defied tradition, embraced God and wrote witticisms to pass his time. Really, had there ever been any writer more flamboyant and contrary than him? At his tomb, a modern angel hid behind his name and a thousand lipstick marks. Admirers had left behind their love in scarlet red and pink, in different languages, in his many quotes. Legend goes that because he was jailed for his passion, the quixotic among us see these kisses as delayed retribution. I wished then, I’d carried a lipstick.

A faint drizzle had started, making this sad, delicate place even more enchanting. It’s said that famous Italian architect Carlo Scarpa had once designed a grave and placed a trip wire around it so that people would fall when they left. He believed that only when you sensed your body, did you feel the most alive. That, reminders of our death needed to be accompanied with reminders of our pulsating life.

As the clouds gave it their all and the rain soaked my skin, I realised that he was right.

 Published in JetWings September 2011.

The aesthete’s choice

When compiling a list of the most iconic hotels in Europe, you’re truly spoilt for choice. Something our top five have whittled down to a fine art.

Ritz Paris

It’s 1944, the Nazis are leaving Paris, and Ernest Hemingway, armed with a machine gun and a ragtag team of soldiers has come to reclaim one of his beloved—the Ritz Paris. As legends go, Ritz Paris is like the sophic grandfather with too many tales up his sleeve. This is where Coco Chanel lived for three decades, where Proust wrote parts of Remembrance of Things Past in peace, where F. Scott Fitzgerald found an appropriate metaphor for diamonds, and where the divas of silent films, Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, discovered a lot to talk about.

The Ritz defined the early hedonism of Paris—when Belle Époque was at its height, when socialites rubbed shoulders with thinkers of the day, when pearls and furs became casual dressing. Considering the grand ambitions César Ritz had for his first exclusive luxury hotel, you can say it’s done rather well for itself.

Now well into its second century, the Ritz continues to impress the demanding guest with its attention to detail in comfort, gastronomy and service. The management may have changed hands (it’s now owned by Egyptian billionaire Mohamed Al-Fayed), but the things so dear to it—its imposing architecture, gilded interiors and appetite-awakening spreads—are reassuringly the same. From delicate apricot-tinted bath linen to fine golden taps, from Louis XVI style furnishings to Persian rugs, the hushed comfort of Ritz Paris is broken only by a deeply felt sigh.

In the footsteps of the legendary first chef of the hotel, Auguste Escoffier, the formal L’Espadon restaurant has always been headed by some of the greatest chefs in the world including today’s Michel Roth. Not to be left behind, the hotel’s Hemingway Bar (a hat doff to one of their favourite guests) is also manned by the best barman in the world—Colin Field. With heavyweights such as these, you can expect your business lunch to turn into an early dinner and a late nightcap without too much effort. Add that to an experience at their heavenly spa and pool and you’d be hard pressed to leave. As many have fallen for the magic of Ritz Paris, so have you. Rest assured, you’re in exceptional company.

Signature pick: If the Imperial Suite at the Ritz Paris reminds you of Marie Antoinette’s boudoir in Versailles, it’s with good reason. An almost exact replica, the suite is furnished with Egyptian mahogany, 18th-century furniture and gold mouldings. If you needed any more validation, it’s also regarded a national monument by the French government. They take these things rather seriously.

Grand Hotel et de Milan

You can say that the fortunes of Grand Hotel et de Milan have been closely tied with La Scala and it wouldn’t be too wrong. Walking distance from the world-renowned opera house, the Grand Hotel has long been the preferred residence of singers, composers, and opera fans—many of whom belong to the royal family. When Giuseppe Verdi came back to his room after staging the successful ‘Othello’ at La Scala, a delirious crowd had laid a ‘loving’ seige. The maestro and the tenor, Tamagno, had to come to the balcony and sing some arias for the waiting crowd. A similar crowd had also gathered when Verdi suffered a stroke at the hotel and the Director had to regularly affix notes regarding his condition outside. As Verdi breathed his last, the city mourned along with every employee at the hotel. They’d lost not just the greatest Italian composer, but also their favourite guest.

Since then, the Grand Hotel has gone through three rounds of extensive renovations—one of them after it was bombed in WWII along with La Scala. Dolled up with many luxurious additions, the hotel’s still held on to things so important to its history. Like the Stigler lift, that’s straight out of the late 19th century. And a part of the great defence wall built by Emperor Maximian, straight out of AD 300! Today, the carefully restored remains of the wall occupy pride of place in their wine cellar.

Every room in the Grand Hotel et de Milan is subtly furnished with period furniture and Italian marble. The loving attention given to its decoration over the centuries has placed it in the top rank of enchanting modern hotels. And if guests such as Tamara de Lempicka, Vittorio De Sica and Richard Burton have come away impressed, we think, so would you.

Signature pick: The Don Carlos restaurant at the hotel has an intimate setting with paintings, sketches and scenes for La Scala Theatre Museum. With traditional Italian cuisine served under antique silver chandeliers, you can expect excellent service in an elegant atmosphere.

Hotel Adlon Kempinski, Berlin

Hotel Adlon Kempinski has survived two world wars, one cold war, a devastating fire, and a complete shutdown. No, really. It was demolished in 1984 to make way for a residential complex. But quite like the proverbial phoenix, the hotel has risen again, its former glory and nail fittings intact.

But first. A look at its illustrious history. When Hotel Adlon opened in 1907, it resulted in a number of things. Kaiser Wilhelm II, the last German Emperor, began to believe this was his home. Complete ministries began to believe this was their office. Some noble families sold off their winter palaces to stay there during ball season. And everyone from Einstein to Chaplin added some anecdote to its growing legend.

Hard times finally caught up when after the division of Germany, the hotel found itself on the eastern side. After the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, work started in earnest by the Kempinski group to restore the hotel and everything associated with it. As a place run firmly on the lines of a luxury class hotel, the new establishment has been reassuringly old-world. A lobby that’s lit with piano strains and jazz, restaurants that resound with clinking glasses, and rooms and suites filled with warming silences, the Adlon Kempinski has proven to be quite the worthy successor.

Signature pick: The hotel’s Royal Suite is an opulent combination of Persian carpets, 18th-century French antiques, exquisite Chinese laquerwork, bulletproof glass and bomb-proof, steel-reinforced walls. The new and the old rest comfortably here, just like the rest of the Adlon.

Les Trois Rois, Basel, Switzerland

Voltaire, Napoleon, Wagner. Men of three different vocations and born in three different centuries would still find common ground if they ever met at a dinner party—the exceptional hospitality they enjoyed when they were at Les Trois Rois. As one of the oldest hotels in Europe and the oldest in Basel, Les Trois Rois has seen a diverse and eclectic guest list for sure. Its neo-Classic decor and select objets d’art have always found favour with the aristocrats, noblemen, artistes, thinkers and leaders of the world. And even today, at just a glance, little seems to have changed.

After a massive restoration project in 2006, the hotel opened its doors to reveal every inch of its façade intact, with modern luxuries carefully tucked in. Basel architect Christian Lang took pains to ensure that the national heritage criteria were met while adding under-floor heating and creating a 2 Michelin-starred restaurant in Cheval Blanc. By their own admission that “tradition brings obligations”, Les Trois has a concierge desk that works with predictable Swiss precision and people who’re waiting to oblige your every request.

As full-liveried waiters make their way with carefully balanced champagne flutes, you could very well be in another era. It truly doesn’t get more authentic than this.

Signature pick: The Herzl Room is where Theodor Herzl stayed while laying the foundations for the State of Israel in 1897. Over a hundred years later, this simple yet stylish Junior Room will still have an inspiring effect on you.

Ashford Castle, Cong, Ireland

In this illustrious list, Ashford Castle’s probably the youngest hotel. But as a structure that’s withstood man, nature and time, it’s the granddaddy of them all. First built in 1228 by a family called de Burgo, the castle has changed hands some half a dozen times. And with every new owner, it’s donned a new appearance. In one century it was a defensive castle, in another a French chateaux, and in a third a Victorian neo-Gothic building.

However, every new owner had a grander vision, and today it’s set in 350 acres of parkland (double of what it originally was) and with enough wings to pass off as Hogwarts. With formality and tranquillity being the essential characteristics, the hotel is a succession of impressive public rooms that illustrate a long and proud history—panelled walls, oil paintings, balustrades, suits of armour and magnificent fireplaces. Its richly decorated interior speaks of centuries of care and excellent craftsmanship and its well-manicured gardens hide within its folds a wonderful 9-hole golf course. With all the modern amenities taken care of, the castle also boasts of an extremely advanced equestrian centre and the country’s first Falconry School. The only question that remains is, care to be 13th-century nobility for a few days?

Signature pick: At their atmospheric Dungeon Bar, evening entertainment has resident performers providing traditional Irish music, ballads, poetry and storytelling. Or you could pass the time in the castle with daily showings of John Ford’s ’50 s classic The Quiet Man that was filmed extensively in and around the village of Cong.

Published in JetWings December 2011.

Masters at work

Keep your ear to the ground in Cremona and you’ll hear the call of the violin. It’s been in the making for five centuries, with promises to go on.

In another life, my grandmother could’ve easily passed off as an Italian. She shares with them an impeccable sartorial style, a traditional approach to life and an infinite love for all things old. Her life’s possessions have been carefully preserved. For she knows that when it’s time, she’ll have to pass them on to someone worthy of them. Just like the Italians.

An unbroken melody

Since the last five centuries, the town of Cremona, Italy, has been handing down an invaluable craft from father to son, master to apprentice—the art of making violins. Today, as Yo-Yo Ma makes you melancholic with his cello and Yann Tiersen makes you buoyant with his violin, you have one Cremonese family to be grateful to—the Amatis.

The first among them, Andrea Amati’s credited for creating the cello and refining the proportions of the modern violin, while his two sons, Antonio and Girolamo, for perfecting its f-holes. But it wasn’t until Nicolò that the family saw its rise to luthier-stardom. He not only introduced the ‘Grand Pattern’ violin and produced superbly consistent instruments, but also honed the talents of a man named Antonio Stradivari.

Ever heard the Strad?

Even to the uninitiated among us, Stradivari’s name rings a bell, if for no other reason then the fact that his violins sell for millions of dollars today. Why are they so highly prized and widely coveted? Let me put it this way—if not in the hands of a virtuoso like Itzhak Perlman, a ‘Strad’ deserves to be in a museum. According to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, “Violins are judged by their tone, responsiveness, elegance of design, visual appeal and precision of their craft. The instruments of Stradivari are superlative in all categories.” They should know; they stock three of his finest.

However, Stradivari isn’t the only son of Cremona to have done her proud. Like Cain and Abel, his name is always accompanied with that of another legendary violin maker—Guarneri.

Antonio v/s Antonio

Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri del Gesù wasn’t as hardworking or committed as Stradivari. He was restless and experimental. Some would say, too experimental. He drank too much and spent too little time in finishing his instrument. Yet, violinists and enthusiasts the world over revere his tones on the same level. Stradivari may have had the method, but Guarneri, it seems, had been gifted with the madness.

To throw some light on the subject, I talk to Giorgio Grisales, Master Violin Makers, Member of Board of Directors Consortium, Cremona. “Every violin is unique, even when created by the same maker, wood and technique. Stradivari had perfect form, but Guarneri was crazy. His f-holes are longer, sometimes even asymmetrical, his corners are different. A Stradivari sounds silkier, but a Guarneri has real power,” he says. As I look around his shop with ‘Guarneri’ written on a number of models and cut-ups, I know I’ve chanced upon a fan.

Giorgio is one of the 150 violin makers in Cremona who continues with the family business today. I’m curious about how many violins an entire town is capable of producing. “About 1,500 a year, some 10 violins per luthier,” he answers. That’s it? Sounds like a pittance when you come from a country where everything’s mass produced. But I forget. An Italian perfecting a violin, or any work of art, can’t be done in a New York minute.

All strings attached

To make the violin, different kinds of wood—rosewood, Indian ebony, maple, Italian spruce—are assembled from Africa, South America, the Balkan area and Eastern Europe with the special consideration that the tree is at least a hundred years old. More than 70 pieces are cut and carved by hand, the design is created, the corners are made and the arches are done. From completing the neck, bridge, varnishing and strings, a single violin takes months to create. But when I ask Giorgio for an exact time, he gives me an answer only a Guarneri aficionado could’ve given, “Depends on how many times you go to the bar.”

I finally take his leave to walk through the streets of Cremona. The architecture has a symmetry that befits a town so obsessed with form. Red roofs sit prettily on lime-coloured walls, the houses look unworn, and the lanes are barren with silence. I pass by many workshops where craftsmen are chipping away at wood and changing the sound of music.

They make me think of rock stars who carelessly smash their guitars as a part of their on-stage act. And leave me even more deeply moved at the dignity of a violinist treating his instrument like it were his own hand.

Published in JetWings International November 2011

Ground beneath her feet

Give it half a chance and Andalucía will have you wrapped around her fingers, singing love songs under her balcony.

Nothing in Andalucía, I learn, is simple. It isn’t love, it’s worship. It isn’t flamenco, it’s heartbreak. It isn’t a bullfight, it’s life. This is the birthplace of Picasso, the stage of Don Juan, the muse of Hemingway. And it wears its heart really well on its sleeve.

Launch a thousand ships

Andalucía can be best described as a tempestuous woman. If Shakespeare had his way with her, two noblemen, let’s call them Moorish rulers and Catholic invaders, would draw swords over her. One of them would emerge victorious (the Catholics, in this case) and after the initial honeymoon period, let her languish. Cue plague and hunger. Andalucía has seen rough times for sure. But she’s also learnt to laugh through it all.

Surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea on two sides, Andalucía’s happy weather means that the locals would rather laze in the sun than quibble with their neighbours. Its famous buildings range from the grandiose like the Alhambra to the unusual like the Mezquita. And its inherently sassy nature has ensured that the poets, romantics and dreamers have always been drawn to her. She’s a charmer, this one. As many have discovered, she’s also a keeper.

While every town and blanco pueblo (white village) in Spain’s southernmost state will try to steal your heart, here are three that’ll definitely succeed.

Granada: Where the streets have no name

Travellers to Europe come back with one destination that becomes the love of their life. For many, it’s Venice. For most, it’s Paris. For me, it’s this small Andalucían city that had me at hello.

Guidebooks will tell you that you need to come here because of the Alhambra—the palace-fortress that dominates every view, photograph and Google search. And truly, it’s hard to believe that something so beautiful could come out of whitewash. The Alhambra represents the best that the Moorish rule had to offer. This is where Muslim, Jewish and Christian craftsmen went all out in adding curly bits to every surface. This is also where they found refuge, when the Spanish Reconquista came looking for a fight. Every building, reflecting pool and portico within can be loved from different points of view. And if it’s Granada’s biggest talking point, it is with good reason.

But like any girl knows, it’s the quiet ones who really sweep you off your feet. Granada for me is Realejo, the Jewish neighbourhood, where houses are works of art and streets are works of mystery. It’s Sacromonte where regular people live in caves just because it’s eco-friendly. And it’s Albayzín, the Arabic quarter, whose labyrinthine lanes having seen once, I know I could die happy. If there was ever a city built for new lovers to walk in, this would be it. Fountains greet you at every corner, the sun shines as hard as new coins, and the uneven walls stand scoffing at perfection.

Granada is poetry and soul and a Garfunkel song only you get. It’s the magic in realism, that outside of books, you’ve never seen.

Cádiz: Here comes the sun

Now that I close my eyes and think of the sea in Cádiz, I can’t believe I returned. Really, who does that? The Phoenicians, the Romans and the Visigoths couldn’t do it; the Moors, the Spanish, the English couldn’t do it. As a major player in European trade, Cádiz has long been the eyesore and eye candy for many. Truth is, no one’s been able to give it up without at least a small fight. Or a mini revolution. Or Constitutions being re-written and the city’s foundations being burnt down.

Cádiz inspires searing passions. The kind that weakens the resolve of the best of men.

However, despite its interesting past, I feel the geography of Cádiz far overshadows its history. This is one European city where I’d say it’s okay to skip the museums or some St-mumble church. It’s the beaches that you’ll remember even when you’re 7,000 km away. The sun settles on your skin like fresh, warm honey, the sand takes you in its folds without even a sigh and the sea changes colour at the slightest provocation. This is the place where you learn to sun bathe and realise how lovely its balmy caresses feel.

Cádiz knows, oh so well, that a day spent outside is a day spent well. And the next time I go there, I have a feeling it might just be the last.

Córdoba: The wandering gypsy

If there’s one thing the people of Córdoba have always been gifted with, it’s insane amounts of patience. What else would explain the 200 years it took to build its most famous mosque? And the 400 years it took later to convert it into a church? My audio guide tells me it would’ve been a lot faster to demolish the existing structure and build a brand new cathedral. But the 13th-century rulers wouldn’t hear of it.

And therein lies the beauty of Córdoba. It never had the heart to destroy something beautiful. And it never will. As a church within a mosque, the world-famous Mezquita is an obvious oddity. But it isn’t until you’ve seen its red and gold arches, its many homages to the two religions and the open-mindedness of its locals who still say they ‘went to Mass at the Mosque’, that you realise how special it is. With its courtyards lined with orange trees and air filled with prayer, the Mezquita, it seems, hasn’t changed since the day it was envisioned.

While walking the streets of Judería, Córdoba’s Jewish neighbourhood, I’m impressed at the sheer devotion this city has to looking good, not a hair out of place. The courtyards are well-kept and overflowing with greens, the walls are sweetly coloured in pastels and the streets are all cobbled, straight out of a European stereotype. I know I’m love-struck for the third time in Andalucía. I simply can’t seem to help myself.

Published in JetWings November 2011

Six feet under Paris

A tour of cemeteries may seem like a strange activity to undertake while on a holiday. But in Paris, paying homage to some of the greatest writers is as common as visiting the Louvre or gawking at the Eiffel Tower.

It was a good day to go see my heroes. Splinters of the sun were lighting my path, Frenchmen were throwing away come-hither looks, my feet were tapping to an invisible harp. Paris was coming together like a well-directed scene. Too bad all my heroes had gone underground.

Writers over the last two centuries have hungered for Paris like loners hunger for love. They came looking for inspiration and freedom, they left with Ulysses and A Moveable Feast. This is the great city where they failed and succeeded, lost their hearts and found a few words. And though there’s nothing more I’d like than to bump into them, à la Midnight in Paris, I have to contend myself with walking past their graves, head bent in awe.

Ghosts of writers past

My first stop was Père-Lachaise Cemetery, the most famous resting place in the world with the likes of Chopin, Modigliani and Edith Piaf within. The site was so sprawling, it could easily be mistaken for a park. Ivory-coloured headstones were shaded with chestnut trees, creating a gorgeous foil of silver and gold. While meandering through, I noticed the distinct lack of space, and discovered later that more than a million were buried in its 108 acres. Père-Lachaise was certainly popular among the departed. As Paris expert David Downie says, it’s “the burial place of all of France’s great and good.” Albeit, thrown in with some very bad boys.

Most come here to visit rock god Jim Morrison, but I was interested in the man who was the life and soul of literary parties in the late 19th century – Oscar Wilde. Hounded by a Victorian government over his choices in love, Oscar Wilde died poor and bereft. History, though, has been kinder on him. When I’d visited, his angel tomb was covered in red and pink kisses. The French have since cleaned it up and installed a barrier of glass. Undeterred, fans have covered the glass in lipstick marks, heart signs and graffiti today. They believe that a man capable of crimes of passion (a crime at least according to those times) deserves their affection. I believe his sharp wit deserved mine.

In the maudlin landscape of Père-Lachaise, French greats like Balzac, La Fontaine,  and Molière lie. But I made my way to another one – Marcel Proust, a man who’s more talked about than actually read. In all fairness, In Search of Lost Time isn’t easy to finish, neither is his crypt easy to find. I had taken a couple of wrong turns before I reached his ebony-coloured grave – a marker as simple as his genius was dazzling. This was a man who created a storm in a madeleine-soaked teacup. But all that remembered him today were a few dried flowers and a bright summer day. Maybe someday when I’m looking at dying tulips, in true Proust style, I’ll recall this exact moment when I paid my respects to one of the few authors who changed my life.

Tales from the crypt

Warm from the day’s sun, I headed towards the Left Bank, to the cool insides of Paris’s Panthéon. As a building, it’s an imposing structure with wingspan domes and tall Corinthian columns. The massiveness was hard to take in even as I was standing there. Everywhere I’d look, a vivid biblical painting or architectural flourish would stare back. Straight up ahead was a fierce Marianne, the national symbol, with a sword and the French motto, ‘Live free or die’. It shouldn’t be surprising then that two of the greatest thinkers, Voltaire and Rousseau, were entombed here. However, as a burial place I feel it suffers from too much seriousness. The cemeteries of Paris had luminescence and crisp air. In contrast, the crypt here felt as confined as a coffin.

Nevertheless, with Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas interred within, I had to experience it firsthand. Dumas was buried in his birthplace but moved to the Panthéon in his bicentennial year. He shared a chamber with Victor Hugo, his on-again, off-again friend and fellow Romantic. And with Émile Zola, the acclaimed French naturalist. I couldn’t help feeling that I was in the company of a different set of three musketeers. Men who weren’t brave in body, but in soul. They pushed the thinking of their generation by pushing their own minds to its highest ability. They wrote without fear, spoke without favour. This tiny room suddenly felt giant thanks to its literary Goliaths.

Cemetery of forgotten books

My last stop for the day was a gravesite nestled in the 14th arrondissement. Seen from above, the Montparnasse Cemetery looks like a Monopoly board with neat boulevards and house-like graves. Seen from below, it looks like a smaller and eccentric brother of Père-Lachaise. The statues on the tombs vary from a fully dressed couple in bed to a mummified man, from evil cats to jaunty centaurs, from boys with missing arms to angels with missing togs. But the authors I really wanted to see were the ones with the least fanfare – Julio Cortázar and Carlos Fuentes.

Marquez had once remarked that “Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination.” Perhaps it’s this magical truth that Latin American writers carry with themselves wherever they go. Argentinean Cortázar and Mexican Fuentes had similar journeys in many ways. They wrote passionately about their homeland while sitting in cafes half a world away. Their works divided more people than football clubs. They were never honoured by the Nobel when they both should have. Their graves didn’t receive many visitors which they both should have as well.

Pausing by the remains of Sartre and Baudelaire (men I’d never read) and Samuel Beckett (‘Waiting for Godot’ had left me stunned), I finally made my way out. The trees were shedding their colour, the sun bathing the landscape in honey. Melancholy and silence, love and longing mingled in the air. On a regular day, if Paris could offer such beautiful elegance to the dead, imagine what it must do for the living.

Published in JetWings February 2013.