WHIMSY IN ORGANIZED TOURS?

I wonder: Do all people have a lot of internal dialogue when they plan a trip?

My trip to Oaxaca, Mexico was a peach to plan for. 

I got an email inviting me on an all-girls trip to celebrate a friend’s 60th birthday.
It took me 30 seconds to reply Yes!!
Another friend sent me her flight schedule. It took me another 15 minutes to book on the same flights.

There were subsequent suggestions/questions from Priya, Kalpana and Lakshmi regarding places to visit and restaurants. I sent one combined response which took me 15 seconds: Anything you people plan is fine with me. 
The most time I spent on preparation was an hour setting up a Zelle account to transfer money as required. 

Total prep time for a one week trip: 75 minutes 45 seconds. 

And it was fun. Lots of food, drinking, shopping. Interesting sights. And great company, with our personal translator Durga.

 

A 12 day trip to Ireland, on the other hand, was a trifle more work.

It didn’t start out right. Two sets of friends were supposed to come with me. We had planned to take a car and drive around. With one friend I would have done a lot more shopping. With the other, a Nora Roberts fan, we would visit small, out-of-the-way villages staying in quaint places. I drew up a schedule to accommodate both desires. Neither was meant to be. They had to pull out for various perfectly legitimate reasons.
So back to the drawing board for a solo trip. 
Should I still plan a small-town Ireland schedule? Nah, it wouldn’t be the same without my friend. Also, booking at 8 or 9 different accommodations, checking each one out … I couldn’t bring myself to spend so much time on the task.
Which led to my 2nd question: Should I still hire a car and drive around?
I love driving and am very happy behind the wheel. But I remembered with trepidation a jaunt to Scotland in a friend’s car. A couple of the narrow roads were not exactly me at my best. And Irish roads are reportedly narrow, very narrow, especially the ones leading to Nora Roberts-locales. (Endorsed by a coach driver: You see the roads marked L? They are Local. Avoid them at all costs. The ones with R? Regional. Not down them, either. And those that are N or M? Meant to be easier. But not really. So how do you get around Ireland in a car? With great difficulty!)
And in November, which is low season, not much vehicular traffic to help if I had a breakdown. Let’s not call it an accident, in which I would mostly likely be the causer rather than the causee. Another twinge of concern.
I sighed deeply and decided to be sensible. No driving.
I would make day trips and do all the touristy things. I wouldn’t hunt down the uncommon experiences I would have favoured. I would see the Ireland that everyone saw and raved about.

 And that was my first good decision for the trip.
Next step, I listed all the must-see places, compiled from various official and commercial sites mapped on to travel blogs. Most of them originated from Dublin. Ireland is small enough that it could, by and large, be covered in a week or so, it seemed.
A no-brainer: Dublin would be my base.
Another step, accommodation. If I was taking 10 to 13 hour trips a day... If I was going to wake up early, very early, as early as 6.00 am. to catch these trips... I would pamper myself. Not a B&B where I may have to share space with strangers. A hotel, a good one, with slightly larger space than usual.
It had to be close enough that I wouldn’t have to walk miles to get to the pickup points for the coaches every day. Close enough to Temple Bar for the food but far enough for the night revelry to be muted.
The Morgan on Fleet Street, the perfect spot. My second good decision.

So for 12 days I had a wonderful time in Ireland. I was glad someone else was driving while I could look out the window, soaking in the extraordinary scenery of green fields, running water and the Atlantic Ocean. We drove through or stopped at enough small towns to satisfy my mild interest in Nora Roberts-mentions. 

    

                                              Literature .... History .... Culture

I elected museums and churches over the Guiness tour; I am not a drinker and even a Bailey’s hot chocolate made me sick. At Belfast I passed over a visit to the Titanic for a Black Cab tour by a Catholic who had lived through the Troubles. However, my first ever stop was at a petrol station for a loo break 😄

I preferred a literary tour through Dublin featuring Joyce, Wilde and Bram Stoker and, on the last night, I saw Jane Austen’s Emma at the storied Abbey theatre. 
The guides were chockful of quirky facts such as Jeremy Iron's Norman keep is painted pink and Raman spectroscopy was used in the preservation and analysis of the Book of Kells. 

Myths and legends abound in Ireland with faerie trees in every part of the country. My favourite story was that the Cashel Rock is the deposit of a bite the devil took from the mountain as St. Patrick chased him with incantations. 

I chose not to step into the bars though the music spilled out on to the streets as I walked back to my hotel. Two of the tour guides provided me the touch of Irish music I needed.

And every night I came back to peace and quiet and much-needed alone-time in my hotel room.

If anyone would like to replicate my schedule, take 75 minutes and 45 seconds of your time, and just ask me. I can be your Priya-Kalpana-Lakshmi!!

Oh, by the way, the visuals here are whimsical, too. Not a chronicle of every place I visited. Totally arbitrary and personal, just what I liked and would like to flip though again.

Before you go, would you like to take a quick stab at identifying some quotes from Wilde inscribed on his memorial in Merrion Square?

Garage Sale-ing with Aunty

 

“Hello, Hema.”

I looked into the smiling eyes and expectant face.

“Ready, Aunty?”

“Yes, chalein (shall we go)?”

We walked out to my car. Her woven handbag was hanging from her wrist. I knew it contained a handkerchief, a small coin purse and a few dollars.

 We were off on our weekly jaunt. Me a 40-something and Aunty a 60-something. A ritual like no other for me. A delightful pleasure to both of us. We shared a ride and a determination to keep to a very low budget of a few dollars only.

 Every Saturday about 12.00 pm, I would pull up outside her house, pick her up and we drove around neigbourhoods in Indianapolis and Carmel, looking for treasures that no one else wanted.

 “The Senior Centre, they said Meridian Hills is a good place today.”

“A community sale?”

“No, each house only, many houses.”

“Did anyone go there?”

“No, from the Community bus they saw three signs. We’ll go?”

I pulled out my Indianapolis map to plot the road. And off we went.

 In Indiana, unlike some other states, you didn’t need to get permission to hold a garage sale. You organized all the stuff you didn’t want in the house, displayed clothes on racks, knickknacks on rickety tables (also for sale sometimes), books and records in cardboard boxes and furnishings on the ground.

 I parked the car in the middle of the row of Garage Sale signs so that Aunty would not have to walk too far to any of the sites.

The first house we went to, she cast an experienced eye over the offerings.

She smiled at the woman who was sitting in the chair, reading a magazine.

“Hello,” Aunty opened the conversation. “You are selling books? No magazines?”

“No, these books are gathering dust. I need to clear my shelves to buy more,” the woman explained.

Aunty continued to make small talk while I browsed

“Yahan tho kuch nahin milega (Won’t get anything here),” Aunty observed.

We smiled our goodbyes and went to the next sale site.

 Aunty was clever and creative, always busy with some craft project or other, some of which would be dictated by what she found at these garage sales. She had an uncanny nose for bargains and a keen eye for all kinds of things that would be useful. She saw potential in every scrap where most others saw junk.

A skein of wool. Bits of cloth. An old dress that had a good pattern that she could cut up. Buttons of all shapes and sizes and materials. Picture wire. Crochet hooks. Knitting needles. Magazines with knitting patterns.

She shared her insights on how she would turn what seemed like random pieces into dolls, earrings, bracelets, wall pieces, blankets, patchwork quilts. Only those which had specific uses that she identified as gifts for her circle of visiting relatives and friends.

“Remember the blue napkin set we bought last month? I can use this print material to stitch a hem on it. The blue is very plain.”

 What I loved best was the camaraderie. She never persuaded me to try my hand at any of her craft work. Never said, “You can if you only tried… Of course everyone can and should be interested in crafts.”

 I am a later riser. She never complained that I didn’t get in time before the choice bits were taken, that we were never among the early birds to catch the brightest and cheapest stuff.

 She never blew her budget nor allowed me to. Once her store of dollars and change was exhausted, she would go with me to sites more to my taste. Initially when I was setting up my house, I would be on the lookout for lamps and side tables. Later through the years, I mooched around for used books, earrings. She never offered her opinion, never directed my taste. Her comments always centered on how I could use it, and gently steered me away from unsuitable or over-priced articles.

 I now have a flat in Chennai that has sufficient furniture handed over or shared with me by my family: antique chairs from my great-grandfather and my sister, bookshelves and a chest of drawers from another sister, crockery from the third one, a dining set from my aunt and cousins, beds from friends before they moved abroad. Each piece is imbued with personal history and emotions.

I still need lamps and side tables to make this flat into a home and I am reduced to banal shopping on Amazon.in

But no more quirky bargains from garage sales. Aunty isn’t here to go with me.

In memory of Mrs. Roma Bhattacharya, my whimsical person shopping companion.