Travel Fury

I love to travel. It's seriously the only thing that truly excites me and keeps me optimistic. At any given moment, there is so much of the world I have yet to see, and the diversity and beauty of that fact alone inspires me every day.

But there's a problem with traveling. Specifically, with traveling with a shitty passport.

Don't get me wrong, I love being Indian. My heritage, my language, and my culture, as I've mentioned so many times before, are very important to me. But my passport is a pain in my ass.

Any time I have/want to go anywhere, I have to plan at least 3 months in advance. I have to get together financial documents, fill out a million forms, pay countless fees, go for embassy interviews, all to get one shitty little tourist visa stamp. I've been lucky enough to be able to afford the time, money and energy it takes to do all this. I've thus far traveled to over 20 countries and all the continents except South America and Antarctica (although they're next on my list! World domination here I come!). But the whole process can get very disheartening.

As an Indian citizen, I'm treated like a criminal. I am subjected to background checks and financial scrutiny, all to determine if I can visit a country better off than mine (one most likely having been built on the backs of my forefathers and the natural wealth of my country) for a week. Meanwhile, all ol' Joe the Plumber with his high school diploma and his NASCAR cap has to do is leave his trailer park and remember not to accidentally pack any guns in his plastic luggage. I'm sorry if that sounds elitist, but I'm angry at the system, and I would value myself as, at least, his equal.

There have been countless situations where I haven't been able to do things "like everyone else". Perhaps I have been spoiled by exposure to America, where I have lived for almost a decade: all my friends from North America, Europe and down under can take off at a moment's notice, financial issues notwithstanding, while I have to be the one that waves them off at the airport. When I was a sophomore in college, some friends and I decided we wanted to go on a cruise for spring break (because Myrtle Beach was for bros): everything was almost finalized when I found out that the cruise would be pausing in Mexico. I, as an Indian passport-holder,  would require a Mexican visa to disembark. Even if I didn't disembark, I would need a visa to board the ship. Obviously, with Spring Break in a week, I couldn't go. I was resigned to sitting in my darkened dorm room, listening to death metal, looking at photos of my tan and happy friends on Facebook, hating my life. More recently, my friend sprung on me that she and her boyfriend wanted to take a road trip to Quebec, and would love for me to join. I, obviously, could not enter the great white north without a Canadian visa. Which would require a whole other headache of forms and fees while all my American friend had to do was pack appropriately warm winter clothes.

It also doesn't help when I watch amazing travel vlogs on YouTube (my very public passion. Please hire me, YouTube, I know more about you and than even you do, I'm sure of it!) - such as Ben Brown, watch his stuff, he has such wonderful mastery of cinematography, music and aesthetics - and I am reminded that British citizens (or citizens of any western, developed country, really) can just book a ticket a leave. It infuriates me and taints what should be an otherwise wonderful and enlightening experience. I am embittered and I hate that.

When I do actually manage to wade through the bureaucratic red tape that is the tourist visa process, my little blue passport ensures that I am regarded suspiciously. On a quick flight from Copenhagen to London, I was asked for identification. Not looking like all the other blonde Nordic gods around me, I obviously already stuck out like a sore thumb. When I produced my passport, I was asked, rather more brusquely than the angelic blonde child before me, for my UK visa. I, being the planner from the developing world, had it. But the experience annoyed me nonetheless. When my passport was stolen in London (hilarious fool saw the blue and heard my accent and probably thought I was American), I got a new one fairly quickly (shout out to contacts at the Indian High Commission), but I had to wait 2 weeks for a US visa appointment. There was an earlier one in Belfast, but obviously, I couldn't fly there without a flipping UK visa, which was in my stolen passport. My friend's well meaning British roommate kindly pointed out that now that I had my passport, couldn't I at least fly back to New York and figure things out then? At least I'd be back "home". It took everything I had not to laugh a bitter guffaw in his privileged face. Sorry, that was mean, he's a nice guy. But I was pissed.

Why is the world less open to those of us who were merely born in the developing world? Do we hunger for knowledge and experiences any less than the average Western 24 year old? I realize the issues of immigration make this topic heavily debatable, but I also understand that the system needs to be completely overhauled. It really is bullshit. And racist (yes, I went there).

Shouldn't the fact that you colonized my country allow me some leeway in visiting yours? Why am I held accountable for my country? Why should I feel like a traitor to my citizenship for wanting to travel with ease?

[Incidentally, if you're not Indian, but share my passport woes, you can check out this nifty tool to figure out which countries you'll need a visa for: http://www.visamapper.com/. Awesome sauce.]

Rock the Casbah!

"Bienvenue au Maroc!"

All Photo Credits: Shambhavi Misra

Here's what you need to know about me. I have wanted to go to North Africa since I was a fetus. Seriously. We had these world history encyclopedias in my library at home growing up, and I memorized the entire "Ancient Egypt" volume in a month. As an 8 year old. I can officially read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Getting me to learn the names of angles in Geometry was a task straight from hell for my Math teacher, but I taught myself an entire language that is not even used anymore in one hot summer month.

When I thought of North Africa and the Middle East, I imagined it as it probably was in the 1920s, when countries of that region were still under colonial rule, and were developed enough to accept and support travelers from strange lands, but still retained the traditional customs that made them so wonderful. I longed to visit them with my giant wooden trunk with old-school country stickers on them, wearing my loose-fitting khaki adventurer pants, carrying my leather-bound travel journal, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the colors and the bustle.

Unfortunately, every country I have visited since the formation of this perception of how travel should be has embraced the 21st century. There are trains and malls and freaking McDonalds' everywhere. Not that I'm complaining: whimsy aside, I could never survive without flushing toilets. My experiences, therefore, have been fun, but in a much tamer manner than I anticipated.

Morocco has been the exception.

I am from a country that shares many of Morocco's attributes: It's crowded, it has sites of historical significance liberally dotted throughout the landscape, it has many examples of medieval Islamic architecture, its colonial influences are very apparent, it's colorful, it's noisy, it's everything. So clearly, it was nothing new. Till I began to notice the differences, and make associations. Rick's Cafe, of "Casablanca" (the movie) fame, was never actually used for filming, but it's gorgeous! The medinas (old cities) and casbahs of Fes and Marrakech are preserved in time: It's like my loafers stepped from the paved streets of post-colonial Morocco into the bustle of the ancient markets. The history is palpable in the everyday and the mundane.

The architecture is a whole other facet of Morocco. At the risk of sounding like an old woman on a retirement trip with her badly-dressed elderly friends, there is color everywhere! There are mosaics and tiles and clothes and accessories that, in any other circumstance, should clash horrendously, but for some reason, on the narrow streets of a blue-walled section of the medina, they work perfectly. My eyes should have exploded from over-stimulation, but they didn't. They embraced the colors as if they had always known them, craved them.

The mannerisms were my favorite: there exists in the older cities of Morocco this intoxicating mix of the old world and contemporary French culture. The languid cafe culture that I noticed in Paris blends seamlessly with the delicious Thé Moroccain sweetened with fresh mint leaves and hookahs in the evening. Even the most crowded streets have a peace about them that I have never seen anywhere else. And once you get over having to eat some variation of Tagine and cous cous three times a day, the customs begin to grow on you!

And then we discover the simple geography of the country. At one point on the northern coast, it is possible to actually see Europe. On a clear day, without binoculars or periscopes or any of those fancy nautical instruments, you can just look out towards the ocean, and make out the Spanish coastline. Heck, if the world's borders weren't so ridiculously rigid, you could swim over and back within the hour.

Morocco is, in a word, gorgeous. In a few more, convenient, stable and steeped in history and culture. It's definitely worth a visit! Not bad for my first trip to the enigma that is Africa.

One general word of warning though: If you don't speak French or Arabic, you're pretty much screwed. Keep in mind that gestures mean different things in different countries, so while you can try and gesture "food" to your guide, he might take it as you telling him to f*ck off and walk away in a huff. A general rule of thumb before travelling is to at least memorize key phrases in the local language.

Paris Je T’aime

I was Watching Paper Heart and eating my giant tub of “Light & Fit” Blueberry yoghurt that I got on a whim, when I decided to take a walk down St. Mark’s Place at 3:30 am on a rainy Sunday morning, I came to realize what Paris had meant to me.

For the first time since my return to school in New York 4 months ago, I thought about my similarly lonely walk around the streets of the 7eme arrondisement one Tuesday evening. I stood on a wooden bridge over the Seine, Ile De la Cité ahead of me, American tourists chattering to my right, and an imposing, impossibly beautiful Eifel Tower to my left, just silently watching: watching the massive tour boats pass from under me every half hour, the infrequent light show of the Tower glittering impressively yet falling short of mesmerizing in the increasingly spectacular lights of the City itself, which in turn paled in comparison to the brilliant crimson sunset.

In that one moment, that moment that I later realized lasted for over 4 hours, I was at peace. I was completely content with everything, everyone, everywhere. The weight of the world, le bruit du monde, just melted away. For the first time in my short but frantic life, I forgot to think. I just gazed and marveled and took the beauty of the wonderful city in.

I forgot my appearance, my notions of what my trip should be like, my itineraries, my plans for my life, my inability to locate those famous bohemian French intellectuals that converse about life, the universe and everything in delightfully dingy coffee shops, my tired feet, my unhappiness with the shallow image I portray when first addressing anyone, my suspicions about racism and my understanding that I would never find true love.

This was nothing like my visit to Notre Dame, another significant trip. Looking at it head on, standing in the exact spot that medieval France believed to be the centre of the Universe, I noted the embellishing, the precise artwork and carvings and etchings and stories behind the large doors completed by the Devil, relating the façade, as any girl growing up in the age of Disney, to the Hunchback of Notre Dame (I fear, Mr. Hugo, that I speak of the animated film), imagining its gargoyles coming to life, its menacing demon heads spewing forth burning oil, and a faint light coming from the highest window by the bell tower. Inside, I, quite literally, had to remember to breathe. The stained glass, the high ceilings, the history, hit me on a level so deep that I now think twice before calling myself shallow. Could my years of ranting about belief in the divine being ridiculous, have been ridiculous? Because surely this building was a testament to the existence of the otherworldly.

I couldn’t believe that when it was first revealed, Parisians hated the Eifel Tower and wanted to tear it down. People can be so silly.

Paris is less of a geographical entity than it is a way of life. Its tangible beauty is obvious, and its historical neighborhoods, the Marais, Montmartre, are steeped in cultural significance and artistic buzz. But it’s the lifestyle, the conversations with strangers, the slow, aimless evenings and afternoons spent in endless cafés, the incredibly delicious food, food, everywhere, that can truly capture the essence of Paris.

My mother insisted that I keep a journal, a travel diary, to chronicle my trip and improve my writing; my father encouraged it to have me somehow participate in the repertoire of generations of novelists that had roamed the same streets and found inspiration. I brushed them off, then felt guilty, because I realized that I might never come back to this city that I would gladly have made my home.

But now, months later, I realize that they were right. Paris is so enormous in intellectuality, in sheer experience, that it cannot really be accurately discussed while it is being lived; it so overwhelms the senses that taking your own sweet time to realize it is beneficial not only to your experience but also to your sanity. Now, much later, Paris and its inspirations have hit me like decades of poetry, at once, and so strongly that it has, once again, knocked me out of breath. A hard feat at 3:30 am on a rainy Sunday.