I associate December with breaking. A time when that wicked cant of light has brought forward the winter of my beauteous, aching melancholy. A crisp time and a sharp feeling that I wait for silently... eagerly... subtly.
And yet tonight somehow, in the cloying, sultry monsoon air, between Jeff Buckley's voice and Leonard Cohen's lyrics, I broke completely... exquisitely... sorrowfully.
P.S A most interesting fact about Hallelujah - on various covers, and indeed on different recordings by Cohen himself, the lyrics differ from the original release. Apparently, it seems that Cohen usually writes more than he uses. Hence, selecting from the complete lyrics brings a decent degree of variation.
The lyrics are here and more on the song here.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Ho Hum!
And so, another installment of a film franchise comes to a predictable end. After a winding, still-not-getting-anywhere first half and most of the second, the once-tortured, now-wise superhero runs to the rescue of his hapless girlfriend—again!
A bunch of bad quips, tears, renewed friendships, more wisdom, and daft theatrics later, dear Spidey is left, for the second time in as many films, at a funeral at the end of the film, crying copiously! MJ and he are back in love, all's well with NYC, and I am making a run for the exit.
However, my grouse is not with the miserably confused storyline that has too many disconnected, unexplained things and people littering the screen. Nor do I wish to rant about the average acting. My problem, quite simply, is that I've just had enough of the pathetic, whiny Spidey super villain routine.
For one moment, think. Ever seen Lex Luthor explain why he was a mean bastard? Or heard the Penguin or the Joker spin some heartbreaking story about how he didn't mean to kill people? It was just that he needed money for his ill daughter or that his wife died in an experiment gone bizarre. With the exception of Venom, every single Spidey super villain, without exception, is a fallen hero. That's probably why I can bear Venom even a little.
Eddie Brock Jr. (Topher Grace) does not make any claim to once being good or kind or noble. He's hard, ambitious, and opportunistic. And that's really that. There's no nonsense about wanting or needing to kill the ridiculous symbiote from God alone knows where. He simply wants the bloody thing so badly, he has the grace to die with it.
Director Sam Raimi is, in my opinion, overdoing the human aspect of supervillains. Perhaps it has some place in the super-villain galaxy of the Spiderman world but not by wussy-fying them beyond recognition! Also, I am not certain that so many super villains have a place in a single film without seriously deteriorating the quality of the film.
For example, I really don’t quite understand how or why Sandman’s in the movie – we’re not even getting into the symbiote. He seems to exist solely for the sake of the Oprah number Raimi’s pushing so hard. Nor do I understand why Raimi would have interfered so much with the original comic book storyline of Sandman. It just makes for confused and confusing cinema.
Sigh. In any case, I'm told Spidey 4, 5, and 6 threaten to loom large. Given the first three, I wonder what they will bring in terms of the storyline, the acting, or the crazy interpretation of a beloved comic strip. For me, I just really hope I get to see an unapologetic super-villain in a Spidey film.
A bunch of bad quips, tears, renewed friendships, more wisdom, and daft theatrics later, dear Spidey is left, for the second time in as many films, at a funeral at the end of the film, crying copiously! MJ and he are back in love, all's well with NYC, and I am making a run for the exit.
However, my grouse is not with the miserably confused storyline that has too many disconnected, unexplained things and people littering the screen. Nor do I wish to rant about the average acting. My problem, quite simply, is that I've just had enough of the pathetic, whiny Spidey super villain routine.
For one moment, think. Ever seen Lex Luthor explain why he was a mean bastard? Or heard the Penguin or the Joker spin some heartbreaking story about how he didn't mean to kill people? It was just that he needed money for his ill daughter or that his wife died in an experiment gone bizarre. With the exception of Venom, every single Spidey super villain, without exception, is a fallen hero. That's probably why I can bear Venom even a little.
Eddie Brock Jr. (Topher Grace) does not make any claim to once being good or kind or noble. He's hard, ambitious, and opportunistic. And that's really that. There's no nonsense about wanting or needing to kill the ridiculous symbiote from God alone knows where. He simply wants the bloody thing so badly, he has the grace to die with it.
Director Sam Raimi is, in my opinion, overdoing the human aspect of supervillains. Perhaps it has some place in the super-villain galaxy of the Spiderman world but not by wussy-fying them beyond recognition! Also, I am not certain that so many super villains have a place in a single film without seriously deteriorating the quality of the film.
For example, I really don’t quite understand how or why Sandman’s in the movie – we’re not even getting into the symbiote. He seems to exist solely for the sake of the Oprah number Raimi’s pushing so hard. Nor do I understand why Raimi would have interfered so much with the original comic book storyline of Sandman. It just makes for confused and confusing cinema.
Sigh. In any case, I'm told Spidey 4, 5, and 6 threaten to loom large. Given the first three, I wonder what they will bring in terms of the storyline, the acting, or the crazy interpretation of a beloved comic strip. For me, I just really hope I get to see an unapologetic super-villain in a Spidey film.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Ribbiting
A "production valley" (more nonsense from the mouth of the MBA, don’t you know!) has ensured that I have some time to, finally, do sweet nothing. There are few things as enormously appealing, I assure you, as bumming around on the Internet and reading on company time, money, and air-conditioning.
Ergo, I’ve done a lot of reading, both books-wise and online in the past two weeks.
Of the pending books on my bedside table, I’m done with most of a large selection of Pablo Neruda and Photography. Of the books that I was gifted and those I couldn’t afford to buy, The Dalemark Quartet Volume I, Agent Z and the Penguin from Mars, and "Through the Looking Glass" - The Grade I Heritage of Mumbai have found their places on the bookshelf again.
I am currently ploughing through John Berger’s About Looking, Italo Calvinho's Numbers in the Dark, and P. J O'Rouke's Holidays in Hell. I'm also savouring The Girl from the Chartreuse. As Geets will attest, I've been reading this one for ever. However, now that I'm fully immersed in it, the book is impossible to read at anything but a languid pace.
Sigh… indeed, life is good these days. And though I should have finished all those draft posts, I’m still in the mood for some ribbiting. This language/book ribbit was particularly interesting.
For the week of April 9th to the 13th, the good people at AWAD did something very funny on the needless controversy over the use of the word "scrotum" in the 2007 Newbery award winner by Susan Patron.
Ergo, I’ve done a lot of reading, both books-wise and online in the past two weeks.
Of the pending books on my bedside table, I’m done with most of a large selection of Pablo Neruda and Photography. Of the books that I was gifted and those I couldn’t afford to buy, The Dalemark Quartet Volume I, Agent Z and the Penguin from Mars, and "Through the Looking Glass" - The Grade I Heritage of Mumbai have found their places on the bookshelf again.
I am currently ploughing through John Berger’s About Looking, Italo Calvinho's Numbers in the Dark, and P. J O'Rouke's Holidays in Hell. I'm also savouring The Girl from the Chartreuse. As Geets will attest, I've been reading this one for ever. However, now that I'm fully immersed in it, the book is impossible to read at anything but a languid pace.
Sigh… indeed, life is good these days. And though I should have finished all those draft posts, I’m still in the mood for some ribbiting. This language/book ribbit was particularly interesting.
For the week of April 9th to the 13th, the good people at AWAD did something very funny on the needless controversy over the use of the word "scrotum" in the 2007 Newbery award winner by Susan Patron.
Well, this week's words are an antidote for such thinking. These are words that may sound risque but aren't. And if you find you haven't received the newsletter a few days this week, it's probably your email filter working hard to protect you from getting corrupted by these words.Of the five, these three seemed the most interesting and amusing. Enjoy!
- testaceous (teh-STAY-shuhs); adjective
1. Having a shell.
2. Having the reddish brown color of bricks or baked clay.
Derived from the Latin word testa meaning shell. - vomitorium (vom-i-TOR-ee-uhm); noun, plural vomitoria
A passageway to the rows of seats in a theater.
The word comes from the Latin word vomitorium, from vomere (to discharge). - cockshut (KOK-shut); noun
Evening; twilight.
This word comes “apparently from the time when poultry is shut in to rest.”
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
A Random Frame...
... in Bangalore while being squeezed in a rickshaw. I was on my way to Blossoms to drown myself in books.
Pst! This post is not blogger's block, don't you know. Just don't want to lose the habit of posting at least semi-regularly.
Now pat me on the back, I say! ;-)
Pst! This post is not blogger's block, don't you know. Just don't want to lose the habit of posting at least semi-regularly.
Now pat me on the back, I say! ;-)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Love Please!
My Dream
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
Believe it or not, that's Ogden Nash. With all that restraint and stillness, gentleness and simplicity, that's really, truly Nash. I've read a decent degree of Nash. Or so I'd thought till I stumbled upon this one in a lovely anthology of a hundred passionate love poems that I denied and protested my way into for a Christmas present.
The selections range from early 15th century anonymous and raunchy poetry to G.M. Hopkins, Seamus Heaney, Dylan Thomas, and Stevie Smith. There's also John Donne, Robert Graves, and William Blake. All in all, a reasonably wide and distinguished circle of choice.
However, some selections are not the best ones for specific poets. For example, the Robert Herrick entry is Upon Julia's Clothes. Surely you're joking, Mr Briggs!
For a poet like Herrick who wrote predominantly about sexuality, or more accurately the erotic, in love, this is a dismal, disappointing choice. Indeed, anyone who's ever read more than To The Virgins... knows that a large number of Herrick's other works are more worthy of inclusion than this one.
I have the same complaint about the Philip Larkin, which I should inform you is Annus Mirablis. I also have some gripes about the general politics of anthologising and perception—Briggs should have put in some other poets, more women poets, blah, blah.
Despite having grumbled my way here, I should also say I love the book—not only for the wonderful, if sometimes misguided, selection of poems but also for the superb production quality. The illustrations, by Suzanna Hubbard, are simplistic but beautiful, and printed on paper that's a pleasure to slide through your fingers.
Let me share this with you then, another beautiful gem from the same book.
i like my body
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
I was an impressionable teenager when I decided that e e cummings was magnificently sublime and had written one of the greatest love poems ever. How could I not, confronted with such desire?
Eight years later, after experiencing this particular poem e vestigio, I find that I don't think much differently.
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
Believe it or not, that's Ogden Nash. With all that restraint and stillness, gentleness and simplicity, that's really, truly Nash. I've read a decent degree of Nash. Or so I'd thought till I stumbled upon this one in a lovely anthology of a hundred passionate love poems that I denied and protested my way into for a Christmas present.
The selections range from early 15th century anonymous and raunchy poetry to G.M. Hopkins, Seamus Heaney, Dylan Thomas, and Stevie Smith. There's also John Donne, Robert Graves, and William Blake. All in all, a reasonably wide and distinguished circle of choice.
However, some selections are not the best ones for specific poets. For example, the Robert Herrick entry is Upon Julia's Clothes. Surely you're joking, Mr Briggs!
For a poet like Herrick who wrote predominantly about sexuality, or more accurately the erotic, in love, this is a dismal, disappointing choice. Indeed, anyone who's ever read more than To The Virgins... knows that a large number of Herrick's other works are more worthy of inclusion than this one.
I have the same complaint about the Philip Larkin, which I should inform you is Annus Mirablis. I also have some gripes about the general politics of anthologising and perception—Briggs should have put in some other poets, more women poets, blah, blah.
Despite having grumbled my way here, I should also say I love the book—not only for the wonderful, if sometimes misguided, selection of poems but also for the superb production quality. The illustrations, by Suzanna Hubbard, are simplistic but beautiful, and printed on paper that's a pleasure to slide through your fingers.
Let me share this with you then, another beautiful gem from the same book.
i like my body
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
I was an impressionable teenager when I decided that e e cummings was magnificently sublime and had written one of the greatest love poems ever. How could I not, confronted with such desire?
Eight years later, after experiencing this particular poem e vestigio, I find that I don't think much differently.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Annus Terriblis No 3
Today is three years since I accepted slavery in the IT services industry. It’s been three years of working 12 hour days, being entirely uninspired by my work, and meeting only two bosses I could really respect.
I was a delusional English post-graduate student when I thought that starting work on the Ides of March would probably be a fitting thing to do. Like Caesar, I'd also go my own doom, to a job I didn't want to do, biding my time for one year—until my dreams came to pass.
Unfortunately, two years later than that one year, I’m still biding.
This post was started at Maharaja, about 18 hours ago, over some vodka and seafood while I was watching the traffic at Chakala go by. Interesting thing about Maharaja, really. The place is an upmarket, family nip bar, if you get the Bombay meaning of the word “nip”.
No? Well, it’s a place that serves liquor by the quarter and is usually frequented by some people you’d not always be comfortable around. “Good girls from good homes don’t go to places like these.” :-)
I began my sojourns there only once I got my first paycheck. I’d go with an intriguing, serial arguer who became a dear friend over the course of many evenings and too much vodka. We’d sit, watch the traffic fly gently by, and talk about cabbages and kings.
Last night at midnight, watching the traffic pool madly around Chakala junction, I realized where life had come to for both Bombay and me. After two years of battling Microsoft Learning, their crazed project editors, content development managers, and product planners, I was unwinding after another crap day at work.
Three years ago, at Maharaja at midnight, there were only BEST buses flying like they couldn’t during the day.
I was a delusional English post-graduate student when I thought that starting work on the Ides of March would probably be a fitting thing to do. Like Caesar, I'd also go my own doom, to a job I didn't want to do, biding my time for one year—until my dreams came to pass.
Unfortunately, two years later than that one year, I’m still biding.
This post was started at Maharaja, about 18 hours ago, over some vodka and seafood while I was watching the traffic at Chakala go by. Interesting thing about Maharaja, really. The place is an upmarket, family nip bar, if you get the Bombay meaning of the word “nip”.
No? Well, it’s a place that serves liquor by the quarter and is usually frequented by some people you’d not always be comfortable around. “Good girls from good homes don’t go to places like these.” :-)
I began my sojourns there only once I got my first paycheck. I’d go with an intriguing, serial arguer who became a dear friend over the course of many evenings and too much vodka. We’d sit, watch the traffic fly gently by, and talk about cabbages and kings.
Last night at midnight, watching the traffic pool madly around Chakala junction, I realized where life had come to for both Bombay and me. After two years of battling Microsoft Learning, their crazed project editors, content development managers, and product planners, I was unwinding after another crap day at work.
Three years ago, at Maharaja at midnight, there were only BEST buses flying like they couldn’t during the day.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Random Ribbits
Nothing makes a weekend simply sublime better or faster than some retail therapy. Make it books and food and I'm halfway to heaven—if, indeed, there is such a place.
I started it with one of my closest friends, spending hours at the Bombay branch of the best bookstore in India, browsing through prohibitively expensive editions of old favourites and overpriced but much desired new books.
Strangely, nothing works as well as book shopping, or even spending time in a book store, endlessly browsing. Not shoes, not clothes, not jewellery, not anything. I'm a strange, silly woman, I think.
Many, many thanks to a birthday many months past, an indulgent friend, and my own overwrought wallet, I walked out loaded with these:
I am not going to sing paeans to the food, describe the place, or my experience there. That's just repetitive and trite. But I will say this. Two large vodkas, prawns koliwada, fried surmai, butter-garlic clams, prawn ghassi, pomfret curry, clams sukkha, and endless neer dosa later, I was blissed out. All I was fit for was a toffee ice-cream sandwich from K. Rustom's.
Now if only every weekend was like this, I'd be more than somewhat happy. :-)
****
Randomly blog-hopping and I came across a fun little widget. I fell completely in love!
I started it with one of my closest friends, spending hours at the Bombay branch of the best bookstore in India, browsing through prohibitively expensive editions of old favourites and overpriced but much desired new books.
Strangely, nothing works as well as book shopping, or even spending time in a book store, endlessly browsing. Not shoes, not clothes, not jewellery, not anything. I'm a strange, silly woman, I think.
Many, many thanks to a birthday many months past, an indulgent friend, and my own overwrought wallet, I walked out loaded with these:
- Albion
- The Delta of Venus
- Numbers in the Dark
- The Wind Singer
- The Dalemark Quartet, Vol I
- "Through the Looking Glass" - The Grade I Heritage of Mumbai
I am not going to sing paeans to the food, describe the place, or my experience there. That's just repetitive and trite. But I will say this. Two large vodkas, prawns koliwada, fried surmai, butter-garlic clams, prawn ghassi, pomfret curry, clams sukkha, and endless neer dosa later, I was blissed out. All I was fit for was a toffee ice-cream sandwich from K. Rustom's.
Now if only every weekend was like this, I'd be more than somewhat happy. :-)
****
Randomly blog-hopping and I came across a fun little widget. I fell completely in love!
Monday, March 05, 2007
On Orkut
Five years ago, when a dear friend first asked me to get on Orkut, I made the mistake of asking just what you did with a site like that. A blistering sermon later, I had been sent an invite, had my profile dictated to me, and had also lapsed into sweet inactivity.
Last year, I was finally harangued into creating another profile by another dear friend and this time, I have 400-odd scraps, a 100-odd friends, and 14 fans to show for it. And yet, I somehow get the distinct feeling that the dedication to "social networking" isn't really paying off.
You see, all sorts of people have come bloody crawling out and I'm just fit to howl. For all my magniloquent loquaciousness (see!), I'm truly dreadful at small talk. Truly. Also, I quite bloody hate making it and like most intelligent folk, I prefer proper conversations, don't you know.
Now, suddenly, I'm faced with people I haven't heard from in centuries but who want to know where I am, if I am married, and what I am doing with my life. Inexorably, like a deer caught in the headlights of courtesy, I eventually become polite conversation road kill.
A number of these "friends" are from school. For me, this is excruciating mainly because I absolutely loathed school AND I was a prat. Allow me to assure you of the incontrovertibility of these facts. If I'd met me in school, I'd have whacked me on the upside of my head!
Strangely, it seems that I am the only one that remembers me like that. These people seem content to initially be friendly and warm. Later, they surface only when their homepages remind them about a birthday or when some occasion's doing the scrapbook circuit.
As for me, I just don't understand why they'd want to keep such superficial contact seeing that we haven't been in touch for aeons and despite it, lived happy, fulfilled lives. Yeah sure, you never know—we could be best friends now. But I doubt that because I know it's not merely chance that I'm not in touch with anyone from school.
But let me not tell you only about these hilarious ones. Orkut is most egalitarian and also brings some other wonderfully avoidable experiences along. Sample this.
An ex-classmate from university recently scrapped me. Now him and I, we have a chequered history for a number of reasons, but mainly because of our egos. We've attempted to get and stay in touch a few times to no great or real avowals of a friendship.
He's recently had something really great work out for him and I sent him a note off-the-scrapbook that he didn't respond to. Not that I'd really expected a response, or for that matter, even expected him to believe that I was being more than polite. Indeed, the history's that chequered.
And yet, happy as I am that he'd gotten "back in touch", I think it would have been nice if he hadn't deleted scraps expressing gladness for him. With that one click, there I was—wishing for the impossible, that we still had a little understanding between us. Sigh...
Yup, yup, it's confirmed. I am most certainly less than enchanted with the bloody thing. How can I be? It's full of all that won't or can't leave me behind—no matter how hard we try.
Last year, I was finally harangued into creating another profile by another dear friend and this time, I have 400-odd scraps, a 100-odd friends, and 14 fans to show for it. And yet, I somehow get the distinct feeling that the dedication to "social networking" isn't really paying off.
You see, all sorts of people have come bloody crawling out and I'm just fit to howl. For all my magniloquent loquaciousness (see!), I'm truly dreadful at small talk. Truly. Also, I quite bloody hate making it and like most intelligent folk, I prefer proper conversations, don't you know.
Now, suddenly, I'm faced with people I haven't heard from in centuries but who want to know where I am, if I am married, and what I am doing with my life. Inexorably, like a deer caught in the headlights of courtesy, I eventually become polite conversation road kill.
A number of these "friends" are from school. For me, this is excruciating mainly because I absolutely loathed school AND I was a prat. Allow me to assure you of the incontrovertibility of these facts. If I'd met me in school, I'd have whacked me on the upside of my head!
Strangely, it seems that I am the only one that remembers me like that. These people seem content to initially be friendly and warm. Later, they surface only when their homepages remind them about a birthday or when some occasion's doing the scrapbook circuit.
As for me, I just don't understand why they'd want to keep such superficial contact seeing that we haven't been in touch for aeons and despite it, lived happy, fulfilled lives. Yeah sure, you never know—we could be best friends now. But I doubt that because I know it's not merely chance that I'm not in touch with anyone from school.
But let me not tell you only about these hilarious ones. Orkut is most egalitarian and also brings some other wonderfully avoidable experiences along. Sample this.
An ex-classmate from university recently scrapped me. Now him and I, we have a chequered history for a number of reasons, but mainly because of our egos. We've attempted to get and stay in touch a few times to no great or real avowals of a friendship.
He's recently had something really great work out for him and I sent him a note off-the-scrapbook that he didn't respond to. Not that I'd really expected a response, or for that matter, even expected him to believe that I was being more than polite. Indeed, the history's that chequered.
And yet, happy as I am that he'd gotten "back in touch", I think it would have been nice if he hadn't deleted scraps expressing gladness for him. With that one click, there I was—wishing for the impossible, that we still had a little understanding between us. Sigh...
Yup, yup, it's confirmed. I am most certainly less than enchanted with the bloody thing. How can I be? It's full of all that won't or can't leave me behind—no matter how hard we try.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Three Week Snapshot
Three weddings, three weeks. Ahmedabad, Bangalore, Dehradun, Delhi, and Pushkar in the winter sun. Haring across the country at all hours of night and day. Meeting old friends and new conversations.
In a week, waiting for rage and uncertainty to explode. Knowing that now only apprehension of the unknown remains. Understanding that some things and some relationships have changed—irrevocably. Accepting that I have changed—in ways I cannot always describe.
Still later, capturing B's myriad faces and moods at his wedding. Watching him and his bride laugh their way into "stability". Chatting with him afterward like it was any other day. The ease of the day explained by knowing that I was fully a part of my "soul sister's" wedding.
Heart warming text messages finally consolidating the "younger sibling/brat" stigma into an adult equation. Talking and taking in the sunset, in perfect accord, at the Gau Ghat, Pushkar. Concluding a bizarre trip by illegally buying alcohol at the Bombay International Airport.
813 media items on a 2 GB storage card. The Lonely Planet theme music a constant thrum in my head.
All of it liberating, intriguing, and insightful.
A few important lessons - and no great revelations:
In a week, waiting for rage and uncertainty to explode. Knowing that now only apprehension of the unknown remains. Understanding that some things and some relationships have changed—irrevocably. Accepting that I have changed—in ways I cannot always describe.
Still later, capturing B's myriad faces and moods at his wedding. Watching him and his bride laugh their way into "stability". Chatting with him afterward like it was any other day. The ease of the day explained by knowing that I was fully a part of my "soul sister's" wedding.
Heart warming text messages finally consolidating the "younger sibling/brat" stigma into an adult equation. Talking and taking in the sunset, in perfect accord, at the Gau Ghat, Pushkar. Concluding a bizarre trip by illegally buying alcohol at the Bombay International Airport.
813 media items on a 2 GB storage card. The Lonely Planet theme music a constant thrum in my head.
All of it liberating, intriguing, and insightful.
A few important lessons - and no great revelations:
- Never travel with someone you're upset with. You'll never want the same things from the trip. Nor will you really want to be there. (Yup, Einstein - that's me.)
- Never use buses you've haven't checked out first. The wet feeling at your feet could be anything—anything!
- Don't believe all the hype about a place. A second person account could be less dissatisfactory than the real thing.
- Never travel with a friend's camera. That way, when you break it, you don't feel worse than pond scum.
- Don't try too many things in a photograph. One or two is usually good enough.
- Always carry your tripod—the winter sun is a gentle but treacherous bastard.
- Always travel with the elder sibling. The ride is very comfortable and free! :-D
- Always talk to a young rickshaw driver. He's much more likely to show you the non-touristy path.
- Travel on your own for at least a while. It's exhilarating to be shorn of expectation when you're exploring.
- Every last cliché written by a famous author about journeying is true. So children, let the journey to come to you. Too much planning is the devil's, a.k.a an MBA, tool.
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