Amitabh Bachchan

As I am walking down the street, a young hawker selling "The Big Issue", shouts at me, "Hey, Amitabh Bachchan"

I find that amusing, and break into a grin. For while this kid just saw an Indian and yelled a famous Indian name, little does he know that I share my birthday with the moviestar under question.

It Was Murder, It Was Slaughter

The day in Upper Slaughter starts off with a long meeting in which halfwits debate matters of little or no consequence. This goes on all day, and being a member of the team, I have to endure this torture. Thankfully, during the breaks I can walk out into the little vegetable garden in the backyard of the hotel.

Once the business of the day is wrapped up, I go down to the front lawn where my colleagues are planning to play a peculiarly English game. Thus, I learn the game of croquet, and that I suck at it. Well, to be fair, I sucked at it when I was holding the mallet like a cricket bat, and get way better when I hold it the right way. By then, however, the game, as they say, is over.

Croquet is essentially a turn-based game in which one has to take a solid plastic ball around a court and through specific "gates", hitting with a wooden mallet. The objective is to do it before the others, so one of the things one does along the way is hit others' ball away from their targets. Fun stuff! I'm sure I'll have good fun the next time I play.

After the short game, we set out for a walk through the country. The little hamlet is absolutely, serenely beautiful. The landscape is bottle green, nay, greener still. A small stream runs through the front of the hotel, and there are fish swimming and ducks floating. Not a bad place, Upper Slaughter.

Mainly Monday

While I had managed to sleep soon after 1.30am, I am unable to get up at 4.30am as planned, and it is 5 by the time my eyes open. I was supposed to have left town by now. With a bit of rushing about, I finally check out of the hotel at 5.15am.

I would have imagined a sunrise around now, but it is pitch dark; autumn is here. Back on the highway, there are a reasonable number of cars rushing to Bucureşti. Of course, the highway is dominated by lorries and trucks in terms of percentage of vehicles on road.

As I cruise down the highway, I find my sweet spot behind a pick-up truck doing 125 kmph or so. As luck would have it, the "I" has dropped off from the large printed make name, and all I see written in front of me is "Daca" (the truck is evidently a Dacia, a popular Romanian brand). If there's a God, (S)He sure loves irony (Daca means "If" in Romanian).

The sky starts turning dark grey around 6.05am, though I know sunrise is still a while away. The air is cold and the headlights of the oncoming traffic are distracting, sometimes blinding. The only comfort is the crackling voice, on the radio, of Richard Marx crooning, "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you".

I reach the airport around 7.20, shortly after dawnbreak - it took me more time to navigate the streets of Bucureşti than to traverse the distance between the two cities!

I have to wait a while before the check-in opens, but at least I have the satisfaction of being first in line for the counter that still reads "Milan". Meanwhile, my cellphone battery dies, and I can't spot any electric sockets around. But that's alright, I am not expecting any calls.

When the counter opens, a smartly dressed ground staffer checks my details and assigns me a window seat, not on the wing, as requested. And then, the printer refuses to print my boarding pass. The poor staffer struggles with the printer, and after 15 mts of what can only be described as bloody war, he is finally able to get me my boarding pass.

All I have to do now, is go through the security screen. As I am collecting my belt, wallet, jacket etc., a security guard comes up with my backpack and asks, "Is this yours?"

"Yes"

"Open it please"

I ask her what she's looking for, and she tells me: "Two bottles". I know right away that she's talking about the two jars of zacuscă that a friend gave me last night. I take them out, and she tells me, "You can't take that. Creams not allowed."

"This is not cream", I reason, "this is food." By now, a small contingent of security people has congregated around me. A helpful guard points me to the words, "..or objects of similar consistency" on the poster listing the items not permitted past the security screen.

A stout and scruffy man, who is quite evidently the supervisor, trudges over. After a quick word in Romanian with the guards, he shakes his head and tells me solemnly, "You can either throw this away, or check it in."

Of course, I know he is right. "I'll check it in," I say gruffly.

There is no way I am leaving the zacuscă behind. Nor am I checking in my laptop and the glass jars for Heathrow. I pick up my wallet and keys and put them in my pockets very slowly. I take my own sweet time getting the belt and jacket on. Then I pick up my backpack, and studiously walk right to Gate number 9.

Rules are not for Indians. Not in Romania.

Gate number 9 is currently boarding for Milan. I take a seat, and try playing with my laptop. After the flight has been boarded, the gate display changes to say that Athens, scheduled for 10.05, is checking in. This makes me nervous - may be they've changed the gate for the London flight. I want to check, but there are no staffers at the gate. So I walk to the other gates - 7, 8, 10, 11, and 12 asking each if they know anything about a gate change. They don't, and advise me to wait.

After what seems like an interminable length of time, I ask the lady to my left for time, and it is already past the boarding time. So both of us jump up, and start asking the staffers at the other gates again. They still have no clue, and again advise us to wait. I am in no mind to follow that piece of advice, and tell my fellow passenger that I will go and check upstairs (Yes, there are gates right over one another - ground floor gates open outside for boarding via stairs while the first floor gates are used to board via jetways/ aerobridges).

Sure enough, the gate for London has been changed to 5, and sure enough, the flight is late by a half hour. By the time we board, however, it is clear that takeoff will be delayed by over a quarter and one hour.

As I sit down in my seat, I suddenly feel very tired. It is as though I have walked a thousand miles. I have no idea what the girl in the aisle seat is saying to me, and my eyes are droopy; but before drifting off, I do manage to tell her to hide her phone as the host who told her to switch it off is coming back towards us.

I am woken up by the host who has brought me the special "raw vegetarian" meal. My neighbor, it turns out, is returning to London after 4 months to give it another chance. She spent about 8 months there the first time around, but couldn't stand being away from family and friends. Originally from a small town close to the Moldova border, she has been living in Bucureşti, working for a car rental company. The owner of the company, she says, is smart: He doesn't ask for hundreds of Euros worth of deposit for rental cars, and instead charges a fee of €20 which goes directly to profits. Smart indeed, I agree.

She tells me about what she used to do in London (site manager for a construction company), where she used to live, how her boyfriend totalled the car they loved and didn't have insurance for, and how she was supposed to fly the day before yesterday but couldn't. She also tells me about a few good Romanian restaurants in London, though unfortunately, I have forgotten the names :-(

This is the fourth time she is going back to her boyfriend. "I used to be a happy person," she tells me. In spite of everything, I have to struggle hard to suppress a smile. I am sure (S)He must be laughing somewhere.

We land in Heathrow about a half hour late. Thankfully, since my seat is close to the aircraft's exit, I am among the first people to get off. I overtake the rest of the people en route to the border controls, and manage to be the first person in the "Non EU passports" queue. Border controls and customs are a breeze, and I am able to run into the Picadilly Line tube about to depart.

It is already after 1pm by the time I reach home. I need to unpack, repack, shower, shave, and dress in formals quickly, and get to Upper Slaughter for a company event. While I would have liked to go to office for a little while before that, there's no time now.

As I run to the tube station, I manage to grab some Chinese take-away food, and get to the Paddington station at what I consider to be a reasonable time considering that I need to reach the hamlet called Upper Slaughter only around 4pm. At the self-service ticket kiosk, I don't see Upper Slaughter in the list of stations connected to Paddington by train, so I go in to the counter and ask for help. The cheerful and polite African lady tries to help, but can not figure out how I could get to Upper Slaughter.

Time to open my magic laptop. Apparently, the closest station to Upper Slaughter is Kingham, from where it is a 15 mts taxi ride to the hotel. Excellent! I buy a return ticket from the kiosk, and look at the departure boards. Hmmm...no trains listed as calling at Kingham.

A quick trip to the information desk reveals that I just missed a train, the next one is due for 3.51pm (I'm definitely not getting there by 4pm as planned) and the platform would be announced 5 mts or so before then.

The 3.51pm train is just a couple of minutes late - in India, we wouldn't even call it late - in arriving at Paddington, but drops me off at Kingham shortly after 5.15pm as per schedule. As I walk out, I see a little bus, and the driver is looking straight at me. Perhaps, he is waiting for me. But I don't recognize the town name on it. So I wave him off, and set out to find myself a taxi.

There is a car park double the size of the station itself, but I can not see any taxis. Heck, there is not a living soul in sight anymore. I check all the signs and posters to scout for information. Nothing! Of course, the office is closed as it is after 5pm.

So I walk towards the road on which the occasional vehicle seems to zoom by. No taxis. I try tumbing a ride, but no one seems keen to stop, which is understandable considering that most of the drivers seem to be little old ladies. In any case, even if they did stop, I haven't a clue as to which direction I need to go.

I walk up to the building about 200m and knock on the door. The gentleman answering the door is kind enough to tell me that there are no cabs within town, and that the closest place to get a cab would be Chipping Norton. He also tells me that there are taxi service numbers posted back at the station.

Getting back to the station, I am finally able to locate the numbers, and call from the public phone booth at the station. I try all the services I can till my coins run out, but none of the taxi services is willing to send anyone this far away.

Thus I wait for the bus, and board it when it arrives. It is going to Bledington but is the only bus that plies by Kingham, and on its return journey, it will indeed go to Chipping Norton. I am fine with that, and welcome the opportunity to sit in the bus as opposed to freezing outside. The driver recognizes me from his previous trip, and asks me where I need to go.

"Upper Slaughter"

"Upper Whaa?"

"Slaughter"

"Huh?"

"Sloter"

"Sorry, whaa?"

"Slowwter. S.L.A.U.G.H.T.E.R."

"Oh, Slowthaa!"

"Yeah, I guess I should be able to get a taxi from Chipping"

Finally we reach the last stop in Chipping Norton, but there are still no taxis in sight. The jovial and perky driver, however, tells me not to worry.

He leaves me at the Fox Hotel's bar after speaking to the landlady. The nice landlady phones a cabbie, and he promises to get down in about 20 minutes. So I sit there sipping some Orange-Passionfruit J2O, reading The Guardian, and waiting for the cab, which arrives promptly in about 30 minutes.

As it turns out, Upper Slaughter is just about 20 minutes away from Chipping Norton. On the way to the hotel, the driver tells me that India has won the 20-20 cricket world cup final against Pakistan. Finally...something to celebrate.

Monasterie de Curtea de Argeş

Decided to go to the monastery in Curtea de Argeş on Sunday afternoon. Since curtea means "court", I am guessing that in older times, this place must have been the capital or seat of government for the region. While hypothetically the word could also have been used in the same sense that my hometown is in the "courtyard of the Ganges" or in the "backyard of the Himalayas", I think the probability of that is low simply because the Argeş does not flow through the hamlet (Argeş is the name of both the river and the region).

Driving down there from Piteşti is interesting as the landscape gets increasingly magnificent. While it does not exactly become breathtaking by the time one reaches Curtea de Argeş, it does stoke one's imagination, and seduces one to go on further. Alas, on this occasion that does not seem to be a possibility.

As I drive closer to the monastery, it surprises me that even in this little hamlet, the main road is one-way. Thankfully the monastery's parking is large enough to hold a few cars.

The monastery itself is a remarkable piece of work. The living quarters are made of brick, with crawlers covering the walls in beautiful autumn colors. Inside the church, there are make-shift counters selling talismans, trinkets, and assorted material for various rituals.

All around me are murals of Romanian "saints", ALL of whom are battle-armored and heavily armed. It is not too far-fetched a guess, I suppose, that they were all leaders of various factions in the crusades.

Interestingly, in the main chamber, two large frescoes dominate the ceiling: naştere (birth) on the left and cină (supper) on the right. It is especially noteworthy as immediately outside the building, there are two little structures for lighting candles: left one to pray for the alive and the right one for the dead.

Cină (the last supper) is curious in another way too. While 10 apostles are at a distance from Christ, just like in the DaVinci painting, two are physically not just close to Him, but almost embrace Him. More importantly, these two are almost certainly women.

I walk out, light the candles praying for the alive and for the dead, and proceed to the main cathedral, where some repair works seem to be underway.

En route to the cathedral, I am introduced to the legend behind it. It is said that the workers building the monastery were struggling with a peculiar problem: they'd build the walls by the day, and by night these would come down, and they'd start again the next day with the same result. Then one day the chief architect Meşterul Manole had a dream. He was instructed to follow the ancient custom of placing a living woman into the foundations. In fact, he was to bury the first woman to turn up at the site in the morning. As luck would have it, the first one to turn up that morning was his wife Ana. To this day one can see a sign stamped on the outside of the cathedral wall where Ana is supposedly buried. Some heartwarming tale this!

The architecture of the cathedral bears significant influence of Turish architecture. So much so, that it look more like an ornate mausoleum than a cathedral. This influence comes as no surprise considering that its consecration on 15 August 1517 (on the Assumption of the Virgin) was done in the presence of outstanding Orthodox luminaries, led by the Patriarch Theolipt of Constantinople.

The inside of the cathedral is elegant and foarte frumos. It's a pity that the inside chamber is closed to visitors.

At the gate, a gent says, "Namaste". He wants me to click a picture of him, his wife and toddler together at the gate. Though the girls are in a hurry, and even a bit annoyed, I oblige willingly. Couldn't have said no to that request. Not after he said "Namaste" to me.

Not too far from the cathedral is a small spring of cool water called Manole's fountin. I suspect (imagine?) that there is some legend behind it too, though I am not regaled with any such tales.

The monastery tour complete, it is time to grab a bite. The eatery is at some distance, a short-walk past charming houses sporting wooden columns and trees laden with little purple apples.

At the restaurant, a furry, cute kitten has drawn the fancy of the girls, who are doting over it. It walks over to me and I stroke its head gently.

The plump but agile landlady (or is she merely a waitress?) with a gentle face is merry and good-natured. She seems happy to see someone visiting from a different part of the world, and even happier that I am able to pronounce the menu items almost correctly.

She tells me that I can take away the cat as a gift, if I like. I think to myself, "I would like to, though not the one you refer to."

The coated pressed cheese (caşcaval) and grilled mushrooms (ciupercă grătar?) are out of this world. Still apă (water) is called flat, while sparkling is referred to as mineral. Surprisingly, the beer is German, not Romanian.

On the way back, I drive as slowly as I dare to, wanting to make the day last a little longer. But of course, Piteşti appears much sooner than I was hoping.

I decide that my pit stop for the night is to be Hotel Metropole (derived from Metropolitanate, I guess). Inevitably, there is a wedding across the street, and the loud merry music fills the ears of the night.

Before retiring, I end up at a bar for a nightcap. I notice that it is an unusual bar, with the seating area divided into separate chambers each with its own television. I spend some time chatting with a technocrat and mathematics teacher, leaving him with a tech/maths riddle. Tomorrow I'll be far away from this town.

Click here to check out my pictures from Curtea de Argeş of 23 Sept 2007.

Far, Near: Prose In Verse

I wander in a foreign land
That's what a wanderer does
I don't decide where I go
Feet take me where they must

'Tis where they bring me now
My eyes n' ears too conspired
For to hear her voice and
see her smile they desired

A dark night of a long day
I search for her in the alley
She's standing in the stairs,
I see then, front of a galley

She turns arounds, spots me
Her face glows with a smile
I want to stop in my tracks,
Watch that look for a while

And I thought not it possible
But this cool eve of September
Standing there she's no doubt
More beautiful than I remember

So I just walk down to her
She steps forward, it's fate
Embraces me with a "Hello" and
I wish time would stop and wait

As we go inside the place
She asks me, "How are you?"
How am I? "No complaints"
And believe it, that's true

But I just leave it at that
Don't finish my words through
"No complaints of my life
One that led me to meet you"

Tho' I listen to her friends
And I laugh at their jokes
Small talk isn't of interest
No sentiment it provokes

If you don't say the one thing
You want so much it does you maul
Where is the merit in saying
anything but anything at all?

And all I really want to do
is reach over, grab n kiss her
And to hold her in my arms
and to stay that way for ever

But I avoid all tactility
My heart's stubborn child is gruff
Wants "all or nothing" & knows
Her slightest touch'd make it tough

Her touch, her glance, her smile
It'd make me weak n' do me hew
I might just be lost forever
without a chance of rescue

To be lost or torn apart
I don't know what's worse
It maybe dull, prosaic to you
But to me it's all inverse

When we were a long way afar
I spent every second with her
Musings of her loomed by day
by night her dreams occured

And now that I sit alongside
there's a yawning gap between
I sit tight deadpan or else
I know which way I'd careen

Night gets late, gathering over
We're split up, bidding goodnight
She wakes me later, her face
so close to mine, smile so bright

My lips caress her face, quivering
My head rests on hers, eyes close
My face aches, but I let escape
words nor kisses, mighty flows

Is not a fire in sight
Does something burn inside?
Can't see the flames, for sure
But smoke gets in my eyes

But then she kisses my eyes,
my lips n face, holds my hand
She kisses my face some more
Kisses that say, "I understand"

My face is soaked with kisses
Like torrential showers they rain
As a cool stream through desert
They wash away all the pain

When my eyes open, she's gone
And I am all alone in my bed
Sitting still and pondering
Every thing that was unsaid

Well, 'twas a dream perhaps
It must have been a dream
Because my face still aches
And there's no cool stream

There's not a fire in sight
Does something burn inside?
Can't see the flames, I know
Yet smoke gets in my eyes

I hear that some times
some dreams do come true
I wonder what wishes are
the ones that bear fruit

You might think I'm daft,
weird, pathetic or insane
Truth be told, I'd agree but
what to do with the pain?

Don't make fun, don't cry for me
And certainly hold the requiem
My destiny's far, I know, but what
keeps me alive is chasing the dream

Piteşti

Drove down to Piteşti on Saturday evening via the Bucureşti-Piteşti highway (or simply "the highway", as that's the only one in Romania). Piteşti, the capital of Argeş, is about a 100km from Bucureşti.

From what I've read, T. Bowyer's comment on Piteşti, based on Luigi Mayer's etchings was, "nothing more wild or romantic can be conceived".

Geographically, it is not all that different from my hometown, surrounded as it is by hills and located as it is on the banks of a river. I hear that they grow plums here and use them to produce what is considered to be one of the finest Romanian ţuicas.

Wandering about, I take refuge in the first hotel around the city center that I can find. It turns out to be Hotel Victoria. Yes, irony is my middle name. 1500 miles from London, and the hotel I end up at is called Victoria.

I can't be bothered by the fact that there is a boisterous wedding party going on in the hotel's restaurant. They are not even close to being as loud as Indian weddings.

For dinner, Quattro Stagioni is just around the corner. At the restaurant, I run into a couple of American Peace Corps volunteers. One of them happens to have lived in not just the same city, but the same street in which I used to live in America. Small world? You bet! Should I even bother noticing ironies anymore? Who knows?

The waitress takes her time to take the order and bring the food, which suits me just fine. I order pizza as that seems to be the specialty of the joint. Hmmm...around here they evidently do not put any sauce on the pizza. Instead, they supply some sauce in a separate bowl. The American girl helpfully explains that sometimes this sauce could simply be tomato ketchup right out of the bottle. The pizza is not the best I have eaten, but I am taken by the sauce bowls shaped like Aladdin's lamp. I notice another amusing fact: The name of "the" beer around here is Ursus - so they drink the bear beer.

When the American Peace Corps volunteer finds out where I am parked for the night, she proffers the local knowledge that the Bar Victoria is a seat for prostitution. Now that is one piece of information that I could have happily gone through my life without knowing. I really didn't need to know that. Anyway, she's been in this country for just under two years, and feels the need to talk to someone "from home". So I humor her.

There's a club called Temple right across the street from Hotel Victoria. A pretty strange place too, for while the music is loud and thumping, 90% of the crowd seems happy to either just stand there or do the minimalist waltz. Of course there is the odd girl dancing on a table, but aside from that this is probably as dead a nightclub as I have ever seen.

It's not long before the owner finds objection to our blocking the passageway and we decide we are done which, I think, is just as well. A short walk follows before I call it a day.

A dream wakes me up a little early in the morning. Then I try and sleep in fits and starts till I finally get up around 9.30. What does today have in store? A quick trip to Sibiu? A trek up the surrounding hills perhaps? We'll see...

First things first, I need to check out of the hotel. That done, I leave the car in the hotel's parking and walk down to the Piteşti centrum, where a significant population of the town has converged to celebrate Sunday. Happy families are here to visit the Church of Saint George (kirk de Sfântu Gheorghe?). They are shopping at the special little market. Little kids are enjoying the tricycles and other rides available for rent. And far too many are enjoying the beer and the chicken being grilled by the guy who fans the stove with a blow dryer.

The meandering, serpentine flower-beds and paths look spectacular. I just wish I could fly or otherwise gain some altitude, and take an aerial picture. And I absolutely love the astronomy fountain - it's got a rotating earth at the core, and constellation signs engraved on the boundary wall.

Adults look at me with furtive glances, noticing my unusual skin color. But children and old people, who have fewer inhibitions, are more persistent with their questioning gazes asking, "What are you doing here?" And I respond with a smile that says, "Don't look at me. I don't have all the answers."

The local bookshop is named after Mihai Eminescu, the national poet. Further down is the Curtea de Apel. While Mircea cel Bătrân's statue still stands across the road from Galeria de Arta, they've dug up the whole area. In fact, they've evidently hit a sewage line, and some foul-smelling slurry is accumulating in a pit nearby.

Once I have walked the walk, I go back to the hotel to pick up the car, and drive around town. I come across several rows upon rows of identical building blocks, a result, no doubt, of the systemization program of Ceauşescu. The gara (railway station), a major junction, is of the same mold. The winds of change have blown some of this over, however, and there are many smaller villas and other standalone houses. Additionally, of course, there are large modern apartment blocks that give the illusion of being from the systemization era due to their scale. What sets them apart is the "inefficient and unnecessary" design and colors.

I drive on. Bono cries, "I will follow" over the radio.

Click here to check out my pictures from Piteşti of 23 Sept 2007.

Bucureşti

I wake up a little late in the morning, and after checking out, I leave the car in the parking and go around the corner for a dekko at Gara de Nord. The station is grand, and it isn't hard to see that this is the most important one in Romania. The building is not quite imposing, but it's got that feeling of strength and wisdom.

There are florists all around the gara, and many of them carry flowers in the most shocking colors that I have ever seen - cobalt blue, shocking pink, and many others. And some of these florist have bouquets of interesting combinations of these bright colors.

As I walk along, one thing that puzzles me is the network of cables hanging 15 feet over the roads. What could possibly be their purpose? So far I haven't seen anything utilizing them.

Anyhow, I go down one of the subway entraces to the Gara to check it out. But of course, there are turnstiles bloking the path and demanding a ticket, which I don't have. And I have no intention of buying one, as there is nowhere I have to go.

So I walk back to the hotel's parking, still wondering about the whole web of cables over the roads. This couldn't be for the trams - trams would only need on straight set of cables directly above the rails, while these cables are all over and going in all possible directions. Could this be how electricity is distributed to buildings? Seems highly unlikely as it would be hugely wasteful and confusing. Besides, I can not see any of these cables actually entering any building.

I am still engrossed in this thought when a couple of kids shout "Salaam Walaikum" to me from the footpath. They probably think I am Egyptian or something. Not wanting to disappoint them, I yell back "Walaikum Assallaam", and they carry on, giggling.

As I get out of the parking, I decide that my first stop for the day is to be the Palace of Parliament. Driving down to the palace, I notice some people driving over the tram tracks. Now, I haven't ever driven over tram tracks, except in Microsoft Midtown Madness San Francisco, but I like the idea and take to it like fish to water.

The concept is especially appealing as the width of the roads is often deceptive. Driving down a wide, 3-lane avenue, one suddenly realizes that the two right lanes aren't moving. It isn't because of traffic lights either - these cars are parked in the middle of the road!

Palatul Parlamentului is unique for several reasons. For one, as everyone will go to great lengths to convey, it is the second largest administrative building in the world, bested only by the Pentagon (which, incidentally, was built to be converted to a library upon the end of the war).

While it was briefly called Casa Poporului, Palatul Parlamentului is the name that has stuck. And to me, that name speaks volumes. By no means have I travelled to every country around the world, but I suspect there is no other nation that calls the building housing its parliament a palace. The magnificent palace was built by Ceauşescu as his own residence, but winds of change blew fast and hard enough to substitute him with a parliament. And yet, how could you call such a spectacular building anything but a palace?

The biggest irony of all, I think, is how this palace has seen Romania's move from one extreme to the other. While it was built by communist Ceauşescu, today one can rent many of the grand rooms for business conferences and even private functions.

There is a steep fee for photographing, and an even steeper one for videographing. But the 20 RON entry fee includes an English tour. The truth is, the only way one can get in as a tourist, is with the tour guide. Anyhow, though I didn't notice it at the time, entry fee is RON 5 upon producing a student ID. I feel like a fool for not taking advantage of that. My only consolation, I guess, is that I did smuggle my camera in and clicked a few pictures.

The palace is as magnificent and elegant as it gets. The carpets, the curtains, the wood panels, the marble columns and floors, all are from another era. The tour guide explains that all the materials and workmanship is Romanian, though some rooms draw architectural inspiration from other parts of the world.

Legend has it that the construction of the palace created such a massive demand for Romanian marble that tombstones throughout the country had to be made from other materials.

Another much discussed fact is how numerous churches, synagogues and houses were razed to build the palace. Many of the people thus displaced to small apartments couldn't adjust and committed suicide.

Notwithstanding the dark history, one can't help but marvel about the sheer scale of the enterprise. The guide tells me that the palace contains 3500 tonnes of crystal - chandeliers, lights, mirrors, window & door panes, all are crystal.

The ceilings of most rooms contain holes for natural ventilation - not as a concession to the environment, I suspect, but a sign of the treacherous times where poisoning air vents would have been a very real possibility.

There is also an emphasis on natural light, with skylights and large windows in most rooms. The acoustics in this place are absolutely phenomenal, except in the one room that was built specifically for opera.

As always, my camera's battery dies just before the best part. While I have wisened up and bought an additional battery for such eventualities, on this occasion the extra battery is in the car, and I am not allowed to just run out and get it. So I have to make do with a few pictures grudgingly taken with my good-for-nothing phone camera.

The palace also houses the Muzeul Naţional de Artă Contemporană, which, unfortunately, is evidently not open on Saturdays. So, it's time to leave the compound. As I walk out, I catch melodious strains of music coming from the park across the road. Aha, a party under the sky. Wonderful! But not for me. Not today.

Upon reaching Arcul de Triumf, I try parking on the striped area beside another one parked there. Little do I know that this is an unmarked police car. Two cops come running and tell me that I'll have to move.

I wonder whether the police is normally deployed in this area or it is here because of the protest march for which many bikers seem to be congregating. Anyway, I do have to move, so I slide out slowly and into a bylane to park in a private area.

The Arcul de Triumf is every bit as majestic as it looks in the pictures. It reminds me of India Gate in Delhi, though here the piaţă is smaller. In the flower-beds around the piaţă are bright yellow marigolds. I have never seen a marigold outside India before this.

One can climb up the Arc, passing through some depressingly dark and dingy landings. Once on the top, though, one doesn't want to climb back down for one gets the illusion of being able to look at the whole of a green and enchanting Bucureşti.

Considering that the Arcul de Triumf is modelled after Arc de Triomphe in Paris, it is only fitting that the next piaţă I cross, just a few hundred metres down, is Piaţă Charles de Gaulle.

Not far from Arcul de Triumf is the Institutul Agronomic. And as luck would have it, they are having a Rural Romania exposition there today. I walk in and wander around in wonder, looking at the stalls promoting fabric, traditional clothing, handicrafts, and tourism. The fur caps look exactly like their Russian equivalents, but the handicrafts as well as costumes are enchanting. I see Peninsula Eden's presentation, and make a mental note that Tulcea seems worth visiting. And then a folk musician starts to play his flute. Oh, the flute! I am not buying any souvenirs yet; perhaps I'll be back.

I would really like to visit Mausoleul din Parcul Carol (Parcul Carol was called Parcul Libertăţii during the communist era), Avântul ţării, Memorialul Renaşterii, Ateneul Român, Curtea Veche, Hanul lui Manuc and Romanian Architects Association, but all I have time for today is Palatul Cotroceni. Maybe I'll get another chance to visit the places I miss out on this weekend.

So I drive down towards Palatul Cotroceni and inevitably get lost. Stopping at a Farmacie to get directions, I am delighted to see an Indian brand of OTC (Over The Counter) drugs/ supplements prominently displayed in the showcase. The lady is really nice, and is able to give me directions to the palace, even though she hardly speaks a word of English. The great thing about asking for directions in this country is that people actually tell you distances in kilometers and meters (at most other places, they would either skip the distance part, or give distances in minutes...or sometimes in blocks).

En route, I am finally able to solve the mystery of the wild wired web: apparently Bucureşti's multi-faceted public transportation system includes trolleybuses.

The palace is located in a large compound surrounded by a strong wall. Upon reaching the correct gate of Cotroceni Palace, I am told that the palace is open for visitors only Monday through Friday. Oh, well!

Lionel Richie is still singing "I wonder where you are, and I wonder what you do..." Is it just me or does the FM radio keep repeating the same songs over and over?

Next stop, Piteşti.

Click here to check out my pictures from Bucureşti of 22 Sept 2007.

Getting to RoaMania

When I was trying to book my ticket, I essentially considered two options: British Airways and Tarom Romanian Air Transport which are priced comparably. Partly because British Airways has pissed me off by consistently losing my luggage, and partly to begin my Romanian experience even before reaching the country, I booked my flight on Tarom.

As an aside, I also checked out Blue Air, which was offering rock-bottom airfares but not the dates I was looking for. So if your dates are flexible, you may be able to fly to Romania at a small fraction of what BA or Tarom charge. Don't be concerned by the fact that Blue flies to Băneasa airport (Aurel Vlaicu International Airport) as it is even closer to the city than than Otopeni airport (Henry Coandă International Airport), and the two airports are pretty close to each other anyway. Also, I hear that the low-cost carrier EasyJet has plans underfoot to start a London-Bucureşti service from mid-October or thereabouts.

My flight is due to take off from Heathrow at 12.30pm on Friday, and I reach the check-in desk at around 11.20am. The tall, wiry gentleman asks if I have any luggage to check in, and I tell him I don't. He wants to check the weight of the backpack which I am taking as cabin baggage, so I place it on the scale. He shakes his head, "13kg is too much. Maximum allowed 6.5kg. You'll have to check it."

But I am not about to check in my new laptop, and definitely not at Heathrow, "Listen, I could just take a few things out and put in my jacket pockets and carry this thing into the cabin. Won't make any difference."

I don't know it if is my words that get him or my disposition, but he doesn't say anything, and hands me my boarding pass.

Next stop security screening. Of course they have to find something that they want to examine. This time it is my laptop. Since I have the laptop screen covered with the white unspun-fabric dust-cover that it came in, it is a suspicious object and warrants a chemical screening. I don't mind - all this keeps things at least a little interesting before the flight time.

And as it turns out, the flight is late anyway. In fact, even the gate number hasn't been announced by 12.20pm. Oh, well, some people may be in a hurry to get to wherever it is that they are going, but for me not really knowing where exactly I am going is almost liberating. It liberates me from the shackles of timeliness worries in any case.

On board, I find a relatively old but clean plane with dated upholstery and entertainment system. The service is efficient and provided with a smile, and the nice middle-aged hostess comes back offering extra bread, minutes after she has distributed the food trays. There is some wine available, though I can't vouch for it, not having tried it. While my neigbor grunts and groans about not getting the vodka that he could really have used, I am impressed with the warmth of the service. Heck, they even put a large piece of roasted chicken in one of the containers of my "raw vegetarian" food.

We land in the Henry Coandă airport around 5.30pm local time. I guess that ours is the only international flight that has landed in this part of the airport as the queues at passport control aren't too long. I reckon that I can beat the queues completely if I take a quick bathroom break. This turns out to be exactly right as when I get back in a couple of minutes, there are just 3-4 people in queue at each window.

Just as I am walking to one of them, a nice, young lady waves me over to the counter that she has just gotten behind. She looks at me closely, trying to match my face to the picture on the visa. She asks me to hold my hair back, which is funny because I think I have some hair falling on my forehead in the visa picture. But I do follow her instructions; she is finally satisfied and starts jotting down the details.

Then she asks me for my address in Romania, and realizing that I don't have a clue, I am at a loss for words for a few seconds. She tries to help me, "Do you have a letter of invitation?" (Indians need a letter of invitation from a Romanian citizen to be granted a visa). I start telling her, "I do have a letter of invitation, but...", and as I am thinking about how to complete that sentence, she chimes in with, "..but it's in the luggage." and a smile.

I nod vigorously, notwithstanding the fact that I have no checked-in luggage and the hardcopy of the letter under question is in fact safely resting in my room in London.

Next, she asks if I remember the address where I'd be staying, which of course I don't because I don't even know it yet. So she asks if it is in Bucureşti, and I add that subtle touch of authenticity to my story by saying, "No, Sighişoara".

Passport control taken care of, I go through to the rental cars area in the "marketplace" between the two buildings of the airport.

Europcar, with whom I had made an online reservation, do not have a car for me. The person at the desk is polite but can't really help me, though he does try to contact the "headquarters" to see how the money I paid online for the reservation would be returned to me.

I am easily able to get an Opel Corsa from the Dollar/ Thrifty counter next door. Though my driving license is asked for and copied for records, it raises no suspicion that some letters on it seem extra dark. This makes me happy as these letters are actually a result of my printing over the original expiry date of the license issued in Florida.

You see, my license expired on 31 May along with my US visa, and therefore to rent a car I had to change the year in the expiration date. Anyway, as they say, it is forgery only if you get caught. In this particular case, I like to think I just used a little bit of poetic license (no pun intended).

So, I take the car issued on a non-forged, poetically-creative driving license, park it in the rental car return parking and go hunting for local currency since my car-rental clerk told me that as I had guessed, most places in town would accept cash only. Since I want to use my Barclays Bank card to pay, the currency exchange places want to convert my money from GBP to USD and then USD to EUR, and then would only pay me in EUR. "Bollocks!", I say, and just use my card to withdraw some cash in RON/Lei from an ATM.

Car and cash taken care of, I drive down to the town. As I get into the busy city roads, the complete lack of road signs makes me ponder over the irony of the fact that Europcar, which did not have a car available for me had some spare GPS's, but Dollar/ Thrify, which was able to rent me a car did not have any GPS devices available.

As one drives down from the "aeroport" into Bucureşti, the first thing one notices is the tram line bifurcating the street. The rails are very pronounced and surrounded by iron fencing at first, but as one gets get closer to the city, these gradually sink into the road till they become almost subtle.

Like the quintessential wanderer that I am, I drive around town, passing interesting buildings like Bucureşti Mall on the way. The night has fallen by the time I get to the Unirii Square (of course I don't know it is Unirii Square at the time) in the Centrul Civic area (city center).

Unirii Square is abuzz with activity. Like a central market in any large city, it is packed with huge billboards and electronic signs. The dancing fountains with their floral designs and mosaic patterns, however, prevent it from being tastelessly commercial. I park the car on the footpath by a fountain, and get out for some fresh air. And the cool breeze makes me want to lie down and sleep right there.

A text message from a friend reminds me that I need to find a place to spend the night. Oh, well, that shouldn't be much trouble in a capital city, I think. I spend a little more time wandering around the square, before setting off to find a place to hang my hat for the night. Easier said than done. It takes a few false starts, some getting lost into small lanes with charming houses that I swear I'd come back and shoot in the morning, and some driving around to find a little hotel arcross the road from Piata Progresso.

The receptionist calls the owner so that we may speak in English. While the single rooms are listed at 40 Lei a night, the owner tell me that none are available, of course, and that I'll have to get a double room for 100 Lei (typical bait and switch). That's not too bad a price, I think, and ask if they have Internet available in the rooms. The answer is "no", and that is a deal breaker.

So I take directions from some kids playing chess outside a florist shop, a couple of policemen, and a taxi driver, and combine them to navigate to Ibiz at Gara de Nord recommended by my friend. Ibiz is neat and modern, and at EUR 55 a night definitely more expensive than the crumbly, decreipt little place at Piata Progresso. Oh, and they charge you extra for parking (2 Lei an hour) and breakfast (15 Lei, I think). They have Internet available in rooms, but only via ethernet cables. If you don't have one, they'll happily sell one to you at the princely rate of EUR 7!

So be it, I think, and settle down for the night, but not before replacing my T-Mobile UK SIM with an Orange Romania SIM that I bought at a petrol pump/ gas station outside the airport. Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

Click here to check out my pictures from Bucureşti of 21 Sept 2007.

Without a Paddle

Thousands of miles away
and we're oceans apart
You are so far from me
Yet, so close to my heart

And I wonder how you are,
whether bright or blue
I wonder whom you think of,
for I am thinking of you

I sit unmoving for hours
Forget to stop, when on road
I'm immersed in your thoughts
and my heart might explode

Daylong, surrounded by people
I wish the day to end and
for them to leave me alone
But then holding sun's hand
the eve-belle takes it away,
Night steps on heart of land,
everyone's left as I wished
The loneliness, I can't stand

My feet are made of lead,
under their weight I crush
Thoughts, sparring warlords
turning my brain to mush

And if I smile sometime
Then my lips, they hurt
Like I'm living someone
else's life, that curt

I breathe, I talk, I walk,
so I guess I am alive
In this living without you
but there is just no life

I know the day'll be over soon
I agree when they tell me alas
life's too short. But then,
why doesn't this moment pass?

A bastide in South France

The plan for Sunday is to go around the village, have lunch at home with some folks that have been invited, and then go around to check out the little château and maybe hike in the hills a bit.

Like yesterday, though, we start a little late. After breakfast, we walk down to the village and have a look around. The local bar used to be a members' only club, and technically still is. It is also a gathering place for hunters, and the many awards are displayed in a case. Incidentally, today marks the beginning of the hunting season.

We walk around through the winding little paths, through the football field, the church, and the local school. The weather-beaten houses are equipped with modern dishes for television and Internet connections.

Then my friend remembers a little sulphur stream, and we decide to check it out. It is a little bit of a disappointment as they have plumbed it into a water-pipe, and the stream has reduced to a trickle anyway.

The sun is getting warm, and it's time to get back to the farmhouse. The farmhouse is amazing, to tell the truth.

The driveway is lined with trees. Inside, it is tastefully painted and decorated. Outside, there is a nice pool, a fold for goats, a hammock and even a pétanque court. Speaking of pétanque, I learn to play the game when we get back from the village.

Pétanque is a very French game that originated in this province of Provence. Since we are four people, we play doublets, i.e. two teams of two players each with three boules per player.

Here's how it is played: First, a playing circle is drawn at one end of the court. Then one player tosses the jack (a small plastic ball) so that it stops around 6 to 10 metres away from the circle.

The player that tossed the jack then plays the first boule, trying to place it as close to the jack as possible. Then the opposing team must get closer to the jack and keeps playing until they succeed. When they do, it is back to the first team to do better, and so forth.

A player may choose to 'place' a boule (get it as near as possible to the jack) or 'shoot' it (attempt to displace another boule). When one team runs out of boules the other team plays their remaining boules. When all boules have been played, that is the end of a 'round', and the winning team scores a point for each boule that is nearer to the jack than the opposing team's nearest boule.

The team to reach 13 points first wins. It is amazing that the new recruits (my classmate and I) are doing better than the "pros" (the father and his friend). Perhaps this is what's called beginners' luck. We end the game at 1 match each for both teams when a family that my friend's mother invited for lunch arrives.

Their little girl Isabel is very shy and speaks only in whispers, while the son Jack is the sporty type.

The lunch is takes a leisurely couple of hours. We finish a course, and chat, letting the food settle down, before the next course is served. Oh, this is fantastic. Superb food, and excellent way to enjoy it. The breaks don't just ensure that one doesn't overeat - they actually separate the courses so one can actually taste the different foods separately from each other. Excellent!

The food is sumptuous, just wonderful. And apparently, the lady of the house had to make an extra effort - she had to cook a vegetarian version in addition to the regular recipe. My friend tells me that her mom is trying to make up for last night's fondue...she thinks I didn't like it.

But I did! I'm just not a great compliment giver, and I never got the fundamental politeness of complimenting the hostess's meals down. So anyway, I do manage a word or two about the delicious lunch this time around.

Lunch over, some of us jump into the pool, while the others decide to have a look at the goats. After checking out the barn, it's time to leave. My friend's mother tells me that it was her pleasure to host me and that if I improve my French, I'd be welcome to visit even when my friends aren't there.

I am overwhelmed with all the love & affection and hospitality that I have received in these two days. I am grateful and I am speechless.

Click here to check out my pictures from the bastide of 09 Sept 2007.

Marseilles

One of my friends from America is visiting home for a couple of weeks, and insists that I must visit her there. And she manages to break me down with impeccable logic - I'm told variously that it's not like I have anything better to do, it'll be a great change from my routine, it'll be great to meet up after a long time, and of course that it is South France!

So I relent, and book my tickets with Ryan Air for the same day that she is arriving - this is the only weekend for which we can match our dates.

For a West Ender, getting to the Stansted airport is not the most fun thing ever. For one, it is a bit far, to say the least. Secondly, unlike Heathrow which is connected with the Picadilly line, Stansted is reachable only via the expensive Stansted Express.

At the airport, as I go through the security queue, I notice something unusual - they are not making anyone take off their shoes. One would have thought that there would be some sort of uniform policy about this across airports, but evidently there isn't.

That aside, the process at the airport is relatively fast. I reach the gate and decide to have a look at my boarding pass. Apparently like Southwest in the States, Ryan Air does not use assigned seating. I reckon that the queue at the gate has more than two-thirds of the plane's capacity, so there's no way I can get a window or aisle seat. Hmm...so no point wasting three-quarters of an hour standing in the queue...might as well take a seat and finish some work.

I reach Marseilles a good four hours before my friend's flight is supposed to land. I use this time to finish off some work, dine at the fancy airport restaurant, and (yup!) sleep. When I wake up, I start wondering as to in which of the two buildings my friend would arrive.

You see, I don't have her detailed flight plan, and apparently there are no flights landing in directly from America. So theoretically, she may be on board any of the flights landing around 11pm, since she'd have taken a connecting flight.

Her father is supposed to pick us up, so my best bet is to look for him. I shuttle between the buildings a few times, but don't see him. So I watch a bit of the rugby game on the telly at the airport bar, and then go back to the other building again.

I see a bored-looking girl sitting on a bench, where she has been for quite some time. She starts walking down in front of me, and ends up meeting her father at the gate of the building. As it turns out, this girl is my friend's sister. The father doesn't speak much English, and I am completely broke when it comes to Français, so I end up talking to the sister. Apparently she even knows a bit of Hindi!

My friend and her husband (also my MBA classmate and good friend) arrive shortly after 11.30, and I am extremely happy to see them again.

The father drives us, in his new Mercedes, to the farmhouse in a little village, stopping by in Aix-en-Provence to drop off the sister who has an exam in the coming week. Apparently my friend's parents live and work during their 4-day weeks in Aix-en-Provence, and retire to the bastide for 3-day weekends. Tough life!

Next day, my friend drives us to Marseilles. The first item on the agenda is visiting Château d'If. We park the car at Lafayette, and walk down to the harbor.

There is a whole fish market selling all sorts of fish. This is exotic for me, and I need to take loads of pictures. But we are in a hurry to get to Château d'If, so perhaps I'll shoot my pictures upon our return.

It is perhaps providence that of the 3-4 boats ferrying between Marseilles and the islands, we should get the Edmund Dantes.

Château d'If is like pilgrimage to me, the same way that Baker Street is to many Sherlock Holmes fans. Personally, I think that The Count of Monte Cristo is the most romantic thriller ever written.

At the very top, the roof has a convex surface, and the vertex of that is an echo point. In other words, if one stands at the center of the circular roof, one's voice echoes. A call-point for prison guards, perhaps?

After ample photo-ops, we take the Edmund Dantes back to Marseilles.

Back on solid ground, I momentarily rue not having clicked pictures of the fish market for all the stalls are long gone. Oh, well, you live, you learn.

By now we are all famished, so we walk down to the square to grab a bite. And there couldn't be a better place for that - this square is jam packed with restaurants. The first restaurant we look at, though, does not have any vegetarian offerings, which is not surprising for a coastal French city. So we settle down to eat at the next one.

The food is amazing. And eating a multi-course lunch in France, one suddenly realizes why "French Women Don't Get Fat" - the portions are small, and while dessert is customary, it is not packed with sugar and fats. Another interesting aspect of eating out is that the menu prices typically include taxes and gratuity, so one doesn't have to worry about leaving the right amount of tip.

Upon reaching the bus stop, we find that the next bus to Notre Dame is not due for another 20 minutes or so. "Fantastique!", I think, "Now I can quickly run around and get a feel for the town, and maybe click a couple of pictures."

After a little bit of roaming about I get back. Waiting at the bus stop, we hear the news: New Zealand has routed Italy. Glory be to God!

The basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde is atop the signal hill of La Garde, the highest natural point in Marseille. The ornate church is built at the site of a 13th century chapel also dedicated to Our Lady of the Guard.

Atop the belfry is a huge statue of the Virgin and Child. Inside, there is an eclectic display of mosaics, murals, paintings, plaques, model boats, war medals and (believe me!) football shirts.

The view from the compound is truly amazing...one can see all of Marseilles, and way down the sea. In unfriendlier times, I suspect, the belfry might have been used to alert the town of approaching enemy ships.

After the church, as per original plan it is time to walk around Aix-en-Provence, and pick the sister up en route to the bastide. But the light is weakening and my friends are tired so we decide to go skip it and go straight to the bastide.

When we reach "home", my friend's mom is furious at her. She tried reaching her several times, but was not able to. The point is: She didn't pick up her sister from the apartment in Aix-en-Provence, so now her mom will have to go all the way and pick her up. I volunteer to go with her. On the way she teaches me counting from 0 to 10 in French. I am able to get ready practice by reading the numbers off the license plates of the cars driving by us.

She also takes small detours to show me around: This is the land of Paul Cézanne, and considering the natural beauty, it is no wonder that numerous painters called it home. The Deux Garçons on Cours Mirabeau is said to have been frequented by Cézanne, Zola and Hemingway. Aix, the city of a thousand fountains, naturally has some famous fountains down this main road. At the top, is the "good king" René, halfway down a natural hot water fountain covered in moss, and at the bottom a monumental fountain from with three giant statues representing art, justice and agriculture.

For dinner, we have delicious Fromage Fondue, apparently extremely popular in the hilly regions of France. I can't remember the last time I've had a communal eating experience like this; I most certainly haven't eaten fondue in this manner, though this is actually how it is done.

I take a little walk outside after dinner. The sky is darker, and the stars brighter than I have seen in a long time. The breeze is cool and fresh, and it goes through my hair, lulling me to sleep.

Click here to check out my pictures from Marseilles of 08 Sept 2007.

Click here to check out my aerial pictures of 07 Sept 2007.

Quirky Queueing

I followed my wandering feet to High Street Kensington today. And there it was: A shiny new Whole Foods store!

In case you are unfamiliar with Whole Foods, it is a US-based retail chain of natural and organic foods. In fact, it is the world's largest such chain and recently acquired its closest competitor Wild Oats.

While a Whole Foods is a relatively familiar sight in US metros, I had never seen a store in London before today. The large display windows were decorated with freshly baked bread, complete with a folksy wooden cart to...well, cart them around.

It was around lunchtime, so I popped in to help myself at the hot bar. I was only slightly surprised that hot bar was even more strongly dominated by Indian recipes than the Whole Foods hot bars in America, with "Indian food" being as popular as it is in this country.

So I got some daal makhani from the hot bar, and some cous cous, asparagus, roasted garlic, beetroot, and chick peas & aubergines from the salad bar and proceeded to the check-out.

That's when I noticed something amiss. The queue seemed way too long. To my pleasant surprise though, it was moving relatively fast. And as I got to the rear-end of the queue, I could see why.

Instead of the parallel tills that one sees in US stores, or even in London groceries, Whole Foods in High Street Kensington has opted for the sequential approach that one would normally run into at London banks, post offices, and underground ticket/information offices.

Here's how it works: customers form a single queue, and a ticker/public-address-system tells the next customer which till/counter they should go to and when. The rationale, I guess, is fairness. The powers that be decided, at some point in time, that customers can not be trusted to maintain equilibrium if separate queues are used for each window. Though the rationale can be challenged using game theory (not to mention the fact that self-selection makes it relatively envy-free), this method works reasonably well where it is used because there are typically between 2 and 4 windows/ tills/ counters. Additionally, in some of these 2-4 counter places, this queueing can be justified due the lack of floor amplitude.

But here at Whole Foods, this makes absolutely no sense. In fact, if they tried to find a worse way of queueing, I doubt that they'd be able to find one. Here's the thing: they have 29 tills. While these are wrapped around the hall, giving an impression of three different banks, it is actually just one large bank of tills catering to a single queue.




Here's the problem with this method: A customer takes (say) 2 seconds to walk to counter 17 (the counter closest to the head of the queue), and (say) 35 seconds to walk to counter 29 (the counter farthest from the head of the queue. Even if the two wraparound legs are not open, the customer would take (say) 20 seconds to walk to counter 1 (the counter farthest from the head of the queue if counters 18-29 are closed). Essentially, there is a difference of at least 18 seconds between counter accessabilities of the first and the last counter.

This can create several problems for employee management. For one, if the employees are being assessed on the number of clients served per day, then the servers at the last counters will (unfairly) appear to be less efficient. If they are not being assessed on this sort of false efficiency, there is the danger that since the end-counters ensure more "downtime", these positions are much envied among servers.

Most importantly, the whole thing is highly inefficient. On a day when all counters are working (a schenario that they no doubt hope for), Whole Foods is wasting 33 seconds per customer at counter 29, 32 seconds per customer at counter 28 and so on. This quickly adds up to a few full-time equivalents.

So one is left wondering - "what were they thinking?"