Audio guides: A testimonial

I am a big fan of audio guides. Exchange wouldn't have quite been the same without audio guides in museums.

There are so many obvious advantages of audio guides. They explain the context like no guide book ever ca. You choose the pace of your trip, and you choose what you want to see/hear. And above all, all language barriers are broken thanks to that little hand held device. And above above all, the little device in your ear shuts out the very superfluous and multilingual (and often very loud) chatter that most tourists around you seem to love indulging in.

Strangely the only place in India I have seen offer audio guides (The Prince of Wales museum in Mumbai) only lets foreigners rent them, even though they are available in English and Hindi. Audio guides were also available over mobile phone for old streets of Bandra during the Bandra festival last year, but only for Vodafone customers.

But audio guides come with their disadvantages.
Audio guide writers have to tread a fine line between pandering to the average package tourist (the kind who make a beeline to the Mona Lisa in the Musée du Louvre, take Patel shots and then leave immediately) and catering to the hardcore art enthusiasts (the kind who actually understand what 'chiaroscuro' means, and can use it correctly in a sentence). It'd be nearly impossible to find a guide catering to both ends of that spectrum

Anyways, the whole point of this post was to point out two places I recently visited which easily had the best audio guides I have encountered (so far).

One was at the Beatles experience in Liverpool. Now the Beatles experience is not an 'official' Beatles museum by any means, even if it is the world's largest collection of Beatles related memorabilia under a single roof. But its audio guide itself does enough to stake a very genuine claim to being the Beatles experience.

For one, the initial part of the audio guide (covering their childhood and Quarrymen days) is mainly narrated by John Lennon's half sister, Julia. Also featuring on the audio guide is Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Sir George Martin, recordings of Brian Epstein speaking, and a host of other Beatles related personalities. An audio guide with George Martin reminiscing about the Abbey Road sessions while you stare at an exhibit of recording equipment from Abbey Road studios, gives it a kind of legitimacy which other audio guides can never replicate. More than enough to leave Beatles fans drooling.

The other audio guide which merits a mention here is the one at the Roman baths in Bath. The brilliance of this one is that it has three parallel lines of narration (in English itself).

One is your typical serious narrative which dwells on the historic and artistic aspects of the surroundings. Very technical and educational. The second channel, which is narrated by Bill Bryson, in true Brysonesque style, somewhat on the lighter side, focusing on his personal observations rather than the historic significance. Very 'out of syllabus'. The last channel is designed specifically for kids, and weaves a fascinating story with Roman characters, legions etc, instead of just a factual or descriptive guide. Very cool

Given the rate at which Lonely Planet is diversifying into downloadable audio guides, apparently I am not the only one who thinks they are a really cool concept

Map Schmap

I recently received this email from some company calling itself Schmap. Briefly, what they had to say was this

:: Schmap: Oslo Photo Short-list

Hi Atulya,

I am writing to let you know that one of your photos has been short-listed for inclusion in the fourth edition of
our Schmap Oslo Guide, to be published early January 2008.
(Link to Schamp's site where the photo was to be found)

While we offer no payment for publication, many
photographers are pleased to submit their photos, as Schmap
Guides give their work recognition and wide exposure, and
are free of charge to readers.

A quick background check of Schmap revealed that it was in fact some genuine thing, and according to reader reviews, purported to be a "wikitravel meets Lonely Planet" online travel guide. And they sure had a smart way of sourcing their content. Without paying a cent for their photographs, and without worrying about copyright claims, they are relying on photographer's egos (The photographs are credited to them, remember) leading them to grant permission to use their photos for the guide(s). Fair enough. I was more than glad to agree. It can't be too long before they can rely on the same route to source their text content and reviews as well. Basically, not too long before the likes of Lonely Planet and Frommer's are driven out of business.

PS: Having established Schmap's credentials, a quick google of the mail's contents revealed that I was most certainly one of a multitude of people contacted this way.

And a further check to see what photo of mine they had actually decided to use proved to be a bit of a disappointment actually. The selected photo was an arbit, out of the way, almost an apology of a snap, taken almost as an afterthought in front of the Nobel Freddsenter (Nobel Peace Center) in Oslo. Apart from its obvious, current claim to fame, it used to be a disused railway station. Still, not a very impressive building, and certainly not an impressive snap.

Well, for now, who cares...

Blog FAQ

A response to some of the frequently asked questions (D-oh) that have come in my direction in this blog's short existance

1. Why is your blog so Europhile?
A: Because I am Europhile. Okay ?

2. No seriously, it appears that even if you get to writing a post on a meal in a Bangalore darshini, it would still have Euro-centric allusions. Why ?
A: Okay, it's like this. My life is not as exciting as yours. But when I was on exchange, I was almost arrested (twice), spent a night like a hobo on a footpath, got spaced out, nearly got into a shoot-out, got mugged, got stuck in quicksand, snowstorms, participated in a country's first democratic revolution, while meanwhile playing for their Under-21 football team (okay a couple of those may be made up, but you get the drift). But in the past one year, when compared to stuff before, it is like Vinod Kambli's latter career as opposed to his earlier years. And you will agree that the above are somewhat more blog-worthy than "I traveled by local train to office today instead of bus". Yes, that's why I write about year old stuff. Moreover, i did not blog a year back, and hence I'm making up for lost time.

3. Does that mean that since you did not blog for the last 24 years, you will now make up for lost time by blogging about 24 years of trash?
A: Hmm, I didn't think of that, but now you're giving me ideas. And you know how my memory is!

4. Ugh, not that memory thing again.
A: Look, was the Monagesque article blog-worthy or not? What about the Oktoberfest one? If historical articles are fished out from the closet, I guarantee they will have some level.

5. Why is your blog called atulyab? Isn't Monkee either your name or your family's surname or something ?
A: No it isn't. In spite of the universal popularity of the nickname "Monkee" in both IIM Bangalore and RV, that's not really my name. I was christened Atulya Bharadwaj by my parents and my birth certificate still swears by that name. So get used to it. Swalpa adjusht maadi.

6. You seem to dislike shopping
A: You catch on fast, don't you ?

7. I am a female, I am smart, funny, nice, and I share the same interests as you. Will you marry me?
A: You catch on fast, don't you ? Hey seriously, where were you all this while ?

8: Do you have any questions for us?
A: You're kidding right? I've outgrown the age where I attend final placements and needed to answer such questions.

More as and when needed.

Common man and the porn stars

Common man was having the time of his life. Well, there was the little incident in the morning when the huge German hunk tried to mug him of his money, followed by the scuffle, fistfight, brawl and chase sequence through the back alleys of München's red light district, and then also the other incident where the burly security guards mistakenly thought he was an arsonist and attempted to bayonet him, but apart from that, he was having a wonderful day.

As far as reasons for the above go, he was getting in touch with his hedonistic side in a bierzelt on the last day of Oktoberfest. He was muttering quiet praises to King Ludwig I and Queen Therese in particular, and fat Germans in general, for initiating this famous celebration of bacchanalian revelry. Of course, the Weißbier laden kegs being dished out by the Löwenbräu-Festhalle tent he was in was hardly potent enough to cause any level of inebriation. He was currently on a greater high from roast chicken than the beer itself. Anyways, it was impossible not to be taken in by the festive atmosphere in the midst of all the dirndl and lederhosen clad revelers. Never mind that he had to trip and trek his way to his table through all the Bierleichen (literally 'beer corpses') dotting his path back outside.

One of his fellow travelers in a bout of what would be described as 'chool' in Kannada, or as 'geela' in IIMB, decided to shoot voyeur snaps of some German bombshells, who were somewhere midway between a polka and a stupor (both drunken induced of course). While Common man mused about exactly how much of that watered down Weißbier would it take to knock someone out this badly, his co-traveler went on a clicking frenzy at a rate that was the photographic equivalent of Shahid Afridi's batting.

Of course, all stories have to have a twist. The twist in this one was that his antics were soon discovered by the German bombshells in question and (even more worryingly) by their German chaperons as well. Common man geared up to do what would have been wisest under the circumstances; ie: run, but before he could, 12 German men and women surrounded them, waving those giant kegs in their direction. To his utter surprise, they were not in the least offended or angry about the Peeping Tom. In fact, they seemed positively thrilled. "You photo me, I photo you" was what one of them managed to mumble through his inebriated stutter. Before he and his friends realized it, the report of 12 camera flashes rang clear through the cool October air, this time with the German bombshells draped all over them, "A sure improvement over standard L square-Romanov and bad Punjabi music fare" observed Common Man with glee. "Why are they being so nice to us. Shouldn't they be pissed off?" asked one of his friends, in a mixture of 3 Indian languages, so that the Germans didn't understand. Pat came the reply from Common Man "Just enjoy yourself while it lasts" in 3 more languages.

Just as Common Man and his friends were about to take leave of their new found German buddies, one of the girls, who was giggling continuously through the last 7 minutes, stepped forward and gave him a visiting card. The quick dialogue exchange followed.
Common Man: Danke schon
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common Man: Auf wiedersehen
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common man sees the contents of the visiting card and pupils dilate in horror.
German girl: Giggle, giggle

For in the card, all it said was "www.content suppressed.de The best party site in town". Now come on, every guy past puberty knows what a 'party site' is. With pictures of him clicked by 12 pissed off and drunken digital cameras who were proprietors of some smut site does not cause a lot of quietude. Common Man felt like a killer standing with a gun in his hand over a corpse that he did not shoot, if you know what I mean.

The mood was sombre in the Eurocity ride back to Paris. Words like 'morph', 'voyeur', 'porn site' wafted through their minds like the smell of a freshly fried mackerel in a Goa beach shack. Once back home in Bretagne, neither Common Man nor his friends had the courage to go see this site that the card announced. It was a week later (a week in which he cursed München, Bayern München and all München related topics in general) , while chatting with a female friend and he mentioned the incident. After she "Lol'ed and smileyed for some 10 minutes, all she had to say was, "face it. Why would anyone want to see your pictures on the net, even if morphed". This unremarkable stating of the obvious was the epiphany that he needed. After expeditiously extracting the card from it's hiding place and entering the rogue URL, he was indeed directed to this 'party site'.

"Welcome to the best party site. We home deliver confetti, balloons, birthday cakes and all party related paraphernalia in the München urban district" proclaimed the site in 6 different languages. THAT was all. No porn, no smut, not even a picture of the ones he had supposed were the "stars" of the site. Gah, Common man was actually trifle disappointed. But he heaved the proverbial sigh of relief. If it hadn't been early morning, he could have ended the story by riding off into the sunset.*

Epilogue: Common man has now learned to run as fast as his feet can take him every time his co-travelers start photographing subjects indiscreetly. Who knows, maybe the next time, they really would actually be running a party (smirk) site.

* Credits are in order for Dorky Guffaw who was the first to do that trick.

When in Rome, do as Bill Bryson does

The gist of this post is going to be "Bill Bryson rocks". Not too much more. No humorous dialogue, no exaggerated accounts of my (mis) adventures. No. If droll wit is what you were expecting, go to http://dilbertblog.typepad.com. Or better still, read the earlier posts in this very blog!

So, why Bill Bryson? He isn't what I'd call my "favourite author" (That honour goes to Douglas '42' Adams). Why indeed is Bill Bryson the 1st author to merit a mention on this blog. Well for one, atulyab.blogspot.com set out to be a travel-oriented blog with a humorous touch (or humour-oriented blog with a travelous touch, depending on my mood!) and simply put, Bill Bryson is to humorous travelogues what Rinus Michels is to total football. Furthermore, if at all I ever get down to writing a book in this lifetime, a Bryson-esque travellogue is certainly what I'd be aspiring to write (Special reference to cuplord again for pointing out how my life was worth a book being written!)

So back to the man. This whole pipe dream of book writing was largely inspired by Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe. It has several parallels with my own life. BB undertook a 4 month backpacking tour of Europe while in the middle of college. I did my 3 month long peregrination in the middle of college too. (Of course, like BB, I did not drop out of college at the same time. Furthermore, I could identify personally with at least 15 cities covered in the book, having been there myself. Also, unlike his other works, the book is based more on his solo observations, with more focus on the cities/countries than the people in them. Again very exchange-esque.

Of course, to enjoy a Bryson, it doesn't really matter whether you have been to the place he is describing, or even whether you plan to go there at all. A strong example is Notes from a big country. It takes super talent to write a book about arbit, out of the way locations in the USA, and still make it as interesting as it was.

A final word on Bryson's magnum opus, A Short History of Nearly Everything. In Bryson's words, "It was as if [the textbook writer] wanted to keep the good stuff secret by making all of it soberly unfathomable.
– on the state of science books used within his school"
I sometimes wonder if my electronics text books were written in the same way, would I have ever made my way towards IIMB at all! Andrew Tannenbaum is probably the closest ever attempt to 'do a Bryson'.

And finally, a pic I call "Nearly everything, of a short history". Apart from the title, it shares little with the book, if at all, but is a living and breathing example of history, as seen by the Romans. In one little snap, the site of Brutus stabbing Caesar, the site of Mark Antony's speech, the Roman senate, the 1st Catholic church in Italy, also the last pagan temple, the Settimo Severo (all victory arches are invariably modeled on this) right down to Michelangelo's Palazzo Nuevo, Monumento Vittorio Emanuelle to name a few, basically 2500 odd years of Rome through the ages, all captured in one little frame. Signature stuff from Rome!

Back to the subject. Bill Bryson rocks. Full respect to Bill Bryson.
Fuller respect to the one who introduced me to Bill Bryson, the (oddly named) Barbie.

Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 2

Monte Carlo, Monaco, November, 2006

Atulya was a proud young man. A sworn formula 1 fan since childhood, he stood at Casino square ogling at the most famous spot of real estate in the sport. Also at the expensive cars. Uh, and then also at the hot women (okay, you got me there).

On his way to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo (to non-Francophiles, that’s the railway station) after a walk along the Monaco Grand Prix circuit, our hero decides to take a walk up to Grimaldi palace which had the best view of Monaco. He didn’t think much of the 2 cops suspiciously tailing him. Only while crossing the road, did a cop catch Atulya’s attention with some elaborate gestures coupled with some very rapid French. Our protagonist believed the cop was either engaged in an elaborate Monagesque mating ritual or was telling him not to jaywalk. Choosing not to antagonize him, Atulya responded with a non-committal “Bonsoir. Merci beaucoop. Au revoir” before setting off. Apparently, the cops weren’t done. Atulya was puzzled. That combination of French phrases usually got him what he wanted. Even in Germany! Why the hell wouldn’t this Monagesque cop get away, he thought with mild irritation as he turned around.

Somewhere around this time, Atulya realized the cop meant business. He wasn’t sure what exactly tipped him off, but it was probably the firearm the cop had aimed at his head. Once he put the proverbial “life flashing by his bespectacled eyes” away, Atulya sought to exonerate himself from whatever this Monagesque cop thought he had done (Isn’t Monagesque a cool word. I shall make it a point to use it several times in this story. In fact, I think I shall adopt citizenship of Monaco, so that I can refer to myself as “Monagesque”. Anyways, back to the story, which will henceforth be presented in dialogue format).

Monagesque cop: (With gun still aimed earnestly at Atulya’s head) Quelle nationalité êtes-vous?
Atulya (somewhat stunned): Je suis Indienne.
MC (looking a little relieved): Vouz passeport, s’il vouz plait?
A: (Somewhat relieved) D’accord (Then rummages in backpack)
MC: (Screaming) NON, non, non, non, non, Attendez.
A halts in his tracks, petrified. The cold November night air didn’t help either.
MC: Some very rapid French
A: (Somewhat confused) Pardon? Je ne comprendres pas
MC: (In a horrible French accent which reminded A of the Pink Panther) Aye veel tache you passeporret meyeselff (Then bends down, never taking his eye, or gun off A at any time, and very slowly grabs A’s passport out of the bag)
MC: (leafs through the passport for more than 5 minutes as if it were the latest Superman comic before finally saying) Monsieur, C’est Anglais.
A (huh?): huh?
MC: N’est pas comprendrez *
A(repeats like an idiot): N’est pas comprendrez
MC and A stare at each other for a minute before A decides to break the ice.
A: Parlez vous Anglais?
MC (Hesitatingly): Oui, en peu. (Then continues like Pink Panther). Aye donnt onderstained you passeporrt. All its in Anglais. What ees you nayme, you day off birrth, and oll deetayls of you passeport. And vot ees you doing in Frronce ?
A: I can help translate. Then reading off the passport- Ici mon nom, ici mon pere nom, C'est mon jour de naissance, c'est mon lieu de naissance. And I am an exchange student in Brest, Bretagne.
MC is very decidedly noting all this in a little notebook, never taking the gun off A’s head. And after a deliberately practiced double-take): Why Brest ? Is that even a real place?
A is very relieved since he thinks the ordeal is over, but MC relentlessly holds on to A’s passport. A sophisticated looking walkie-talkie surfaces from MC’s pocket who then flags down a passing patrol car and he whispers something to them. Now there are 3 MC’s. 3 guns and a very very petrified A.
MC (clears his throat as if about to make a dramatic announcement, and then speaks to walkie talkie): Rapid French, rapid French Interpol rapid French rapid French Al-Qaeda, rapid French more rapid French.

Whatever colour was remaining in A’s face drained at the import of the words he heard. Even his bench mates in engineering college, with their weird look-alikes and death jokes, could not have suggested a more ridiculous scenario than the one the Monagesque (see, here I go again) cop just did. MC then goes on to give the man at the other end of the walkie-talkie all details of A’s life which he could glean from A’s passport- which owing to A’s limited French, and MC’s even more limited English, wasn’t too much.
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui, oui
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Non, non, non, non, non, non

This pattern continued for some 10 more minutes. With the 4 guns still trained against A’s head, it felt more like 10 years. Mind you, this whole incident takes place right next to what would have been the starting grid of the Monaco GP. Normally this would cause multiple orgasms for most F1 enthusiasts, but these scenes are best enjoyed without 4 guns aimed at your head. By now, A had had enough time to invoke the names of most of the 330 million strong Hindu pantheon, at least the ones whose names he could remember.

While A continued his lamentations and MC finally concluded his recriminations over the walkie-talkie, and an apologetic looking MC (with his even more apologetic looking walkie-talkie) gravely walks up to A: Aye am sourry. Eet seems you are not the terrowreest vee wear luking four.
A: Hello? Excuse me. You thought I was a terrorist? From what angle do I look like a terrorist to you? I object to this gross misrepresentation of your powers as a Monegasque cop to question unsuspecting tourists of their inalienable rights to roam this country as they please.

Of course, A didn’t really say the last dialogue. In fact, he was running as fast as his legs would take him to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo to the first train that would take him back to the (relative) safety of his friend Mukka’s place in Nice.

Post script: A politely told the shop assistant that he wouldn’t actually “grow any taller”, who was rather amused. A was amused too. He was more amused in Shillong when his very kind host asked if he was older than his sister or not (he is in fact 7 years younger), but what the hell, between being mistaken for a terrorist, and a growing schoolboy, he’d take the latter.

PS: All characters in the story are most certainly real, but the events may be (for lack of a better word) "somewhat exaggerated".
*- Please pardon spelling mistakes in French. My French is apparently good enough for small talk with Monagesque cops, but not good enough to spell correctly.