SIDE STREETS

New York International Auto Show '11

2011-04-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

We went to the New York International Auto Show yesterday. I never make a point of going, but it just so happens that I’ve now gone two years in a row. Each year, it seems, it gets less inspiring. You pretty much get what you’d expect. Design, for the most part, has been taken off the table and replaced with paint. Much more attention is lavished on emissions and fuel consumption.

It’s a sign of the times, I think. Budgets are tight. It’s becoming more profitable to chase after tax breaks and other government incentives than actually go out and compete in the market place. Like in the old Soviet Union, all the cars now look pretty much the same.

Notable too has been the trend of the female ramp models dressing down. It is now become virtually impossible to tell them from the people who have come simply to gawk. Also, male models have now begun making inroads in a profession that had been purely gender (and beauty) based.

The car that drew my attention was the yellow 1970 Fiat. I guess this proves that I’m still susceptible to nostalgia. Fiat has come out with a new model that mimics the old but is quite a bit larger. By it, it hopes to replicate the recent success of the British (German-built) Mini Cooper.

Last week, there was an accident down the block where I live. I heard the tires screeching and the inevitable hollow bang while I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I went down to take a look. A considerable crowd had already gathered, but the police were still to arrive. Even from a distance I could see that a small Honda had rear-ended a much larger car at the intersection. The Honda (circa 1980) seemed pretty much intact. The larger car’s back end had been totally destroyed. Arriving at the scene, I saw that the large car was no less than a Bentley. I was truly surprised at the extent of the damage. It seemed incongruous to the car’s reputation. No one was hurt, which told volumes.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Midtown Manhattan

2011-04-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

Midtown Manhattan, they say, is a place for people watching. Some would claim that Times Square is the crossroads of the world. No matter where you might be from, they would argue, you would meet someone you already know there (provided, of course, that you remain there long enough). It’s intriguing to speculate just who that someone might turn out to be. I myself have seen a celebrity or two there occasionally (which I would expect; why, with the theater district in such close proximity). Or, one is also likely to see the Naked Cowboy, posing along the center isle with his guitar and some smiling foreign female tourist. (Does that guy ever sleep?)

In any case, even if you’re a hermit - and live in a cave in Afghanistan, for example - you’d have to admit that Times Square (like Las Vegas) never shuts down; that there are always loads of people milling around, many so star-struck as to forget even to lift their cameras for the appeasement of the folks left back at home.

Suppose, for a moment, that there were no people; only you; say, a thousand years from now. This, of course, would be some time after the Great War in which they were said to have used the latest technology in weaponry - you know, those bombs that destroy only people, not buildings. All carbon based beings would long have evaporated into the now pristine biosphere. The sun would be shining. And you’d be looking up.

No longer having to be concerned with lights turning red, yellow and green; no longer having to adjust your pace to conform to the pack’s; no longer having to worry about protecting your back pocket, you’d be free to look around and imagine how it must have been. The clues would be all around you – and especially above street level.

You’d come to appreciate all the different types of architecture; the roof gardens, now threatening to take over what’s left of the city; the ads and promotions. It’s quite likely, that the solar-powered ticker would still be running, proclaiming the end of the world.

Midtown Manhattan remains a great place for people who love to watch people watching them. Looking up today would likely brand you as a tourist, or as one with his head in the clouds. Street-level action is what counts: all the fancy shops along side the sleazy bars and strip joints; the seditious shows in theaters; humanity aimlessly slouching toward some ambiguous abyss.

Looking up, then, will be for those who might come a thousand years later to try and figure out what may have happened; why this post-modern Machu Picchu no longer has anyone living in it; why the wells all are full and the buckets empty.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Fine Dining in Summit, NJ

2011-04-10T14:26:00.000-07:00

Summit, NJ has a ton of restaurants. Having lived here for over fifty years, one tends to take it for granted to have such a wide variety of tastes available at such close quarters. Most are clustered across the street from the railway station in the downtown area. Many towns in America have only one diner and a fast-food stop to choose from.

When evaluating the tastes of the various eateries here (which I don’t intend to do), it must be kept in mind that we must already start from a very high bar. All of the restaurants must compete among each other. Bad food simply cannot survive.

Even with the downturn in our economy, the restaurant business has not suffered in Summit. On pleasant evenings one sees them simply packed. Many have set up tables and chairs on the sidewalk for outdoor dining. There are new places still in the planning stage despite the high rents and a town limit on liquor licenses. Most places encourage you to bring your own. As such, all three of the town’s wine sellers stay open late as to accommodate late diners.

I cannot show all of them here. Space does not permit me to do so. This does not mean that ones I have omitted are in any way lesser than the ones I mention. In fact, I haven’t even been to some of them and it would be unfair to compare. But after a while one picks up scuttlebutt about this and that.

There is one place, however, that deserves a special shout-out. This is The Summit Diner. It’s been around at least as long as I have. It does well and it’s difficult to get a seat around lunch time. Every time I’ve been there, the food has been exquisite. It’s hardly a salt lick as are so many establishments of its kind. Also, the portions are more than generous. After having eaten one’s fill, one is certain to still eat well for the rest of the week with what’s been brought home in the ubiquitous doggie bag.

Categories of dining in Summit include, Indian, Chinese, Persian, Italian, Japanese, Thai, Greek, American (steak house) and Mexican. If I've omitted any, let me know.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Spring (at last!) 2010

2011-04-04T12:56:00.000-07:00

Spring can properly be seen as nature’s re-awakening after months of having been shrouded in winter’s icy breath. No politician can lay claim to the miracle, though many might try. In our part of the world, spring is eagerly anticipated – its sudden explosion of color, its warmth, its bird song; the shedding of unwieldy jackets, scarves and sweaters; and lower heating bills.

The first sign of spring this year was the rain. For the first time in a long while the stuff that fell from the sky didn’t have to be scraped off the driveway. Then crocuses began to appear just as the last of the snow melted on our lawns. Next, forsythia burst into flaming color, followed by various types of decorative cherry. White, gossamer Star Magnolia blossoms preceded fleshy Magnolia. Tulips and Hyacinths suddenly appeared in freshly dug beds next to the foundations of homes. Fields of yellow daffodils rivaled the sun. The Bradford Pear trees lining Morris Avenue in downtown Elizabeth (NJ) burst into white orbs, lending a distressed neighborhood its several days of dignity.

This year, we are blessed. Often, spring showers turn to deluge and beat tender blossoms into the ground almost as soon as they appear. This spring, the rains came early. A run of stable weather assures us of a prolonged season in which to enjoy our spring spectacle.

People show up at arboretums, parks and botanical gardens in droves - with children and camera kits in tow. Some travel as far as our nation’s capital – not to protest, but to join in the celebration of renewal among the world-famous Japanese cherry blossoms.

Spring represents the botanical Big Bang that repeats annually. Professional landscapers, however, know how to keep the botanical fireworks going throughout the year. They see to it that every month new, colorful blooms emerge. It all ends as spectacularly as it began, when the leaves explode into the stunning colors of fall.

Most of the world doesn’t have seasons as distinct as ours. Most visitors from such regions are impressed by what they see here. Our seasons have become the stuff of legend all over the globe. The last time my nephew (who lives in Brazil) was here, it was the dead of winter. He just arrived yesterday again. I can’t wait to see his reaction to what might catch his eye this time around.

I myself have spent many years taking our seasons for granted. It sometimes takes someone else’s eyes to open our own. No doubt, with the lengthening of days, we all feel better about things. But do we actually realize that we are feeling better? Are we awake enough to recognize the synthesis between how we feel and the state of what philosopher, Alan Watts, has termed our “external organs”? Do we allow ourselves the luxury of feeling reborn at the very same time that nature all around us beckons us to a fresh start?

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Kanyakumari, Tamil Nadu, India

2011-04-03T20:44:00.000-07:00

About 30 years ago, I participated in a six-month study program at the University of Mysore in South India. There were about a dozen of us from colleges all over the country. None of us had been to India before and we were quite overwhelmed by everything there.

My first glimpse of India has remained etched in my mind and I can recall it as if it were yesterday. We were coming in for a landing at Delhi and I was glued to the window. Below, at fairly close quarters, I saw a man plowing a field with a camel pulling the plow.

Initially, we stayed in New Delhi for about a week. We occupied six rooms at the local YMCA hotel near Connaught Circle. Only three of them were air-conditioned. As we landed in mid-summer, during the hottest part of the year, we drew straws. I drew a short one; hence, no A/C. This turned out to be good for the looser group as half our team developed a severe case of the sniffles. Neither were we spared entirely. We too would suffer digestive problems.

After a few days of sight-seeing in Delhi and Agra, we set off for Mysore by train. If I remember correctly, we didn’t do it all in one shot. I remember overnighting in Pune. Mysore University was sprawling. We were enrolled in a number of classes including one that was supposed to teach us Kannada, the local language. I’m afraid, our professors did not see much promise in us.

After a couple of weeks, our chaperone announced that we no longer needed to attend classes. We could return home if we wanted – or, we could stay. Nobody wanted to go home. Instead, we decided to travel. Everyone had a different idea about where they wanted to go. We decided to break up into small groups and hit the road to various destinations, always returning to base. Eventually these would evolve into regular odysseys of indefinite duration.

One of my very first ventures was to find Kanyakumari at the tip of India where three oceans meet. A friend and I took a bus and headed south. It took days and days. I remember sitting at the window cursing myself for not having attended to my vision. At one point, the bus stopped and someone pointed out a group of wild elephants crossing a ridge. I could barely make them out.

Eventually we would reach our destination. It looked a place as any other – somewhat isolated and remote. The sea was beautiful to look at.

Thirty years later, my wife and I were visiting Trivandrum – her birth place – and from there it was just another hop-skip-and-a-jump to Kanyakumari (on the map). We decided to go for it. I became concerned when this involved crossing back into Tamil Nadu where we were stopped at the border. I had forgotten to bring my passport. It turned out not to be a problem.

When we finally reached there, I found it was nothing like I remembered it, which was in some ways understandable. A lot can change in thirty years. Mahabalipuram (just south of Chennai) in Tamil Nadu had completely changed, even to the point of being unrecognizable. But there was something else: On two rocky islets just off the shore, southeast of the Kumari Amman Temple, are the Vivekananda Rock Memorial (built in 1970) and the gigantic 133 ft. tall statue of Tamil saint-poet, Thiruvalluvar. I do not remember seeing either of these on my first visit. Neither did I remember seeing islands of any kind.

The mystery remains: Where had we been when my friend and I thought we were there back in ‘72?

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu, South India

2011-04-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

It's pesky thing in India: Some places they allow you to take pictures, some places they don’t. Some places they charge you extra for bringing a camera; everywhere, it seems, they charge exorbitant fees for bringing a camcorder. Obviously, they haven’t figured out yet that today’s cameras can do both: take stills as well as moving pictures. But, the most annoying of all is when you’re just not ready for that unexpected money shot when it happens.

It’s probably one, or any combination of the above that happened to me while visiting Kanchipuram (the city of one thousand temples) in Tamil Nadu, so I just have to paint you a word picture: Apart from the obvious, we had heard of an ancient Jain Temple that was said to be undergoing renovation. Our driver managed to find it. Not much work was evident here; in fact, it was mostly a ruin. It was in a part of town where outsiders seldom visit; therefore, our car caused quite a stir. We had come to see the temple we explained to the people who crowded around us. Soon somebody sent for the old woman who lived down the block who, it was said, had been entrusted with the key.

By the time she showed up with a key that was almost as big as herself, the crowd was still growing. We were told that this particular temple, though now mostly in ruins, held a most beautiful idol in its inner sanctum. The crowd parted to let the old woman through. She stepped gingerly across the rubble on calloused feet and led us to a great wooden door. An ancient lock secured the bolt. It looked like it hadn’t been opened for centuries. As she struggled with the key, we began to have doubts.

Finally, it clicked and the lock sprang open. Some youths rushed forward to help her with the door. It shuddered and creaked in agonizing protest. Every inch was fought. More brawn was added and, at last, the great door swung open. There was a tremendous sound emanating from the inside; it gathered, and virtual cloud of black bats flew out from the darkness, their wings stirring a breeze that ruffled our hair on an otherwise breathless afternoon. More bats followed in volleys.

The sight was so strange; I forgot to reach for my camera. In fact, it felt like I had been transported back to a time when there were no cameras. I even doubted my own existence.

At first, there was nothing to see in the blackness inside. We squinted our eyes. Then, suddenly, we saw it: the idol. It was beautiful, indeed. I now understood why it needed to be locked up. Not that anyone of faith would steal it. It seemed inviolate. But there will always be those who would cart something sacred away to exhibit in their own carnival.

It seemed to shine with a light of its own, especially from a face that was the very definition of serenity. Again, I failed to reach for my camera. To take a picture now seemed the very definition of gauche.

The accompanying photos here are of Kanchipuram, a busy and chaotic South Indian city with a rich historical tapestry. Every one of its temples is notable, each with a rich history of its own. A person with a camera could easily spend himself and dissolve into a pool of sweat in the unrelenting tropical heat before having recorded even a fraction of all that is here to see. For a brief instant I was blessed, being afford a moment that went even beyond seeing - beyond time. It is therefore altogether fitting that no record exists.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Cooper Mill, NJ

2011-04-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

We found the place pretty much by accident. It was on the way to somewhere else. We noted the old stone building with a historical marker set out front. We’d never noticed it previously; maybe, because we’d never stopped at this particular tavern (for lunch) before.

Cooper Mill was across the street. Perhaps, we’d still be clueless if the girl hadn’t seated us by the window. So, after our meal, we decided to go over and have a look. It was a mill alright, with two millstones set out front to weather, and sacks of grain in the windows. There was a wooden aqueduct that funneled in water from a pond across the street, providing power to the big red wheel in back of the building. We would learn that two 2000 lb. millstones still grind significant quantities of grain even today; that this particular stretch along the Black River was particularly well-suited for mills of this type because the river drops a full 20 ft. within a mere half mile. Archaeological exploration of the area discovered no less than 13 sites tied to water-powered industry, among them a second gristmill downstream, a saw mill, a mill to crush apples, one to distill cider into whiskey, and one to process wool.

The people at the visitor center (located just across the parking lot) would have been only too happy to give us a tour of the one remaining (grist) mill. We didn’t want to trouble them. They looked quite delicate, lounging around the old house in their frilly period costumes. It never occurred to us that they might have been bored.

Before leaving, we grabbed a handful of brochures, some of which contained trail maps of the area which, we learned, comprises the Morris County Black River Park System. The trails all begin (if anything can be said to begin anywhere) at Cooper Mill. Chubb Park, the Kay Environmental Center, Bamboo Brook and Willowwood Arboretum are destinations. We walked down as far as the waterfall that marked the end of Kay’s Pond. One of the brochures promised painted turtles sunning themselves on the rocks. We only found the ubiquitous Canada Geese and the occasional reptile.

Eventually, the shadows were beginning to lengthen and we decided to turn back. We didn’t fancy being out in the woods after dark. Even now there were strange rustlings emanating from the brush close beside the path. A discernible chill had descended that made us shudder with each new animal yelp echoing through the distance.

While retracing our steps back to the Mill, our thoughts turned to men like Isaiah Younglove who began a flour milling operation here as far back as the 1760’s; and Nathan Cooper who would go on to populate (what was once called) Milltown with descendants, helping to turn it into a thriving industrial community. These men - the early architects of what would become America’s Industrial Revolution - could hardly have been as squeamish as we, traipsing through this then pathless wood.

Petert Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

San Thome Cathedral, Chennai, India

2011-03-28T12:45:00.000-07:00

Whereas in the West, Catholic priests generally wear black robes, here in India – perhaps in an appropriate concession to the heat - they are more likely to wear white. Similarly, Christian churches here are overwhelmingly white(washed). And so, possibly the most important Christian church in all of India, the one Pope Pius XII himself elevated to the status of a minor basilica in 1956, is a great gothic monument - brilliantly white - overlooking the Bay of Bengal from the modest hill on which it was built over the remains of St. Thomas (Doubting Thomas), one of Jesus’ own twelve apostles.

Hinduism, the dominant religion in India, has always been exceptionally tolerant of other faiths. I have seen statues of the Virgin Mother lovingly attired in colorful saris; I have seen images of Jesus alongside the deities in Hindu temples. There has been some hardening of this ecumenical position of late in response to Islamist fanatics hell-bent on desecrating anything that is not Islam.

Legends of St. Thomas’ life in India abound. At one point, it is said that a huge log washed down the Adyar River and got stuck at its mouth, causing significant flooding upstream. The king called out his army to dislodge it. Try as they might, they couldn’t budge the log. The king had heard rumors of an ascetic living in a cave up in the hills of whom it was said that he could perform miracles. The king sent a messenger to fetch him. St. Thomas came; touched the log with the girdle the Virgin Mother had dropped at the time of her assumption, which St. Thomas always wore around his waist; spent some moments in silent prayer and then asked the king’s men to pull the log aside. They were able to do so without difficulty.

The belief in St. Thomas’ ability to perform miracles continues to this day. Christians from far and wide converge steadily on San Thome Cathedral to pray for the Saint’s personal intervention in regard to some problem they might be experiencing. In December of 2004, when the tsunami hit the east coast of India, it is now widely believed that St. Thomas’ Pole (fashioned from the legendary log) which stands between the sea and the church, was responsible for saving the lives of the people living in the Foreshore Estate, a neighborhood comprised primarily of fishing villages.

San Thome Basilica in Chennai is well worth a visit. There’s a delicious irony between Indian exotica and the (starkly geometric) cross. Besides the grand interior of the Basilica, the complex contains the Eucharist Chapel, the Tomb of St. Thomas (also with Chapel), a modest museum, boasting of St. Thomas relics such as the spearhead that killed the beloved saint.

There is a small gift shop where any number of items associated with St. Thomas can be purchased. By far the most popular item is a wallet size card embedded with the sand from the Saint’s tomb which is said to have miraculous healing powers. Other items include post- and laminated prayer cards in various Indian languages as well as a quarterly news magazine entitled, Voice of St. Thomas.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Navaratri ‘Kolu’ (India)

2011-03-14T14:04:00.000-07:00

As a small child growing up in Kerala, I was quite unaware of the vibrancy; of the intensity and vitality of ‘Kolu’, which is an integral part of Navaratri, a celebration of the Goddess Durga. I was introduced to its color and pageantry only after my mother and I relocated to Bangalore in Karnataka, a state that is in many respects synonymous with the traditions of Navaratri (also known there as Dasara). It didn’t become a part of me until age seven; this, the ‘Kolu’ festival in which terracotta dolls are decorated and displayed on tiers in every Hindu home, (much like the spirit in which Christmas trees are decorated in the West), capturing and holding - for a brief nine nights and ten days - the child in all of us.

This display of dolls and decorative floral designs during Navaratri is seen mostly in the south Indian states of Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka. The south Indian Diaspora celebrates ‘Kolu’ in the same traditional way, recreating this familiar cultural landscape wherever in the world they may happen to find themselves.

In the patriarchal north of India, Dasara is symbolic of the mythological victory of Ram over Ravana, the ten-faced demon king of Lanka. On the tenth day, a huge effigy of Ravana is torched amid a noisy fireworks display. There is joy and jubilation all around. ‘Good’ has prevailed over ‘evil’ once again. The ‘Ram Lila’ (as this ten-day enactment is called) in north India, like the ‘Kolu’ in the south, is inexorably woven into the memories of childhood.

Meanwhile in the south, as well as in the state of West Bengal, Dasara is a ten-day celebration of the Mother Goddess in all her multifarious forms: She is Chamundi who slays the buffalo demon in a ten-day battle in Mysore; she is Saraswati, the Goddess of learning, in Kerala; she is Bhavani who rides on a tiger in Gujarat and Maharashtra; Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, in Tamil Nadu; and Ma Durga who rides on a lion in West Bengal. She is said to be stern, yet compassionate.

The tenth morning - also called ‘Vijayadsami’ (or the ‘victorious tenth day’) - the very young are initiated into learning and for those who have already begun their studies it serves as a reminder that learning is an ongoing experience.

In India, the mythic and the ordinary co-exist, and in these festivals one sees them merge. Religion (or faith) becomes a living, breathing amalgamation, very much rooted in the organic expression of everyday life. It does not much matter to people that Ram or Durga are only metaphors. What matters is the celebratory nature of life in all its various aspects. Little girls and boys dress in festive finery. The girls in long, shimmering silk skirts with flowers in their hair take their little brothers to visit neighbors in order to see the dolls, decorated and exhibited on tiers. All those who visit are given tiny dolls, flowers, and sweets; each item prettily wrapped and put in special thamboolam bags made of silk.

The tiered arrangement of the dolls is to adhere to a specific protocol: the bottom tier is laid out with fruits and flowers; the topmost tier has regular panoply of gods and goddesses with Durga taking pride of place. The tiers between are meant to represent people from all walks of life—in essence, a microcosm showcasing both, the human and the divine dimensions.

I remember these celebrations so vividly. The lights, the colors, the smell of jasmine and incense; the lively chatter of my friends as we visited the various neighborhood ‘Kolus’; the busy adults; the scrumptious food; the dolls we so preciously decorated and displayed; the tiers so painstakingly arranged; the abundance of fruits and flowers; the strains of someone playing notes in praise of the goddess on the veena; of giggling helplessly at the incomprehensible lyrics; the embarrassment when asked to perform; the wonderful hubbub of those ten days that are but a pause before the free-fall of Diwali.

Parvathi Venkatraman; Chennai, India

Kochi, India

2011-03-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

Kerala is in many ways a paradox. It is one of two Indian states that boast of having a Communist government. Kerala (along with Bengal in North India) is touted as having the highest literacy rates on the sub-continent. This singular political and educational distinction has not come without cost. Heavy government interference in the private sector – regulation; taxation – forces many young men to seek employment elsewhere. Malayalam (the language of Kerala) is liberally heard in neighboring Karnataka and Tamil Nadu (where I presently live). My dentist is Malayali; the internationally known movie play-back singer, Yesudas, down the street from us, is a Malayali; 60% of the hospital nurses in the West are Malayalis. And nearly every Kerala family has someone working somewhere in the Middle East – so much so, that announcements at the airport in Dubai are also given also in Malayalam (anybody notice that the word is a palindrome?)

My first encounter with Kerala was Kochi (or Cochin as it was then called). On the ride from the airport, the differences between Tamil Nadu and Kerala become immediately apparent. There was hardly a stray dog to be seen. Also missing were oxcarts, and cows wandering aimlessly about in major traffic. The streets seemed much cleaner than those across the border. The vegetation differed too; much more of what you’d expect a tropical island paradise to be. Of course it rains steadily for four months out of the year. Consequently, roads are built with run-offs as to remain passable even during the monsoon season. (Unlike in Tamil Nadu where, when it rains only a little, knee-high water routinely collects on the streets.)

Kochi is the commercial center of Kerala by virtue of its excellent harbor. Travelers and spice traders from all over the world – from the Chinese to the Romans – have been stopping here for centuries. Many ancient accounts by seafarers and traders make reference to the convoluted history of this sliver of a state that hugs the lushly tropical Malabar Coast.

Kochi is made up of Ernakulam on the mainland plus a series of islands (at least one of these man-made). A tour boat takes you around the harbor, making frequent stops. Of these, the most fascinating is Jew Town which once housed a significant Jewish population and claims the oldest synagogue in India. It’s a must-see for all those whose Asia cruise liners stop here. The narrow streets have one antique shop after another, crammed with wonderfully tempting treasures to suit every taste and budget. There are also a few western-style restaurants with excellent reputations.

Another must-see are the Chinese fishing nets and the Church of St. Francis where Portuguese adventurer, Vasco da Gama lies buried.

For those able to spend a few days, there are the refurbished rice boats that take you along the inland waterways in style, stopping here and there to enjoy the delicious (coconut-based) Kerala cuisine. If you’re extremely lucky, you may even witness Kathakali, a unique form of classical dance theater that is somewhat similar to Japanese Kabuki. Performances are generally held at night by the light of a single oil lamp (Aatta Vilaku) with sixty wicks. Some say Kathakali is the “art of the non-worldly”.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Tuellinger Hoehe, Germany

2011-03-07T15:15:00.000-08:00

Every inhabited region bears a landmark that defines it. It may be a mountain, a hill, a river or lake. It is the physical manifestation of energy that eddies and pools unceasingly around the globe, invariably giving rise to secondary monuments such as the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Taj Mahal, and cities and towns in general. An obvious example is the Matterhorn (14,692 ft. in the Pennine Alps on the border between Switzerland and Italy), so unique in appearance and always majestic – even when shrouded in cloud cover – that gave relevance to the Swiss town of Zermatt as a significant way station for people who are inexorably drawn here from around the globe.

Most landmarks are not so dramatic. Yet, I myself have shed tears after having caught that first glimpse of Chamundi Hill when approaching Mysore (India) by train after so many years. Its residents may not even give it a second look, content with the certitude by which that ever-present weight - their love of the land, securely encased within their innermost being – asserts itself. It almost takes a stranger’s eyes to fully appreciate any given (more outwardly modest) landmark once again – or a long absence.

As a child, I would visit my grandparents in Loerrach, Germany. The town lies at the end of a valley carved by a river (Wiese) that originates deep in the hills of the Black Forest. At Basel, it empties into the legendary Rhine. On a political map, this marks the spot where three countries (Germany, Switzerland and France) come together at a single point. A ridge, running due south within the German third of the pie, ends abruptly in a gently rounded hill, the Tuellinger Hoehe, that dominates this landscape. It is covered with vineyards. Along the gently rising ridge, the medieval town of Tuellingen crests along a single narrow road that reaches at it’s apex an unassuming chapel before plunging down into the Rhine valley and on into Switzerland.

I used to push my baby brother in his stroller up the zigzag pathways, through the apple orchards, past the grapevines, up to the crest where farm houses and barns, wizened with age, comprised the old town of Obertuellingen. From there we pushed on to the Ottilien Chapel. From its terrace we’d enjoy the gentle breeze on our faces as we surveyed our greater surroundings from the Black Forest, across to the Jura, to the Burgunder Pforte, and on to the southern Vosges. On clear days, centuries-old Basel, with its own indelible (historic) landmarks was quite visible to the naked eye: the gothic Muenster, a dark smudge; and the tall, gleaming smokestacks of its pharmaceutical research facilities. It is there where my own heart longed to be. As long as I can remember, I have always carried the torch for the city where I had once had the opportunity to attended first grade at the Spalen Schule [named after yet another prominent (world heritage class) landmark: the Spalen Tor].

Thirty some odd years later, I would find myself there again. My brother had grown and no longer needed to be pushed in a stroller. In fact, he was too busy with his professional work to even come along. To my immense relief, I found that nothing had changed - only that the entire border region had become decidedly more prosperous. I was told that the wine had improved considerably. It was sold in the open street markets of Loerrach under the emboldened new label that announced, “Neuer Wein”.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

The Orchid Show: On Broadway

2011-03-04T12:32:00.000-08:00

Beginning Saturday, March 5, Broadway stretches north to the lush tropical galleries of the New York Botanical Garden’s Enid A. Haupt Conservatory in this dazzling display by Tony Award-winning set designer Scott Pask, image-maker Drew Hodges, and Botanical Garden curators. The Orchid Show features thousands of orchids exquisitely arranged to re-create iconic architectural elements from legendary Broadway theaters. Don’t miss this special limited-run engagement!

Millburn, NJ

2011-03-03T11:45:00.000-08:00

We live on the Union County side of three counties that meet at a single point. When we moved here, we very seldom ventured outside our own county. Most of our shopping was done in Union County. Our schools and jobs were in Union County. When we went for gas-guzzling Sunday drives, we’d take Union County roads to the major highways that would lead us either down the Shore or out west into Pennsylvania. New York City was also always a favorite destination.

I married a girl from Madison and a whole new world opened up to me: deliciously green and historic Morris County. We even lived in both Chathams a while.

This left Essex County still largely unexplored. Millburn is right next door in Essex County. We seldom go there. It’s hard to figure why. My son and I actually broke our usual routine and drove over to Millburn last week to check it out. It was a dreary day between snow storms.

We parked the car and decided to have a look around. It turned out to be an absolutely lovely town with quaint shops and oodles of interesting restaurants. I think every major world cuisine craving was represented. There was a movie theater with four screens in the center of town. But a much more famous venue is Millburn’s Paper Mill Playhouse.

I was surprised by how big it was. It’s always been the theater in our area that was the alternative to going to Broadway. I’ve heard that he shows here are every bit as professionally staged as they are in New York. They also feature known, professional actors. Go to their website, www.papermill.org for show information, tickets and directions. Parking fees are nominal, but ticket prices are only a tad less than for Broadway shows.

Millburn includes Short Hills which is home to the “Cora Hartshorn Arboretum and Bird Sanctuary”. It is also the home of the deliriously upscale “Mall at Short Hills”. We’ve been to there countless times, of course. In fact, I used to take the kids over there while it was still being built. It’s the only mall I know of where they don’t allow pushcart vending. Instead, you’ve got cars bearing monikers the likes of Rolls Royce, Porsche, Audi, Bentley and Land Rover taking up space in the center aisles. The mall also features some very good restaurants. At Christmas there is always live music and a ‘stand in line to get a picture to get your kid’s picture taken with’ Santa Claus.

It’s always good to get out and widen one’s horizons. In Millburn’s case I can honestly say, I traveled China before ever going to Millburn. This is not strictly true because it was actually necessary at times to travel through the town to get to somewhere else. Still it’s funny how it turns out; how a psychological blind spot can prevent us from going in a particular direction without ever being aware of it. It reminds me of looking for my wallet and finding it only after some time. It had always been in plain sight, right where it was supposed to be.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Fondation Beyeler, Riehen, CH

2011-02-27T15:03:00.000-08:00

I grew up in Fahrnau, a small town in Germany, just on the fringes of the Black Forest (Schwarzwald). It is one of a handful of villages that sprung up along the Wiese (River) with Zell at one end and Loerrach on the other. Just south of Loerrach, the river crosses the border into Switzerland to then empty into the Rhine at Basel.

A rail line parallels the river all the way from Zell to Basel which is the main transportation hub for the entire area. Basel boasts an international airport, and no less than three separate railway stations (Swiss, German and French). My paternal grandfather was an engineer on the SBB (Swiss National Railroad). As a result, I became very fond of trains. I would always try to get a seat by the window from where I would look out intently. Even at a tender age, I would notice how dramatically the scenery suddenly changed when the train crossed into Swiss territory. The German side looked wild, almost unkempt; whereas the Swiss side looked very neatly manicured as if every blade of grass had been lovingly tended. This was understandable right after the war. Each side, though, had its own particular charm and I don’t mean to infer that one was better than the other. I was just struck by the difference, that’s all. Today, of course, there’s no longer any difference in the least.

The first Swiss town the train passes through (but does not necessarily stop at) is Riehen, a suburb of Basel. It is a postcard perfect, small village with many grand historic buildings and gated mansions along the main road that runs between Basel and the Swiss-German border. A notable exception is The Fondation Beyeler, a modern complex of exhibition halls, commissioned by Hildy and Ernst Beyeler to house their vast collection of mostly 20th Century European art. The museum was designed by famed architect Renzo Piano and opened in 1997. Some 200 works of classic modernism have since been on permanent display there, reflecting the period from Claude Monet, Paul Cézanne and Vincent van Gogh through Pablo Picasso, Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein and Francis Bacon. The paintings appear alongside some two dozen objects of tribal art from Africa, Oceania and Alaska.

Seeing this museum was a must for me, especially as it is located in what I consider to be emotionally my stomping grounds. I balked at the rather high entrance fee but, never mind, everything in Switzerland is expensive. Inside, I was not allowed to take pictures, but the paintings were very familiar and are intimately known to anyone with even the most cursory interest in art. The venue was exceptionally well suited for its purpose. There are two floors, one of which can be considered as basement. It was there that the obligatory ‘Save the Earth’s Forests’ display had found a home in the form of stunning photographs by top photographers from around the world.

The setting for the Fondation Beyeler is no less spectacular than the art it displays. Tuellinger Hoehe, a green, grape (vine)-covered hill with an ancient church perched at the top, looms in the distance. Closer, around the perimeter of the museum, are apple and pear orchards. Brown cows with bells round out the idyll. Inside the perimeter, the gardens are fragrant. It was here that the accompanying pictures were taken. I understand that sometimes these grounds are used to display temporary garden sculpture exhibitions.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India

2011-02-24T17:09:00.000-08:00

Do I have a fresh perspective on Thiruvananthapuram (formerly known as Trivandrum)? Nothing that hasn’t been said before; except maybe the one aspect that is so immediately striking – especially, when fresh in from the chaos and clutter of Chennai, India’s only first-tier city in the south where I currently reside. Yes, one is instantly aware of the studied order of Kerala that is particularly evident in Thiruvananthapuram: no litter, no garbage; no stray dog(s), no oxcarts, no random cows roaming the streets - the list could go on and on. I was born and spent a good part of my childhood in Trivandrum.

Situated in the southern-most part of Kerala - and not far from Cape Comorin (Kanya Kumari) - is the state capital. It is a staid town when compared to effervescent, commercial Kochi, 200 km to the north. Thiruvananthapuram is comprised largely of bureaucrats, administrators and academics.

Its name is derived from the fabled temple of Sri Padmanabha (Vishnu) in the center of the town that enshrines an awesome image of Vishnu reclining on the coils of (time) the serpent Ananta. It can only be partially viewed through one of three doors. Only one day a year (Vaikuntha Ekadasi) are all three doors thrown open to reveal the entirety of this spectacular idol.

There is an elaborate protocol for visitors to the temple that can be quite irksome as it requires having to wear just the right kind of dress (dhoti for men, and sari for women). In this day and age this seems quite unnecessary. Of course, it goes without saying that rigid orthodoxy forbids entrance to non-Hindus, a strange contradiction in a communist state.

Located near the temple is the Kuthiramalika Palace Museum which houses the exquisite collection of paintings by Raja Ravi Varma. The Museum is not far from the zoo which is set in a wonderfully landscaped garden. As a child my trips to the zoo - when my father came on his whirlwind visits - were always high points in my otherwise uneventful life.

Of course, how could I forget the Arabian Sea? That was the ultimate outing for all of us, piling into cars to go to ‘the beach’. It meant exciting adventures on the pristine sands of the exquisitely kept Shankhumukham (beach). Seen forty years hence, it is still that way, and the same goes for the tiny ocean front restaurant which, even back then, dished out the most scrumptious vegetable cutlets that I would ever know.

While he lived, British architect Laurie Baker, was one of Thiruvananthapuram’s most famous ex-pats. Of all the places in the world, he chose this city as his home. His imprint remains forever emblazoned there in the form of several utilitarian, eco-friendly, yet attractive red brick structures. The Coffee House in the center of town, a tower containing a spiral interior and the entire campus of the Centre for Developmental Studies come to mind as some of Baker’s more dramatic achievements.

Thiruvananthapuram still retains that slightly aloof and formal manner which goes well with the big houses behind high walls on quaint streets that are swept clean of litter everyday. My earliest memory of Thiruvananthapuram’s streets are the ‘STICK NO BILLS’ postings on walls which somehow remain symbolic of a town and its residents.

Parvathi Venkatraman, Chennai

Lower Manhattan

2011-02-22T14:52:00.000-08:00

This is where all the trouble started (if anything can be said to start at any given point). Anyway, there’s a big hole in the ground here and people from all over the world come to look. Some mark it as the start of something: a first strike in on our own shores, resulting in our “War on Terror”; others see it as a criminal act for which guys should be serving time in jail. Many - both at home and abroad - say that we’re the guilty ones by the way in which we’ve live our lives. We’re still allowed to disagree amongst ourselves about all this – and then cast our ballots.

However it happened (or happens), there’s still a big hole in the ground in Lower Manhattan which some have come regard as the center of the economic engine driving world economies. True or not, no doubt there there’s lots of money here (or is it debt?). It used to be that the highest building in any given town was the church; now it’s the bank. In Lower Manhattan one can hardly see Trinity Church squeezed in between the tall buildings anymore. We’ve all but forgotten that George Washington attended services there. It’s possible that some day we’ll decide to take it down and build another bank. - But wait! There’s still that hole in the ground to deal with. Let’s do something about that one first; just to show them that we still have some fight left in us. But, then again, how do we bring back the dead?

Truth is, we’ve been so traumatized, and we’re hardly in a position to do anything beyond putting up a fence around it so that nobody else gets hurt. Just a few blocks away, life goes on as if nothing ever happened. We’ve even built four waterfalls and billed them as a sign that New York City has moved on.

Still, we’ve felt compelled to build ramps and lookouts at Ground Zero. No tour guide dares to omit what happened here. It seems people from all over the world are coming mostly just to look at that big hole. They think of it as a metaphor of sorts. It’s been a bit unsettling for those of us who wish we could finally decide on something to fill it with - a waterfall, perhaps – and then be done with it.

There’s a Water Taxi that leaves South Street Seaport every hour on the hour. It takes about an hour to cruise around Lower Manhattan, up the Hudson River a ways and back down along the Jersey side to view Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Then it loops around, past Governor’s Island and up the East River. This is the “waterfall” part of the ride. There are four of them. The one just under the Brooklyn Bridge, to my mind, is the most dramatic. Back at the Seaport, there are restaurants and shops. The day we were there, a contortionist was performing on the pier. From there, it’s a relatively short walk down to Wall Street, the Stock Exchange and Trinity Church. Most may want to see the site where the Twin (World Trade Center) Towers stood as well.

Peter Koelliker pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area (NJ)

2011-02-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

As a family, we’d been climbing Mt. Tammany at least a couple of times a year ever since our kids were babies. Back then, we carried them up the steep, rocky trail on our backs. Starting at the Dunnfield parking area, we would follow the red markings emblazoned on trees and rocks all the way up to where the earth literally opens up, revealing a broad ribbon of river below. Greedily gulping as much air as our lungs could hold we would settle back on the rocks - 1250 ft. above where we had left our car - and gaze down on a silent world. We’d see the cars and trucks moving along Rt. 80 of course but, from this height, they made no sound – like toys. Below us, too, hawks traced perfect ovals, clearly enjoying the fact that God had given them wings. In those days, our bodies were still well tuned and we never felt the strain of the climb.

Sometimes we’d go again in winter, when the air was dry and raw. The kids were bigger now; too big to be carried. They’d want to stop frequently and sit down by the side of the path, refusing to budge. “We’re tired,” they’d complain. Eventually, we’d be able to cajole them into going at least as far as the first spot from where one could see the valley open up below.

Years later, it would be the kids who’d literally drag us up the mountain. We were the ones who would shamelessly beg for cigarette breaks while our lungs were all but bursting. The kids were merciless, exhorting us to keep going, inadvertently (perhaps) but effectively shaming us for having neglected our health. Despite the pain, the view at the top remained a suitable reward. It had the effect of instant nirvana, facilitating a kind of “letting go”. Our bodies hummed with the rhythm of the universe; our heartbeats slowed, and suddenly we felt ourselves to be wiser than we’d ever been. A cigarette in celebration of this harmonious moment would signal the end of it. Down was easy; twenty minutes at the most; courtesy of gravity.

After the kids graduated and moved away, we too stopped going to the Gap. Then, one day, quite recently, we gathered enough courage to try it once more. Our health was better now. We had been eating better; we practiced yoga; we exercised; we had given up smoking. The climb up Tammany would be a test. Had our focus on healthier living paid any dividends at all? We could only hope.

We climbed quite sprightly. When we reached the top, we could honestly say we‘d been in worse shape. The view, of course, dwarfed all such concerns. We could have died and gone to heaven right then and there.

Peter Koelliker pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

The 9th Annual New Jersey Flower and Garden Show

2011-02-10T14:52:00.000-08:00

Next weekend (Feb. 17th-20st) New Jersey’s (indoor) Flower and Garden Show once again gladdens the hearts of area residents. It runs Thursday through Sunday and is a great place to take a break from winter. There is lots to look at and to buy. There are professional horticulturists to ask for advice concerning your plants, inside and out. There are builders who can install fountains, waterfalls or swimming pools; carpenters who build decks; landscapers; etc. There’s food for sale: honey, cheese, trail mix, etc. There are fabulous floral displays; flowers to take home in bunches or in pots; paintings; photographs; bottles of wine; etc.

Best of all, there are lot’s of anxious, pale-faced people to observe – people, young and old, whose expressions demonstrably change when they are suddenly confronted by a virtual riot of botanical color the likes of which they haven’t seen in months.

The accompanying pictures were taken at last year’s show, which I attended with my mother. It gave both of us the courage to hold out ‘till spring.

Google New Jersey Flower and Garden Show for more information and directions. The New Jersey Convention Center in Edison is easy to get to from most major New Jersey highways. There’s plenty of free parking.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Sravanabelagola, Karnataka, India

2011-02-07T13:35:00.000-08:00

Sravanabelagola is just a day trip (about 100 km) from Mysore in the South Indian state of Karnataka. In fact, it’s often bundled together by Mysore tour bus operators with stops at two ruin cities of the Hoysala kingdom, Haledid and Belur - splendid temples at both locations.

Shortly after we arrived as exchange students at Mysore University back in ‘74, our chaperone arranged for the twelve of us to take this very tour. We were eager to get out and see something of the countryside with our cameras at the ready. Our sprawling campus had already become somewhat too claustrophobic for our tastes.

Of the three sites, Sravanabelagola was by far the most dramatic. This was said to be one of the most popular Jain pilgrimage centers in South India, and is known for its colossal monolithic statue of Gomateswara at the top of a hill. (All Jain pilgrimage sites are atop of hills.) We climbed the time-worn steps that went up the mountain. And that’s exactly how it was. Not only was there a giant statue, but Jain priests were busy conducting a ceremony, pouring milk, curds, ghee and saffron over the naked stone idol. I stood there and watched in wonder and took a picture.

Thirty years later would find me in Mysore once again. My wife and I signed up for the three-site tour. Sravanabelagola was our first stop. I was eager to see it again. Nothing much looked familiar, but that was to be expected after so many years. There was a brand-new entrance gate at the bottom. We started our climb. Somebody said there are 500 steps to the top. Indeed, we could not see the top. We climbed higher and higher. Now and again, naked men passed us going the other way, their faces smeared with ash. We stopped frequently to catch our breath and look around. The higher we climbed, the stronger the breeze became. It felt good.

At last we reached the top. The sheer size of the statue took my breath away. It stood serenely atop of the mountain and had bamboo scaffolding all around it. My mind balked. I tried hard to reconcile what confronted me at that moment with my admittedly sketchy memory of same. For one thing, this statue was gleaming bright under the clear Karnataka skies. The one I remembered was black (which was entirely possible for, I was told, the ghee poured over the stone sometimes had the tendency to turn the stone dark). Yet, I grudgingly decided that this was not the same statue I had seen the first time around. If I had, I would have remembered it. It’s sheer size alone made it unforgettable.

And this remains a mystery. Where exactly was I when I thought I was there thirty years back? There was another hill in town. I thought maybe, back then, we had climbed the other one. I searched the internet, but found nothing even close to what I remembered at that location. I asked my professor who had been in charge of us back then. I asked my wife who had grown up in Mysore and made this pilgrimage any number of times. All came up empty.
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Today the mystery was solved. It seems that not 20 km from Mysore there’s
Gommatagiri. A 700-year-old statue of black granite stands atop a fifty meter tall hillock called 'Shravana Gudda'. This statue of Gomateshwara is said to be an early Vijayanagara creation . The center attracts many pilgrims during the annual ‘Maha masthakabhisekha', held in September. That would coincide with the time we were there.

The statue at Gommatagiri has a striking resemblance to its famous counterpart in Sravanabelagola except that it is dwarfed by comparison. Googling Gommatagiri and then clicking on images, I finally solved the puzzle that had haunted me for nearly half a lifetime.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Art in Summit, NJ

2011-02-06T12:31:00.000-08:00

On a recent visit to the town where I grew up in Germany, I noted that a lot of contemporary sculpture had inexplicably made inroads into the general landscape. I was told that the German government requires builders to solicit artwork to be displayed along side any new construction. The aim presumably is to give artists the opportunity to share in their community’s economic fortune – government-sponsored affirmative action for artists, if you wish.

I realize this column has visited Summit once before when we were discussing the Reeves-Reed Arboretum. Ironically, it was the man-made sculptures displayed there that drew our attention and not the roses, the daffodils, the sunflowers, hyacinths, etc. This time we return to Summit once more for here too modern sculpture has been cropping up in many of its public spaces. As it turns out, The Mayor’s Partnership for Summit Arts has been a force in bringing contemporary sculpture to the town so that people who may not necessarily be so inclined as to visit museums are also given the opportunity for accidental encounters (with modern art) just by going about their daily routines. Most works remain in place for about six months after which they are either moved to a new location or returned to the artist.

The program, in effect since 2004, has been successful in securing space for about 20installations in various parts of the city. The largest collection can be found in Wilson Park; but downtown, city hall, the high school and the train station have also become venues. In addition, three bus shelters along Broad Street have been outfitted with stained glass windows.

The Reeves-Reed Arboretum, of course, remains an attractive place for artists to display their work, as is the High School. These venues however have no direct connection to the Mayor’s Partnership.

Connection or not, there is no doubt that all manner of art has been cropping up in Summit. This has always been a town with a soft spot for the finer things in life. The restaurants here are first class. The Summit Playhouse has been around as long as I can remember. There is also an Opera House, though no longer used for its stated purpose (only the name remains). Summit is also the New Jersey Center for the Visual Arts which features rotating exhibitions by established artists as well as Center students in a bright, modern facility. Summer evenings often feature concerts in the park. And don’t forget the annual art show for which several streets in down town are closed to traffic.

It might be instructive to mention that, unlike in Germany, all this activity is supported privately. I still remember when the German government decided that anyone claiming affiliation with a church would be required to pay a “church tax”. This effectively contributed toward emptying the pews.

Peter Koelliker pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Ice Storm

2011-02-03T12:42:00.000-08:00

It’s been a rollicking winter in this part of the world. Every few days it snows. This makes it tricky for those who have steep driveways and jobs to get to in the morning. Even if you have a contract with someone to come and plow you out, chances are they won’t get there till late. They’ll have been busy all day.

So if you happen to have kids in the house, you’re likely to send them out with shovels. Even if they do a good job, it’ll be slippery. Backing the car down will likely end you up in a snow bank. This necessitates yet another round of shoveling - or rather, ‘digging out'.

Yesterday, on top of everything, we had an ice storm. This morning, every branch, every leaf was encased in ice. The driveway was so slick, you could practically skate down it and pick up the paper. After spreading sand or salt, you start the car and ease it out of the garage. So far so good. What happens next is predictable because its happened before.

Once you hit the slope, the car begins to slide. You remember someone saying, “Keep the wheels turning; don’t hit the brake.” You check the rear view mirrors, but all you see is white. The car pulls to the right. You turn the wheel to compensate. Too late! You’ve hit the snow bank and you’re stuck.

Forward is impossible. Too much gravity working against you. Backwards is blocked. You can throw all the sand you want under the wheels, they’ll just keep spinning (unless you have four wheel drive).

Such are the joys of living in a temperate climate. There are flashing lights down the block. The electric company has come out. Then you notice that the houses across the street don’t have power.

Now you feel better. It can always be worse. You go back inside and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then you call the boss to tell him you won’t be in today.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Guindy National Park, Chennai, India

2011-01-26T12:31:00.000-08:00

I happened to be returning from somewhere and was sitting in the back of the car, listening to OASIS on my iPod. We were stuck in the usual Chennai traffic. To my right, there was a high wall that seemed to go on for miles. It’s not unusual to see walls in Chennai (or anywhere in India) as walls are regarded here as a prudent way of protecting one’s property.

Anyway, the contrast between India and the West, suddenly hit home - a kind of epiphany. Here I was, riding in air-conditioned comfort through the chaotic streets of Chennai, totally immersed in music that was so incongruous to the region. The contrast literally ripped my eyes open and I suddenly could see beyond the wall to my right.

The song, ‘Wonderwall’, came on practically on cue and the picture on the cover of George Harrison’s 1968 album by the same title flashed in front of me. There was a wall there as well. On one side of it was a scene depicting a gaggle of young Indian maidens washing their long, black, hair in a lotus pond. On the other, there was nothing but a stodgy English gentleman dressed in black, wearing a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella.

I looked and saw monkeys happily scampering about atop the wall. Beyond them was a profusion of exotic trees - including Sugar and Wood-apple, Banyan, Peepal, Neem, numerous species of palm and cacti – reaching for the heavens.

I sat mesmerized by it. The random growth behind that wall looked as dangerously seductive as anything I had ever seen. It would turn out to be the Guindy National Park, an extension of the grounds surrounding Raj Bhavan, the official residence of the governor of Tamil Nadu. It extends deep inside his estate, consisting of beautiful forests, scrub lands, lakes and streams.

I looked it up on the net on reaching home and found that Guindy Park is contiguous with the Arignar Anna Zoological Garden which is directly behind the Gandhi Mandapam, Kamaraj and Rajaji Memorials. Guindy Snake Park is a relatively new addition right next to the Guindy National Park. There one can see king cobras, pythons, vipers as well as monitors, crocodiles, turtles and other reptiles. Animals, in a separate area and designated as The Children’s Park, include black buck, sambhar, spotted deer, porcupine, hyena, jackal, pelicans, night heron, cormorant, cockatiel, mongoose, bonnet monkeys and the common languor. The various parks have separate, but very nominal entry fees. Entry to the memorials is free.

As such, the insistently beckoning forest behind the “Wonderwall” was accessible. I would make it a point to go the next morning and explore.

Explore I did. And, as is always the case in India, the people are the landscape. My heart was so easily nudged away from its original intent when confronted with busload after busload of school children and orphans – the blue team, the red team, the yellow team – all vying for my attention. They wave, smile broadly and shout, “Hi! How are you? Take our picture. We are learning English. What is your native place? We like you…”

They are thrilled, of course. And so am I. I feel like a rock star. What was it (again) that I came here to see? Never mind. I feel good. I switch my iPod back on.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

VGP Golden Beach Resort, Chennai, India

2011-01-25T13:22:00.000-08:00

Most people from America go to India to see its antiquities. The U.S., after all, is only 200 some odd years old; this, compared to India’s millennia. Relative to what India has to offer devotees of antiquity, everything from Plymouth Rock to Disney World is kitsch.

But India too has kitsch. I’ve passed it often on the way down and back from Mahabalipuram, on the ocean side of the East Coast Road: VGP Golden Beach Resort. It consists of 33 oceanfront acres of family fun. There is an amusement park, hotel and restaurants. The prime attraction, of course, is the beach. It is there that most people gather after having paid Rs. 150 entrance fee.

I was reading about Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, NJ filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy – not surprising with the recession and all hitting New Jersey especially hard. Still, I read that attendance at Florida’s Disney World is also down. Yet, by all accounts, they’re still hanging in. And I ask myself, WHY? So, I came up with a theory that has probably not much to do with anything, but here goes anyway:

Maybe, for a theme park to be successful – to give it the edge, so to speak – it needs to be character based. Disney has all those delightful Disney characters; ditto France’s Parc Astérix. VGP’s Universal Kingdom Amusement Park has the gods and goddesses from the Mahabharata throughout the park. There’s Shiva dancing; Vishnu reclining; Buddha meditating and all those voluptuous multi-limbed attendant maidens poised gracefully in stone. There are sculpted elephants, horses, mermaids, birds, etc. – all to make visitors feel comfortable thus surrounded by their traditions. Six Flags has six flags and rides, which is quite enough for the 13-21 set, but often leaves those paying the bill strangely empty – especially in the wallet.

The pictures I took at VGP (named for its founder, V.G. Paneerdas) were mostly of the characters that seemed to make the entire extravaganza come to life. It was interesting to see the families enjoying themselves under the lush shade of greenery. It was a garden like none I had ever seen before, opening up to a broad view of The Bay of Bengal just beyond a gentle rise. The warning flags were up the day we went. There was a storm out at sea, kicking up the surf. Still, the people were gathered at the waterline, cooling their wrists and ankles.

It’ll likely never be a tourist spot for the Asia cruise crowd unless they happened to bring the young ones along, but it’s nevertheless an example of how India manages to copy the West in so many ways without giving in to the impulse to totally give in to Western pressures, thus managing to preserve an essence of its own. The amusement park was specifically built to give the people of Chennai a world class amusement park – a boyish fantasy, perhaps – but nevertheless a dream made real by a twelve-year old who left his rural village to arrive in the city of his dreams (Madras) with only the clothes on his back and the drive, vision and endurance required to succeed. Today, VGP Holdings is vast and worth in excess of Rs. 5 Billion and growing every year.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

The Great Swamp, New Jersey, USA

2011-01-22T17:02:00.000-08:00

It is simply amazing to me that so many green places still continue to exist, all within a 50 mile radius of New York City. Having grown up on the Jersey side of the Hudson, I’ve heard my state regularly maligned as consisting mostly of smokestacks and asphalt. It makes for clever one-liners, no doubt; you can’t help but smile (even while you curse the traffic jam you happen to be stewing in) but, you know, it simply isn’t true.

Take The Great Swamp, for instance. It’s a protected area administered by the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Barely 26 miles from Times Square, it consists of 7,600 acres of varied habitats and has become home to literally hundreds of species of birds and animals. Thousands of plant varieties make the refuge a lung for this highly populated region.

As the name implies, much of the area consists of wetlands with its own unique semi-aquatic vegetation which is lush and green in the summer and starkly somber in winter. Each season here has its own particular charm. There is a series of well-maintained boardwalks that give the visitor a chance to enjoy this unique habitat without having to muddy his boots. There are also biking, hiking and waking trails.

Some years back, developers wanted to drain the swamp and build an airport there. The local population - not without political influence and financial clout - rose up and successfully lobbied against the project. As a result, it was decided that the already existing airport in Newark should be enlarged - and another wilderness area was saved.

The animal population in the swamp routinely spills over into the surrounding suburbs. For people living there, it is not unusual to see fox, deer, rabbits, turtles and wild turkeys in their yards. Deer alone are so prolific, a hunt is held annually in an effort to control the population. This invariably brings animal rights protestors out, but logic does seem to suggest that if the animal populations are not controlled in some way, many will go outside the refuge in search of food where they are likely to become traffic fatalities.

The Great Swamp is primarily known for bird watching. There are hundreds of bird species who use it to rest and feed during their annual migrations. Sound-proof bird blinds have been built for the patient birder to observe his often elusive prey.

Curiously, on a recent trip to wilds of Vermont, we saw almost no wildlife – not even a squirrel. I asked the locals about it. They simply shrugged and joked, “The animals, it seems, have all packed up and gone down to New Jersey,” they would say. I have yet to hear a plausible explanation for why this should be so.

Located on 16 acres adjacent to the Great Swamp is The Raptor Trust. This is where injured birds are mended and cared for until they can be released back into the wild. It is a privately funded enterprise and is open to visitors who wish to see owls, hawks, vultures, eagles as these are recuperating from some unfortunate accident. A small donation may be asked for at the gate. For directions and additional information, check out their web site:

http://www.funsprouts.com/raptor_trust.htm.

Paul McCartney

2011-01-22T08:31:00.000-08:00

Paul McCartney, troubadour, highly sought - even in the White House.