As soon as it dropped from the tree it seemed to fly like a drone above me painting an invisible elliptical shape in the clear blue sky, and then forced by the November breeze it flew right back towards me and touched me gently on the head, then slipped quietly and innocently to the ground. I rubbed my head where it had made contact and glared at it as it lay motionless - pretending as if it knew nothing about prancing in the air. It now lay fashionably on the cool grass, the slender stem bent gracefully, its proud wrinkled face looking up at the sky, there was no sign of remorse - its tiny edges quivering slightly in the fall wind.

A dead leaf. The biggest I had ever seen in my life.

“I have lived a full life – a full summer” announced the leaf. I was wondering how the leaf was able to talk. Was the leaf really talking or was this my imagination playing tricks with me again?! I could not be sure so I decided to play along.

“What do you mean – you have lived a full life?” I asked.

“I have seen blue skies, rolling meadows, warm winds, a brilliant summer full of sunshine, I have seen the beautiful sights that are to be seen and heard the soothing music that is to be heard – even that rare silent music in my ears after every drop of rain” said the leaf.

“Blue skies…warm winds…silent music…so you think that is what is meant by living a full life…?” I prodded in jest.

“When I was young and green - I was in love with a grasshopper…it had big compound eyes and strong hind legs, it could have shred me to bits and gobbled me up if it wanted, bit it didn't...it let me live my full life...” confessed the leaf, now almost whispering.

“What…but that is strictly not allowed – you are from the plant kingdom, right…how could you have been in love with one from the animal kingdom? I asked incredulously.

“Love knows no boundaries. I once loved the shadow of a flower…but you won’t understand that. You are too human - too restricted with your senses” replied the leaf.

“You fell in love with a mere shadow of a flower?” I had to ask.

“Yes – you can fall in love with a shadow…I never saw the flower itself because it was on the other side but I used to wait for the long shadow of the flower to appear and dance in front of me as the sun came up each morning. Everything has a shadow…some are visible to the human eyes and some are not. Where there is a form of light – there are shadows. You pass by those dark glass panes, you look at your shadow and recognize yourself…you check your hair and your makeup! At that moment you and your shadow are one and the same” said the leaf.

“You must be joking – I have never heard such meaningless banter” I retorted getting nervous that this conversation was clearly headed in the wrong direction.

But the leaf carried on: “One day you will decay and decompose just like me. First the carrion flies will come and lay their eggs inside your nose, mouth and ears. Then the bacteria shall take over leading to putrefaction. Then your skin will rupture and decay. The larvae of flies shall consume your soft tissues. Only your bones shall remain. Then mice and rodents will gnaw on your bones to get the calcium...”.

“I clearly don’t follow what you are saying. This is too heavy for me. I should never have listened to your nonsense…I am so sorry for this dark conversation” I cried aloud in great frustration.

The leaf quietly said “What are you complaining about – be grateful…be thankful…I am already dead but you are still alive! Enjoy every moment – while it lasts!”
 
I was still shaking my head when the leaf flew in the wind and disappeared. It was a rough moment to reckon with but precious nevertheless.

I thought you would want to see a moral of the blog so here it is:

Happy living each moment of life – and a very happy thanksgiving to all!

“The story is good, but the video is bad, I wonder how a duck can have a tail like a porcupine..?” asked Kris. He was an eight year old kid visiting us with his parents for the weekend.
I had played a cartoon video for him. It was based on Sukumar Ray’s “literary nonsense” story. When I was a kid I enjoyed reading Sukumar Ray’s stories. They were as much fun as Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. Now kids could watch them in animation with sub-titles - but I guess it is not the same thing as reading a book and imagining things by oneself.
Kris said he was getting bored.
“Why don’t you do some painting…” I suggested to Kris. He gladly picked up the paint brush. We were now seated on our deck overlooking the creek and Kris started painting the view of the woods.
As I sat sipping some Darjeeling tea, I thought to myself - What if such a strange looking duck with a tail like a porcupine did exist somewhere?
Maybe we just haven’t seen it yet. Maybe.
A quick look at some ornithological websites revealed that there were forty-six recorded species of ducks, geese and swans in the state of New Jersey alone.
They all seem to share some common characteristics. Feathers that can shed water easily. Webbed feet for both water and land. Beaks of varying colors ranging from bright red to solid black.
On the internet I found a species that was called the “wood duck” and I was amazed by how colorful it was and how it mimicked its surrounding colors for a camouflage. Even a very creative person would find it difficult to imagine its combination of colors. The “long-tailed duck” is the only one I could find that came closest to having a tail that looks like the quill of a porcupine.
Well, it seems Sukumar Ray’s creativity was certainly out of this world!
And who would have imagined there are so many species of ducks and waterfowl?
There is of course Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection. But apparently he has many critics. And not just religious groups. Many scientists think there is little evidence of how a new species emerges.
I glanced at what Kris had painted. It looked a lot like a “wood duck” sitting on the banks of the creek. I was quite puzzled. How did Kris know about this species of ducks?
Was this his active imagination? How could this be a co-incidence that I was just now looking at a picture of one on the internet?
I showed Kris’ painting to all and they were equally amazed.
“Kris – where did you see this duck?” I asked him.
‘I have seen one earlier” he replied nonchalantly.
“But where?” I persisted.
“A long time ago – when I was a lot bigger! I used to study in a high school called Rock and next to that was a Sidebrook park where I saw this duck” he replied confidently.
“Kris – how could you have been in high school in the past, you are only eight years old!” we exclaimed in unison.
“Yes I know – but last time I drowned in a lake and died. I saw this duck just before I drowned” he said without a trace of emotion.
The room was quiet. We could not fathom what was happening. Kris was an eight year old after all. He could well be imagining things.
Several days after Kris and his parents had left, while searching news that was eight years old, I found a news clip that reported that a high school student had drowned while swimming in a lake near Roxbury High School next to Brookside Park.
 

It had finally stopped raining. I was out in the backyard looking down the slope leading into the woods when I saw turtle feet move inside one of the  burrows that had provided shelter from the rain. Turtles dig nests there to lay their eggs.
I was excited to imagine that there would be baby turtles soon that would eventually head into the creek down below.

All of a sudden I heard a scratching noise behind me. I turned around quickly. A short red haired man seemed to appear from nowhere. It was getting dark and I could hardly see him clearly in the dusk but I was startled by his high pitched voice. He must have been watching me from the side of the woods while I was trying to remove one of the broken branches in the yard. There had been a storm and some branches had broken off the trees, hanging dangerously from above.

“Are you looking for someone to cut those branches?” he asked with a muffled cough. I nodded back, not sure I wanted to engage in a conversation with him. He stood there gazing at one of the large birch trees. It was almost dark and I wanted to go inside so I started walking back to the house. He followed me.

Why was he following me?

Annoyed with this strange behavior I turned around and looked him in the eye. He had a pleasant triangular face, pointed ears and small dark pupils. I noticed he was wearing a yellow gold chain necklace. He was now smiling and I could see his pronounced white teeth.

“I am not sure I am ready to decide yet, there are three trees that are impacted and I need to think about whether I want the trees removed or just trim the branches”, I said to him. Meanwhile I was thinking I need to compare prices, and check whether he had insurance coverage or not.

“It’s a day’s job for me, I can remove those branches tomorrow if you want.” He said restlessly while balancing on his toes. I was happy to hear that he could start the job so soon. Most people who cut trees are backed up after a storm like this and not easily available.

The next thing I remember we were discussing the contract and it was settled that he would start with the job the very next day.

When I came home from work the next day evening, the broken branches from the three impacted trees had been removed. Pleased with the progress made, I sat on the deck drinking some Darjeeling tea and reading the newspaper.
As it grew dark and I was ready to go back inside, I took one last look at the woods. I was surprised by what I saw. A red fox with a long bushy tail was standing on a mound looking at the burrow where the turtle had laid the eggs. The pointed ears moved. Something had caught its attention. It pounced on something in the dark. I heard a growl almost like a muffled cough.

The fox must have come for the turtle eggs.

It was a long moment before the fox leapt back into the woods and I heaved a sigh of relief - mixed with the heavy feeling of not being able to protect the turtle eggs.

It was hard to tell in the twilight but I believe I saw a familiar looking golden chain around the fox’s neck.
 

After dropping Jit at Woodcrest Station I crawled through morning traffic to the greyhound bus terminal. The 8:30am bus to NYC was about to leave. In one warped moment I parked the car -tires screaming, wore my jacket collected my laptop in one fluid motion, raced to the counter and flashed my credit card at the counter lady.

Meanwhile the line of humanity entering the giant bus was almost disappearing like a species going extinct.

The lady at the counter said this bus is sold out and so are all of them until noon. Whaaat?! She was avoiding eye contact now. Ok I want to buy the ticket anyway. There will be no refund, she said. Ok understood. In another long second I had a ticket pointed at the driver and was grinning ear to ear trying to appease him. Well guess what - he let me board the bus. However I could not find a seat. Omg do I have to go standing all the way?! But then I spotted a seat all the way at the back. I thought to myself it must be someone who is using the toilet. I decided to take a chance and occupied it immediately -melting into the leather cushion with all my existence.

I think we are half way to New York already. The trees outside look gorgeous through the tinted windows. It's a beautiful day.

Part 2:

Having wrapped up the official part of our meeting at 5:30pm I was drawn involuntarily with some colleagues to the nearest Irish pub. I think there are strong invisible microservice enabled strings that pull you in that direction and before you know it - you are seated on a high chair watching an arbit football game ordering Irish ale with spicy wings to a pretty looking server.

Two glasses of ale later I still can't follow the football game.

Does it really matter which team wins? Finally I have the courage to say it. I think I want to catch the 7pm greyhound bus back home - I say it aloud finally. They look at me with horror as if I am from another planet, but their expression evaporates the next moment. It is ostensibly a kind expression but what it really means is - oh we understand you are a pathetic commuter from rural Jersey who needs to go back home to your family and home cooked dinner.

Indeed. Nothing beats "machh bhat" at home.

So I shake hands vigorously, hugs and goodbyes, quick look at my watch and race back to the Port Authority bus terminal. Walking ten blocks diagonally in Manhattan is an art. If you try to crack this scientifically it is as difficult as the traveling salesman problem. But if you don't mind getting honked and cursed at you keep walking despite stop lights - pretty much like you would in Gariahat Calcutta, just don't make eye contact with the person behind the wheels. How pedestrian can you get, I think to myself. Anyhow I keep walking through this maze of oncoming vehicles and desperate humanity in the hope of catching any thing that gets me out of the city quickly. It is dinner time and the city is getting ready to feed itself. Spirits are going down. Spirits are going up. I notice the hot young blonde wearing a colorful sleeveless summer dress drinking champagne from a tall glass - while her tuxedo clad date is gaping, obviously smitten. I notice the confused looking homeless guy limping ahead not sure where he lost his bag full of promises and dreams. Finally I'm at the terminal. The AC feels good like a cold towel around the neck on a hot and humid day. I look at the long queue of summer tourists waiting at the counter as I buy my ticket from one of the kiosks in just under 30 seconds. One level down to the gates. But wait I still have 15 precious minutes left. I head straight to the book shop and in typical Calcutta/Howrah book stall manner I browse through every book on display but end up buying nothing. I skimp through "The Gene" by Sid Mukherjee of Columbia university and read about how his Dad could never get over the Partition - did he die of cancer, I turn the page, turn some more, turn turn, my alarm sounds- time to go. Should I buy the book or not? Ah - who is going to carry such a heavy book on top of the laptop and jacket - I make a mental note of ordering it on Amazon. Out of guilt I buy an overpriced pack of lightly salted pistachios from the book shop and race down the escalator to the gate - the bus is about to leave.

In one fluid motion I hand my ticket to the attendant and one giant step later I am walking down the aisle of the bus that is already moving. I need a seat. Why do these buses fill up so quickly I am thinking maybe I should drive into the city next time. Just then I spot a seat in one of the middle rows. It is next to a teenage kid slouching on the seat. He seems intoxicated. No wonder nobody sat next to him. Oh well. I take the seat. The kid starts to blabber. He is saying something I can't understand. I switch on my iPad and put on my earplugs. Is he going to puke? I hope he doesn't puke coz that would make me puke. Omg. And then the lights dim. It is already dark outside. The bus is sailing smoothly on the turnpike. The kid goes to sleep. I catch up on the half watched new Game of Thrones episode. It is still a beautiful day.

“When I say One, you say Love…One…?” our tour guide enthusiastically addressed the group of tourists assembled around him.
Love! (the audience chanted softly)
Our tour guide looked offended.
“I don’t hear you…One…??”
Love!! (the audience was louder this time).
He was still not satisfied.
“I need to feel it…One…???
Love!!!!!! (the audience was really loud this time).

I have not seen a more passionate tour guide!

“And when I say Bob, you say Marley…Bob…?” he egged us on until we were hoarse shouting and having fun and singing together at the top of our voices.

It was a beautiful sunny day, gorgeous 80 degrees in downtown Kingston, Jamaica, and we were visiting the Bob Marley Museum. This is the house where the famous reggae musician Bob Marley lived until his death and even survived an assassination attempt. His wife Rita Marley turned it into a museum a few years after his death. The museum displays the legendary musician’s various awards. 

Bob Marley is one of the world’s best selling artists of all time. He has sold more than 75 million records. His famous song “One Love” was named the song of the millennium by BBC in 2004. 

The son of a white father and a black mother, Bob felt rejected by both communities and his short life was a fight to promote the universality of love and the common unifying thread across different races. 

The museum displays various personal treasures, including a rare picture of his father – Captain Norval Marley a white man in the British army. His father was 60 when Bob was born! Bob’s mother Cedella was 18 when she got married. Bob didn’t see much of his father because he was always travelling – his father died when he was only 10. 

He did not have an easy life.

The museum has a well equipped theater room where one can watch Bob Marley’s recordings and listen to his various interviews on what motivated him and his songs.

One of the rooms in the museum has all the pictures of his various world tours. Bob Marley was the hero of black freedom fighters. The lyrics of his famous songs such as "Buffalo Soldier" and “Get up, stand up – stand up for your rights” were motivational to freedom fighters around the world. 

Bob wanted people to be free from the tyranny of white colonial rulers, especially those who had brought on the slave trade across the oceans. In 1980 he was invited to perform on the first Independence Day celebration of Zimbabwe. This event was attended by various leaders including Price Charles. Thousands of people gathered to attend his show but the crowds went completely out of control - the show had to be stopped for security reasons!

Bob Marley had a strong affinity to Africa and especially to Ethiopia. He believed that Haile Selassie the emperor of Ethiopia, coronated in 1930, was an incarnation of God. Bob was a true believer in the Rastafari religion that was started by Haile Selassie. He had his famous dreadlocks to prove his adherence to this religion.

But it was not just the dreadlocks, Bob believed so strongly in the Rastafari religion that when doctors diagnosed cancer in his toe and advised him to get his toe amputated, he flatly refused – saying Rastafaris do not amputate, they do not believe in dismantling a man!

Bob always wanted to go to Africa. When he finally did visit Africa in 1978, he discovered to his dismay that the man whom he worshipped as God was not well remembered by his own people and was buried in an unmarked grave. This must have disappointed him greatly.

Bob’s cancer spread and claimed his life within 2 years of getting diagnosed. 
​
The King of Reggae died in 1981 at the young age of 36.

“Do we have to buy tickets to the gallery…or is it free entrance…” we asked the security guard at the door of the Rarity Gallery.

The security guard didn’t respond immediately as if trying to decide what to say, but his gaze was constantly fixed on us. He was a middle-aged man perhaps in his fifties. His glasses gave him an intellectual look and his smartly pressed trousers revealed his attention to detail. I looked at his admiral’s hat and shiny shoes. He looked back at me without blinking his eyes; it seemed to me that he was deep in thought.  

His blue uniform, his hat and badge declared that he was obviously the security officer of the building – then why was he not responding, was he deaf?!

“You need to ask me that question!” a smiling young lady came out of the gallery and welcomed us into the gallery.

I looked again at the security guard seated on his chair motionless in the corner of the tiny gallery’s entrance, his expression was still unchanged. The young lady was now chuckling. We realized our mistake in a split second. We had been fooled. It was a piece of illusionistic art! The security guard was a life-size realistic sculpture by Marc Sijan.

Now that we had been well and truly fooled, we went near him and looked closely at the unbelievably lifelike sculpture of the guard - the hands, the nails, the veins running along his hands, the tiny hairs, even the blemishes on his skin. There must be a real person hiding just under the surface of the sculpture. It was truly awe inspiring.

“Welcome to the genre of “Hyper Realism”!” said the young lady now leading us into the gallery while explaining how several artists came together to create an exhibition there.

Later while reading about illusionism, I learnt about the French term “trompe l’oeil” (pronounced as “trawnp lœ-yuh”) which stands for visual deception in art. Such art can fool the eye of the beholder.

Examples of trompe-l’oeil go back in time. The ancient Greek artist Zeuxis had painted grapes so realistic that even birds pecked at them! Similarly when the Italian painter Giotto had painted a fly sitting on the nose of a painted figure, people would try to brush off the fly thinking it was real.

In modern times trompe l’oeil has been used effectively in commercials such as the Honda ad where its temporary visual deception provides comic relief:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UelJZG_bF98

Rene Magritte the Belgian surrealist artist makes his point in “The Betrayal of Images” (This is not a pipe) that no matter how lifelike the pipe looks in the picture, it is simply not a pipe because one cannot stuff tobacco in it. By that logic no picture of an apple is actually an apple because one cannot eat it and a picture of a car is never really a car because one cannot drive it. Perception in these cases is far from reality.

We live in a world of spin and popular propaganda is often far from the truth. Just because we see something on TV or read something on the Internet it cannot be automatically believed as true.

However in some cases perception does translate to reality. And sometimes deception can be of a permanent nature.
One example from the world of art is the story of the sculptor Pygmalion who created Galatea - a beautiful girl made out of ivory. Apparently Pygmalion was frustrated with the unfaithfulness of the women in his life so he created his own woman and believed her to be real. So strong was his belief in her real-ness that he even brought her flowers and jewels as gifts.

The story goes that Pygmalion prayed to Venus for a wife as lovely as Galatea and Venus granted his wish - which brought the statue to life.

Pygmalion believed in the illusion created by him. He prayed hard to make his illusion come to life. And finally the illusion became real. This could be happening even in modern times, and not just in the realm of art.

The greatest deception is one that ultimately becomes real.
​
While stepping out of the gallery that day in Greece, I looked at the security guard one last time. I smiled and waved him goodbye. For one frozen moment in time it seemed to me that he winked through his glasses and smiled back at me.

“Would you like that to be a classic or regular?” asked the nice lady at the counter of the café restaurant. It was late afternoon on a rainy weekend near London and we had just ordered some hot tea asking preferably for the “English Breakfast” flavor.

It was the first time that I heard a question about my choice of classic or regular for tea, and assuming that she was referring to the size of the tea cup, I just said “Medium please”. She was a bit surprised with that response and pressed further: “What kind of bread would you like sir?”

Now this was strange. I have traveled numerous times to England but had never been offered bread with my tea. Again I assumed that she was offering some toasted bread to please us and I realized that we were living in a competitive world and cafe style restaurants were trying to differentiate themselves by offering free stuff to new customers.

When she asked “How would you like your eggs sir?” I almost fell off my chair and then I knew there was some grave misunderstanding about our order. So I decided to clarify – “Look Ma’am, we just had lunch and all we need is some hot tea…so if you could kindly…”.

“But you asked for the English breakfast?!” she seemed puzzled and also slightly annoyed.

I glanced at the huge black board behind her with the day’s menu written up in beautiful old fashioned calligraphy using a white chalk and noticed for the first time that this place specialized in offering a variety of breakfasts, and the term “English Breakfast” was mentioned clearly as a menu item with variants such as classic or regular depending upon how you wanted the eggs prepared and whether you liked baked beans to go with it or not.

“Ah – there seems to be a misunderstanding Ma’am, we just wanted the English Breakfast flavor of tea and not the English breakfast per se - if you know what I mean…”

“Oh well – you asked for the English breakfast…and English people have breakfast all day long…” she was still muttering under her breath, but then she was sporty enough to start smiling.

The tea was PG Tips Black tea. That was the only flavor they had. Oh well let’s get our cuppa!

I chuckled to myself, as I reminisced fondly about this micro episode while having breakfast at the Macdonald Berystede hotel in Ascot. This is a nice hotel themed around horse-racing with pictures of the Ascot thoroughbred racing events that take place at the nearby racecourse. Incidentally the Ascot racecourse has a close association with the British royal family, being just a few miles from the Windsor Castle.

The Berystede breakfast was quite a spread. Hash browns, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, sausages, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms…all of this while enjoying a beautiful view of the greens. While sipping some English Breakfast tea at breakfast, I realized I was feeling unusually tired. Must be the jet lag I thought plus the fact that I had not slept much the previous night. The temperatures were dropping below 50 degrees Fahrenheit at night. And for some strange reason the switch for heating in my room was continuously being switched back to cooling. It must be a mechanical defect I thought. Surely there was no ghost playing with the switch at night.

The next day I read up on the history of the hotel. The hotel site dated back to 1362 when it was a manor. The original house that was later converted into this hotel was destroyed by fire in 1886, and the Prince of Wales himself had come over from Windsor to inspect the damage. As per history the lady’s maid Eliza Kleininger died in the fire. She had saved her gifts that she received from her employer and their guests in a jewelry box in her room. This was meant to be the precious asset for her retirement.

Everyone including the family members ran out of the house to save their lives. The butler ran out, the valet and the cook ran out, the housekeeper and all the maid servants ran out, the night watchman ran to save his life. But not the lady’s maid Eliza. She attempted to save her jewelry box by rushing into the burning house and died a tragic death.
Eliza’s charred bones were discovered the next day at the foot of the staircase, surrounded by the pieces of jewelry she had so desperately wanted to save.

It is believed that her ghost still haunts the Berystede hotel.
​
But does she also play with the heating switch at night?! I guess we will never know the answer to that one.

“Sir you are on the wrong ship!” declared the young attendant crisply.

“What do you mean wrong ship? We have tickets for the Sea Jets ship and this is a Sea Jets ship if I am not mistaken…” I retaliated, slightly annoyed with his attitude.

“This company has a dozen different types of ships, this is a ChampionJet – and your tickets are for the smaller SuperJet” responded the attendant chewing each word in his thick Greek accent. He was wearing a blue uniform with the company logo on his shirt. I looked at the tickets again and my expression changed from anger to disbelief to frustration.

It was a hot humid weekend in August, the busiest time of the year for tourists headed to the beautiful Greek islands. We were trying to get to Mykonos from Santorini. It would have been a very short flight if we had flown, but it was hard to get a flight. A two and a half hour journey by ship with stunning views of the deep blue waters of the Aegean sea, seemed like a great idea.

I looked around the ship for the first time, it was indeed very big. It could easily seat a thousand passengers, more than twice the number that would fit in the smaller ships. Apparently our ship was running late and this one came exactly at the time our ship was supposed to depart. Some kind of announcement would have helped, I thought to myself. Not to mention that the staff checking our tickets downstairs at the car deck could have done a better job of really checking our tickets before letting us in. I guess they were running late so they just wanted to board everyone quickly.

At the lower deck, passengers were falling over each other trying to place their luggage on the racks. We had our share of challenges with putting the luggage. Someone had put luggage on the wrong rack meant for Athens instead of the one for Mykonos and then had to pull the luggage back and put it in the right rack. Not to mention that pulling luggage out when others are still trying to push their luggage into the rack - is tricky business. 

We were not the only ones confused with our tickets, there were other passengers as well who could not find their seats. The scene was starting to look like a chaotic fish market. Finally a senior staff member came and asked everyone to take a seat, irrespective of their seat numbers.

I looked out of the large glass windows at the beautiful Aegean Sea. The view was quite stunning. And then I realized that we were already sailing. Right ship or wrong ship, there was no getting off this one! I heaved a sigh of relief and settled into my seat for a bit of rest. Only to be bombarded within thirty seconds with juvenile requests to buy pizza from the pantry shop.

It had been a hectic three days in Santorini - an island south of mainland Greece. Santorini is actually part of an archipelago and the site of one of the largest volcanic eruptions that occurred 3,600 years ago and destroyed a prehistoric civilization. A large eruption happened in 1650. Although the most recent volcanic activity happened in 1950, there could be another eruption anytime - it is still an active volcano and perhaps the only volcano in the world with its crater in the sea!

The islands in the archipelago came into existence as a result of a dozen violent volcanic eruptions, so the whole area is a natural geological museum.

Our hotel in Santorini (Mediterranean Royal) had a private sand beach and was a short ride from the main town of Fira. A cable car runs from a high point in Fira connecting it to the port below. There was a long queue of tourists standing in the hot sun trying to get into the cable cars. We decided to visit the nearby archaeological museum instead, and were amazed by the collection of prehistoric red and black vases that date back to 20th century BC.
Later when we came back to the cable cars the queue had reduced significantly. It was a short but very scenic 3 min ride down the steep rocks to the port below. A host of busy shops along the port catered to the crowds of tourists. One could just sit there the whole day gazing at the ships and the blue sea. Appropriate head gear and sun lotion was absolutely needed if one ventured to walk in the sun.

It was late afternoon when we tried to get a transfer by boat to Oia which is famous for sunset views, but were told there were no more transfers that day. The only way was to go back up to Fira and go by bus or taxi. We looked at the long queue of tourists waiting in the sun trying to get into the cable cars that would bring us back up to town.
Was there no other option?

I remembered seeing steps while we were coming down. What if we took the steps to climb up to town? But where was the entrance to the steps…

The entrance to the steps was full of people waiting to get on donkeys that would take them up the steps. These were large donkeys the size of horses and were not looking very disciplined. Perhaps not very well fed either. While my family members decided to ride the donkeys, I didn’t quite like the idea of punishing an animal in this deadly heat. I decided to climb up the 500 odd steps.

The gym at the hotel did not have a treadmill. So I thought this would be a good way to get my workout for the day. The cobbled steps went in a zig zag manner along the rocky mountain. I raced up the first flight of steps. I had climbed just a couple of flights of steps and the reward was immediate. A gorgeous view of the deep blue shining sea. Out came the iPhone from my pocket. Click! Click!

What a beautiful sight indeed. I opened my eyes wide to take in all the beauty of nature. And then I closed my eyes to rest for a few seconds. A moment of calm solitude. A drop of time to connect with one’s inner self. Ah – this was the vacation moment I had been dreaming about.

And then reality hit hard…

A sudden blast of dust and a very pungent smell caught my senses totally unawares. It was the smell of donkey excrement. There was a loud noise of stones clattering down the slippery steps.

A herd of donkeys was racing down the steps at breakneck speed!

I moved quickly to the side to avoid getting run over by the donkeys. There was no handrail. It was a precarious moment. Dust filled the air. I couldn’t see anything for a few seconds. Santorini was undoubtedly beautiful - but I had no intentions of dying there, getting kicked down the steps by a charging donkey.

It was hot, humid and I was sweating profusely from the exercise. My heart was pounding perhaps in anticipation of getting kicked to death by a wild donkey or perhaps it was merely the reaction of my senses to the strong smell of donkey excreta.

After a few moments of uneasy existence I realized that with the immense grace of the almighty, the donkeys had fortunately just grazed past me and except for some mud on my clothes I had survived the attack. The dust and the smell subsided after a few minutes.

I started climbing up again. And started looking for another spot to take in the breathtaking views.
​
It was 588 steps to the top. And every step was worth taking.