Covering Europe in 12 days

Among the many episodes I have outlived is the birth of the Globe Trotters’ club. No death for it... just fizzled out as it promised the impossible of “Covering the world in 80 days" and that too in the 80s. Who gave birth to it was a male and a school head at that!. He is no more. The Globe Trotters’ Club set up a record of never stepping outside the island. Of course, treacherously many of its affluent members, globe trot on their own, saying, ”Don’t tell Mr. J.”

I, its secretary get duped again and at 70 plus. This time the adventure could be titled Covering Europe in 12 days. My romance with Europe began since my school days. Asia, the larger continent did sizzle with a greater and more glorious past, no doubt, but so much was and is happening in this Europa continent that I thought “Now or never.”

There were many mishaps that culminated with my rather quiet son having a brawl with the travel agency for encouraging the adventures of the old minus the permission of the offsprings. Disobedient parents, a new phenomenon. By the time the cat was out of the bag and I was back in the country in one piece to his glee. Thanks to the national flag, for every time I got lost in the crowd due to my slow gait, the guide hoisted it for my eye track. Never respected the big cat more after he got out of the Dambulla cave on its way to flutter over Independent Square in 1948.

Writers end up with odd Karma. I intended to do many glorious pieces on my travel to my favourite newspaper but believe me, I finally put out only one, that too went plummeting to waste pits. It was an “Investigative report” on why female toilet queues are five times longer than male ones! The second is this. This too, I do not plan to present in a sequential order for it is nearly one year since I indulged in my adventure, my last before the final, and I have forgotten most of the details and lost the data.

The Alps, a heavenly sight

So, a little bit here and a little bit there, mostly dealing with the negative side as when despite being respected in my own country I began to be called “Names”.

Barabar

I was called a Barabar in Luxembourg, supposed to be the smallest state in Europe. I gave the hostess my best Barabar smile as an alternative to igniting an Asian–European war. Europe is no patchwork now, but one whole mosaic. You just liquidate into another country. Not even a primeval stile to jump over as in my village. No board signifying a separate identity. One financial camaraderie via the Euro and one vast geographical entity. But it was an odd “Covering” by the particular travel agency.

Touring Germany without seeing Berlin where so much happened and where the notorious gas chambers, a disgrace to the human race were, touring France without seeing the site of Bastille and the Palace of Versailles. The Eiffel Tower is today dimmed to zero by the oil fed ME towers.

A boat ride along the river Seine showed off how Paris flourished along a waterway. Is modern Kotte now mirrored in the scintillating waters of Diyawanna a duplicate? It was as though we visited Germany to have a luscious dinner served by German girls wearing age old costumes. One night we were out of the great country suffused with history. Over to Belgium, just crossed the Netherland sporting her magnificent windlooms but I had once visited this country earlier transit the USA. I nearly reclaimed my money after the repeat performance, missing the museums too that encased many a robbed artifice from Lanka.

Heavenly sight

The Alps, however, presented a heavenly sight with its shockingly white snowy caps and white ribbons of water gushing down and so did the waterfalls of Switzerland rising and falling with the Rhine river flowing via four Euro countries. In Swiss land was a mysterious rock slab rather familiar to my eyes as though a part of our inscriptions had been carried there. It was Helvitas, I was informed. And imagine my surprise when after coming back I got a letter from our historian, Dr Mirando about Helvitas that according to him transpires the Hela nature of Switzerland. Of course, he had to connect it with Ravana, his favourite king that some are ready to eat up!

In some country, I forget which, everybody was heading to seeing Jerusalem. Is Jerusalem in Europe? Of course, said a fellow traveller, even the steps of Jesus as he carried the crucifix can be seen. Believing makes a successful traveller. Non-conforming has the negative effect and you feel sorry for the money spent, even a pensioner’s hoarded money.

Was it Fa-Hsien who saw a kingdom of monkeys in our island? They were holding court replete with rituals, animal IQ working at peak level. Fa-Hsien reminded me of Marco Polo of Venice. While others preferred to spend their dollars shopping around, I sat at the world famous jetty and watched the fabulous hydro show.

So, this was from where the great traveller embarked on his journey to distant Cathay now Red and swarming with mistresses to flaunt its luxury. Italians celebrate him all right, naming almost every sea vessel after him. Even the large cruising vessels are named Marco Polo. In the background of the port extends gorgeous buildings such as massive ghosts of history, taking you back to ancient Rome where in its amphitheatres, many a gladiator fought.

Tragic tale

As we passed stretches of the area called Verona that sweet tragic tale came back to me in a vivid form. Some say it really happened, some are sceptical but to satisfy the believers, a separate post office has been built with all letters addressed to Romeo or Juliet of Verona, all asking for advice on love tangles. Strange world! They are the least suited for answering such requests for the duo had their youthful lives ended half way.

It is almost sacrilegious to leave Italy without mentioning the Vatican, but according to the Sinhala saying, Api giya thana debal athe (Wherever we go there is disaster).

The main section of the Vatican was closed that day for some reason but there were enough saints standing outside in endearing postures. I got lost here in the seething crowd and the lion came to my rescue again. To while away the time, I sat on the steps and drafted my report on toilets that were inaccessible.

Frailty, thy name is woman. It transcends national barriers as the noises of labour emitted at childbirth and at the sexy preliminary stage of increasing population. Just like Mark Twain was entranced by the clothes—thrashing noise at Slave Island, as he lodged at a close by hotel so I was entranced by the noise-productions here that could be termed the international vociferousness of females at the bottom line.

To close this up with more mishaps I had left behind my camera and was pickpocketed twice as I sat dreaming, rather than sight-seeing. Some wondered at my resilience.

The best bouquet I got was from the captain of the airplane that took us from Dubai to Colombo on our return journey. The captain spotting my knee guard exposed, offered me, business class in return for a septuagenarian’s curiosity in the human race! Snacks of an Emirates ruler? No, thanks. I have my own poor sandwiches.

And next to the lion nothing like seeing the outline of Serendipity metamorphosing in the Indian ocean, where to the end I can go on happily scribbling sense and nonsense, if editors, like dear Barkis of “David Copperfield” fame, are willing.