Excuse any typos- we're on an 11-hour train journey, rumbling south to Goa after three nights in Mumbai.
It's near impossible to say anything original about this city- more eloquent writers than we have spent pages trying to encapsulate the smells, colours and feel of this spectacular city. The extremes are palpable- on one long walk, we passed the most expensive personal residence ever built ($1bn), shortly after a row of shacks. Men in tailored suits chat on iPhones near begging children. There are Bentley dealerships and Jimmy Choo showrooms and designers I haven't seen outside of Mayfair- and cobblers plopped in the middle of the pavement who charge 50p to expertly fix two shoes. Much of what is written about Mumbai focuses on these extremes- the billionaires or the slums, and as such, the reality was quite different to expectation. It's a true world city and from the windows of the truck and cars, and in hours of walking, I felt elements of LA, Miami, Barcelona and New York. It's a city that feels like one, rather than the chaos of Delhi. Being white and showing some shoulder didn't turn any heads, whereas in Jodhpur I felt like a circus freak. We also weren't conspicuous as a couple holding hands on Marine Drive, which is apparently a favourite amongst courting youngsters; the sea wall is covered in jeans-wearing boys each with an arm slung round the shoulder of a jeans-wearing girl.
Upon arrival, after a long hot, sweaty, bumpy ride from Ellora, the first destination from our Colaba hotel (optimistically called Hotel Supreme) was Leopold's. It's been a popular cafe since 1871, but it held a special allure to me, having just finished the tome "Shantaram" for the second time- the cafe is the favoured hang out of Lin, Karla, Didier, Vikram and company when that story unfolds in the early 1980s. These days it's going for the American diner look, with various US license plates adorning the walls, and posters with cheeky slogans. Alongside absolutely spectacular noodles, I tried the Chenin Blanc and Brut from a local vineyard, Sula, which were surprisingly drinkable. About 5 minutes into the 20 minute walk there, my £2.50 sandal (from a market stall bucket in Jodhpur) split apart. Anywhere else in India, this would have meant certain doom and I would have had to hop back, or be carried on Patrick's back (OK, we know which scenario is the more likely). But the streets and pavements of Colaba are cleaner than those in London, and I marched there and back barefoot, truly making it a pilgrimage.
Our first full day, we semi-followed a self-guided route suggested by Lonely Planet, through Colaba and Kala Ghoda and Fort, taking in the famous Taj Mahal Palace hotel, Gateway of India, Horniman Circle, Flora Fountain and enjoying the façades of many beautiful art deco buildings. We followed a side street to find the decaying grandeur of the sky blue Beit Knesset Eliyahu synagogue, and spent too long in the Mumbai Museum gift shop because their aircon was so good. Towards Churchgate, we made a stop into the Anglican cathedral, St Thomas, full of memorials to English heroes of colonial times.
We had a fantastic Thali lunch at Samrat with my friend Shiraz, who I hadn't seen since we met on a Shakespeare course at RADA 11 years ago! There was obviously much to catch up on, and wonderful to pick up on various aspects of Indian and Mumbai culture, direct from someone born and raised here.
Patrick and I disagree on the exact distance we walked on Wednesday (we haven't entered the world of fitbit yet), but a quick glance at google maps shows a direct path from Hotel Supreme to the High Street Phoenix Mall would have been 10km, though we added several more to take a more scenic route and make detours. The walk along Marine Drive is deservedly famous, though we were pouring with sweat by the time we reached Chowpatty Beach and guzzled down a mango gola each. Gola is shaved ice (which Westerners are warned to avoid, due to potential microscopic beasties hiding in the unfiltered water, but we were hot enough to take the risk) dunked in a cup of diabetes-inducing neon-coloured flavoured syrup. Perfect for consuming on the sand under the shade of a palm tree. After Chowpatty we wandered inland a bit and decided to make our first visit to the chain Cafe Coffee Day (as ubiquitous as Costa) and came across the most woefully inept excuse of a barista that ever ground beans. I believe Patrick's descriptive phrase involved this simpleton falling off the back of a turnip truck. The bulk of his confusion involved not grasping that a frappé involves milk, when all we wanted was the plainest of unsugared black coffee in ice- though we were the only customers in, it took 30 minutes for him to eventually produce one cup of black iced coffee, after the appearance of the unwanted frappés, though Patrick had to leap up when he was about to pour in a carton of cream, insisting it wasn't milk.
Our walk continued north, through Kemp's Corner, sometimes inland, sometimes along the sea. We heard the afternoon call to prayer whilst staring out at the Haji Ali Dargah Mosque, which seems to float in the sea, at the end of a long bustling walkway from the mainland.
Once we finally reached the sprawling Phoenix mall (and went through near airport levels of security), we met up with Shiraz and his friend Preeti for an afternoon of Bollywood. Reclining in armchairs, pizza brought to our seats, we enjoyed the romcom LoveShudda - the characters often sprinkled their Hindi conversations with English and much of it took place in London. It was delightful, and the dance numbers were great fun.
Shiraz's driver met us afterwards and drove the four of us across "the Sea Link," a 2km bridge that puts the Severn to shame. It opened in 2010, and apart from being a stylish feat of engineering, it has massively cut commute times from the suburbs. Shiraz showed us his home, in the popular neighbourhood Bandra West. Though he apologised for it being small, it's a palace compared to our flat and has incredible wall length windows looking out to sea. There is a nearby promenade along the beach which we walked up and down a few times - though it was nighttime, it was busy with families, couples and friends enjoying a relaxing evening away from the bustle of the city. I'd rather an evening like that- seeing a friend's home, talking politics and enjoying a normal neighbourhood- than a night at the posh Taj hotel. It was a perfect final day in Mumbai, and Shiraz even had his driver take us the many miles back to Colaba, so we were able to enjoy the spectacular lit-up skyline of the city from the Sea Link.
Two days in Mumbai wasn't remotely enough, but we made maximum use of the time we had before getting up at 5am this morning to head to Chhatrapati Shivaji (more colloquially known as VT- Victoria Terminus) for this lengthy train ride to Goa (Dutchie started driving Daisy down yesterday). Though, we're in an air conditioned sleeper carriage, and I got a proper sleep the first few hours, before waking up for lunch, chatting, reading, etc. The rocking of the train is strangely peaceful, as is the sing-songy calls of "Chai! Chai! Chai!" or "froot sall-aad!" or all the names of other snacks I can't distinguish from the endless parade of train attendants selling refreshments for pennies through the carriages. It's certainly comfortable enough way to spend 11 hours, though I'll reserve complete judgment till I've visited the loo.
Emma
It's near impossible to say anything original about this city- more eloquent writers than we have spent pages trying to encapsulate the smells, colours and feel of this spectacular city. The extremes are palpable- on one long walk, we passed the most expensive personal residence ever built ($1bn), shortly after a row of shacks. Men in tailored suits chat on iPhones near begging children. There are Bentley dealerships and Jimmy Choo showrooms and designers I haven't seen outside of Mayfair- and cobblers plopped in the middle of the pavement who charge 50p to expertly fix two shoes. Much of what is written about Mumbai focuses on these extremes- the billionaires or the slums, and as such, the reality was quite different to expectation. It's a true world city and from the windows of the truck and cars, and in hours of walking, I felt elements of LA, Miami, Barcelona and New York. It's a city that feels like one, rather than the chaos of Delhi. Being white and showing some shoulder didn't turn any heads, whereas in Jodhpur I felt like a circus freak. We also weren't conspicuous as a couple holding hands on Marine Drive, which is apparently a favourite amongst courting youngsters; the sea wall is covered in jeans-wearing boys each with an arm slung round the shoulder of a jeans-wearing girl.
Upon arrival, after a long hot, sweaty, bumpy ride from Ellora, the first destination from our Colaba hotel (optimistically called Hotel Supreme) was Leopold's. It's been a popular cafe since 1871, but it held a special allure to me, having just finished the tome "Shantaram" for the second time- the cafe is the favoured hang out of Lin, Karla, Didier, Vikram and company when that story unfolds in the early 1980s. These days it's going for the American diner look, with various US license plates adorning the walls, and posters with cheeky slogans. Alongside absolutely spectacular noodles, I tried the Chenin Blanc and Brut from a local vineyard, Sula, which were surprisingly drinkable. About 5 minutes into the 20 minute walk there, my £2.50 sandal (from a market stall bucket in Jodhpur) split apart. Anywhere else in India, this would have meant certain doom and I would have had to hop back, or be carried on Patrick's back (OK, we know which scenario is the more likely). But the streets and pavements of Colaba are cleaner than those in London, and I marched there and back barefoot, truly making it a pilgrimage.
Our first full day, we semi-followed a self-guided route suggested by Lonely Planet, through Colaba and Kala Ghoda and Fort, taking in the famous Taj Mahal Palace hotel, Gateway of India, Horniman Circle, Flora Fountain and enjoying the façades of many beautiful art deco buildings. We followed a side street to find the decaying grandeur of the sky blue Beit Knesset Eliyahu synagogue, and spent too long in the Mumbai Museum gift shop because their aircon was so good. Towards Churchgate, we made a stop into the Anglican cathedral, St Thomas, full of memorials to English heroes of colonial times.
We had a fantastic Thali lunch at Samrat with my friend Shiraz, who I hadn't seen since we met on a Shakespeare course at RADA 11 years ago! There was obviously much to catch up on, and wonderful to pick up on various aspects of Indian and Mumbai culture, direct from someone born and raised here.
Patrick and I disagree on the exact distance we walked on Wednesday (we haven't entered the world of fitbit yet), but a quick glance at google maps shows a direct path from Hotel Supreme to the High Street Phoenix Mall would have been 10km, though we added several more to take a more scenic route and make detours. The walk along Marine Drive is deservedly famous, though we were pouring with sweat by the time we reached Chowpatty Beach and guzzled down a mango gola each. Gola is shaved ice (which Westerners are warned to avoid, due to potential microscopic beasties hiding in the unfiltered water, but we were hot enough to take the risk) dunked in a cup of diabetes-inducing neon-coloured flavoured syrup. Perfect for consuming on the sand under the shade of a palm tree. After Chowpatty we wandered inland a bit and decided to make our first visit to the chain Cafe Coffee Day (as ubiquitous as Costa) and came across the most woefully inept excuse of a barista that ever ground beans. I believe Patrick's descriptive phrase involved this simpleton falling off the back of a turnip truck. The bulk of his confusion involved not grasping that a frappé involves milk, when all we wanted was the plainest of unsugared black coffee in ice- though we were the only customers in, it took 30 minutes for him to eventually produce one cup of black iced coffee, after the appearance of the unwanted frappés, though Patrick had to leap up when he was about to pour in a carton of cream, insisting it wasn't milk.
Our walk continued north, through Kemp's Corner, sometimes inland, sometimes along the sea. We heard the afternoon call to prayer whilst staring out at the Haji Ali Dargah Mosque, which seems to float in the sea, at the end of a long bustling walkway from the mainland.
Once we finally reached the sprawling Phoenix mall (and went through near airport levels of security), we met up with Shiraz and his friend Preeti for an afternoon of Bollywood. Reclining in armchairs, pizza brought to our seats, we enjoyed the romcom LoveShudda - the characters often sprinkled their Hindi conversations with English and much of it took place in London. It was delightful, and the dance numbers were great fun.
Shiraz's driver met us afterwards and drove the four of us across "the Sea Link," a 2km bridge that puts the Severn to shame. It opened in 2010, and apart from being a stylish feat of engineering, it has massively cut commute times from the suburbs. Shiraz showed us his home, in the popular neighbourhood Bandra West. Though he apologised for it being small, it's a palace compared to our flat and has incredible wall length windows looking out to sea. There is a nearby promenade along the beach which we walked up and down a few times - though it was nighttime, it was busy with families, couples and friends enjoying a relaxing evening away from the bustle of the city. I'd rather an evening like that- seeing a friend's home, talking politics and enjoying a normal neighbourhood- than a night at the posh Taj hotel. It was a perfect final day in Mumbai, and Shiraz even had his driver take us the many miles back to Colaba, so we were able to enjoy the spectacular lit-up skyline of the city from the Sea Link.
Two days in Mumbai wasn't remotely enough, but we made maximum use of the time we had before getting up at 5am this morning to head to Chhatrapati Shivaji (more colloquially known as VT- Victoria Terminus) for this lengthy train ride to Goa (Dutchie started driving Daisy down yesterday). Though, we're in an air conditioned sleeper carriage, and I got a proper sleep the first few hours, before waking up for lunch, chatting, reading, etc. The rocking of the train is strangely peaceful, as is the sing-songy calls of "Chai! Chai! Chai!" or "froot sall-aad!" or all the names of other snacks I can't distinguish from the endless parade of train attendants selling refreshments for pennies through the carriages. It's certainly comfortable enough way to spend 11 hours, though I'll reserve complete judgment till I've visited the loo.
Emma
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