Kochi, India

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

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

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

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

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

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

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