SPINACH & CHEESE’ PIZZAS

Everyone knows Venice to be one of the most romantic cities in existence, with its picturesque canals and its breath-taking gondolas. And it is. I know so from my visit there a few years ago. But I remember it not for its canals. Or for its gondolas. Or for the little bridges you have to duck for while on a gondola. Or for its beautiful churches. I remember it for its fridge magnets and for the pizzas.

About the fridge magnets, perhaps another time. But for now, more about the pizzas. Perhaps this makes sense, since I was in the land of pizzas and pastas and ravioli. But what really made it memorable was that the pizza I ate was pretty strange by most standards.

Now, since I was a child, I have had a very strange taste in food. My mother tells me that when all other parents told their kids to eat spinach so that they would be like Popeye, it was hard to make me stop. I hate the pizzas that are sold in Mumbai. I love vegetables, including Brussels sprouts and broccoli. A large salad with an ice tea makes a good meal for me. I like the taste of mustard. And I love bitter gourd. So yeah, I have a strange taste in food.

But I was thankful for it when I went to Venice. After a leisurely gondola ride and a pretty relaxing trip on the town-bus/water-taxi type contraptions, we walked around, admiring the quaint little place and searching for lunch. We spent into one of the many not-so-different traditional Italian food places around town, hoping for quality vegetarian food. I went through the menu, through a list of the regular pizza fare- pepperoni, chicken, margherita, tomato basil, and more.

Then I stumbled upon something that seemed pretty novel and awesome, at least to me. A spinach and cheese pizza! I was pretty excited, actually, and when it came and I bit into its cheesy, crisp-leafy goodness, my life was changed forever. I have never ever looked at pizzas the same way, ever again!

VEGETARIAN, WITH A BIT OF BACON

One of my best family holidays ever was our trip to Switzerland. Our small family of three visited Switzerland in summer a few years ago. Although I was a young child of ten then, the images of Switzerland have stayed with me since: the rolling green pastures, the mellifluous duet of the cow bells and moos, the pretty little flowers in the meadows and the meandering silvery rivers snaking along, burbling merrily. I remember walking along the lovely quiet streets in the tiny town of Interlaken, having been promised by the locals that it doesn’t take more than 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other. I remember the walk down the quaint beautifully lit Lucerne Bridge, which has been burnt down and rebuilt many times.

I remember one of the most breathtaking experiences in my life that also happened at Interlaken. We saw a few brightly colored paragliders in the sky, and were captivated. We walked into a nearby adventure sports company and looked at the details. We booked two instructors and two sets of equipment for later in the afternoon.

When the time came, we were driven up a hill, to a height of about 1800m. There were two instructors with us, and we were asked to choose who each of us wanted with us. We said we had no preferences, and so I happened to be allotted to the younger instructor, who also happened to be the lighter one. My father and his instructor took off first. They had to run to the very edge of the cliff, and then just lift their legs off the ground and allow the wind too take over. I was to take off after him, and my mom had stayed in the town downhill. To my young 10 year old mind, it seemed sheer insanity to purposefully run off a cliff, and I was extremely panic stricken even though I had not seen the height that we were to jump off from.

Finally we (I) gathered enough courage to run off the edge. We (my instructor and I) linked ourselves up to the canvas wing that would suspend us on the sky. As we ran to the edge of the cliff, I remember lifting my feet of the ground just a second too early, while my instructor ran a step or two more just to make sure that the wind had complete hold of us (though of course it had better, especially since we were at the edge of the cliff!!). Then one of the harness ropes that suspended us from the wing snapped into my face, knocking my glasses askew.

Ironically, although I had been nearly scared to death simply by my knowledge of how high we were, at the actual moment of us stepping off the cliff audaciously, my only thought was, “My specs!!!”

I soon recovered my wits and my specs, only to lose them (my wits, that is, not my specs) promptly once again at the breathtaking vista unfolding before my eyes. It was so utterly entrancing that it would be sacrilege to disgrace it by putting it into words, so I won’t. All I can say is that it must be experienced to be believed.

My instructor and I together were so much lighter than my father and his instructor,that we floated a few hundred meters above them. In fact, we were so light that instead of sinking a little in the air, the glider actually floated upwards. We may all try all sorts of adventure sports that can make us dive through the air like a bird, wind rustling our feathers hair, this was the closest ever I ever got to actually soaring like a bird. I remember swooping and swerving, climbing and diving, and then once going off course to chase a few stray balloons. (We failed)

Once on the ground, we were cold, and so went into a café, and ordered veg spinach soup. We were vegetarians and so faced difficulties in a lot of countries we visited. So actually finding vegetarian soup was a boon. Just to be on the safer side, we explained our preferences thoroughly to the waitress. She nodded, and brought us our fragrant, steaming soup, with orange-colored grated something on top. We were delighted that there were carrot strips, but we just wanted to check, as it seemed too good to be true. We called her and asked what it was, and if it was vegetarian. ‘Yes it is, sir,” she said earnestly, “Vegetarian, with a bit of bacon!”