When he made The Four Letter Word (TFLW), I didn’t review that either. For the same reasons.

But I always felt there was a story there that should have been told. So I’m telling it now.

When I joined The Hindu, Sudhish had just finished making TFLW, for the first time. Those were the days we were all young(er), anonymous(er) and perpetually broke.  After-work entertainment involved watching the very slick TFLW trailer, which preceded the movie on a gasping, geriatric computer. Repeatedly. For one entire year. Hence the joke that went around the reporting department: “We don’t know how long the movie will run – but at least the trailer has lasted a year.” The movie gave a lot more trouble. Funds ran out, actors changed, the reel got eaten by bugs. (I kid you not.) Hence the next joke, “Well, at least somebody enjoyed it.”

Amazingly Sudhish stayed cheerful all through – even laughing at our admittedly rotten sense of humour. The movie ended up taking 7 years to make, in total. Finally, it released and despite a brave struggle, it sank.

The end? Not a chance. He started on his next movie. And this time it was set in expensive, impossible, exotic New York.

Was it any easier? Not a chance. (Read this for the whole picture: http://www.longlivecinema.com/2012/01/16/the-truth-about-films-ungrateful-fing-bitches-sudhish-kamath/)

Why should you care? Think of all the things you secretly want to accomplish.

I’ll go first. I want to write a book. But that involves taking at least a year off. That’s one year with no income. It means putting everything I have into that one effort, and then standing on an unnervingly unsympathetic public stage – to sink or swim.

And I play safe. Always. I don’t even invest in mutual funds. When I studied Kipling’s ‘If’ in school, I had a problem with: “If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss…” Why would he encourage gambling? Then I saw Good Night Good Morning in the theatre last night, was mesmerized by the responsive audience and the magical chemistry it created, and it began to make sense.

When you have a story you believe in, you should tell it.

What if all the artists, writers, playwrights and directors sat back and said, ‘Oh. Let’s do something easier. And more profitable. Maybe become Investment bankers. Then we can write for a hobby. Do it in our spare time.” We’d have inherited a rich literary heritage of haikus on bulls and bears. Instead we’re all lucky enough to be global citizens, as familiar with the streets of Paris as those of Perambur, intimately familiar with stories and ideas from all over the world, all because we’ve had the privilege of reading books and watching movies written and made by people who didn’t care about economics, and villas and two gleaming cars in their garage.

Which brings me to the reason why Good Night Good Morning  is touching a chord with people. Hollywood has its bells and whistles, speeding trains and flaming planes; high-powered love stories propelled by famous faces and magnified emotions. Good Night Good Morning is just two people, in black and white, having a conversation that’s so familiar it leaves you a little breathless.

We’ve all had those long, late night conversations, sure. But this is more than that. It’s a story of two people who have absolutely nothing in common, connecting thanks to technology. With all the modern whinging about how the Internet is alienating us, we forget how it brings us together. How it’s so much easier to be recklessly open about how you feel, and what you’re thinking on the phone, or on sms, or Googletalk or Facebook.

Which is why this movie is so definitive of our generation.

Let me tell you a story. Boy meets girl? But of course. I was in Berlin a few months ago, sitting in a ridiculously small café at a ridiculously late hour with my sister and brother-in-law, both of whom had just landed in the city to spend the weekend with me. Then, boy walked in. Isn’t that how the story always goes. He smiled hello, we chatted about the menu and then somehow tripped into a political discussion that lasted all through dinner. He asked for my phone number to discuss the ‘Indian Diaspora in connection with a contemporary art project.’

Later that week, we met for a drink a noisy bohemian bar. That led to dinner at a pretty Turkish restaurant. Then more wine in another candle lit bar. We talked from 7 p.m. till 2 a.m. About literature and religion, Guardian columnists and grandmothers. And then, we went back to our respective apartments.

This isn’t about romance. It’s about unexpected friendships.

We live in a world where we can connect with complete strangers because we share a common sub-culture. A sub-culture that comprises Friends and The Matrix, Paulo Coelho and Charlie Brooker,  Facebook and Twitter. We’re a generation of global citizens, comfortable everywhere, from Milan to Madras.

We’re open-minded, because we’ve learnt life never stops surprising you. We’re in a strange space where it’s easier to connect with a random boy in a random bar across the world, than have conversation with a second cousin from our hometown. Because the culture we’ve wrapped ourselves, the space we inhabit, the knowledge we share… it has very little to do with geography, tradition or heritage.

This is the setting of Good Night Good Morning. It’s gritty, real and thoughtful. A movie about the life we’re living. The people we’re meeting. And the fact that ‘happily ever after’ is a bonus: But what’s really interesting is the ride there.

It’s dark inside. The aggressive graffiti on the walls battles with peeling posters. Doors swing open aided by a pulley system engineered with old sand-filled bottles. Guiding the way, with the help of his cell phone light, artist Axel Void explains how this former artists’ squat in Friedrichshain, Berlin, was recently legalised when its 50 residents got together and bought the huge, rambling, poster-plastered building.

This is a familiar story in Berlin, where art and capitalism are lodged in a fierce and seemingly endless battle. Street art, the city’s most rebellious sub-culture is rapidly gaining international admirers, and — as a result – enthusiastic buyers. The recent Stroke Artfair, which promised to be an ‘unconventional and uncompromising,’ showcased street artists and graphic designers in an exhibition that was more commercial than edgy, with businesslike stalls featuring catalogues and whopping price tags.

Can a subculture survive if it ceases to be subversive? After all, street art’s power stems from the fact that it’s illegal. Its creators are admired for living on the margins of society. There’s the romantic notion that spend night after night taking heady risks, with no rewards other than the satisfaction of knowing they’ve transformed a formerly soulless urban space with their art.

Unfolding drama

Berlin is an exciting place to watch this drama unfold because it’s all happening right now: low rents are drawing artists from all over the world. They network on MySpace, Facebook and in smoky, grungy, candle-lit bars. They hit the streets in the early hours of morning, covering walls and buildings with spray cans, stencils and huge painstakingly-hand painted posters. Some are talented. Some are not. Yet, together they change the city incessantly with art that’s endlessly ephemeral: it can last for years or be erased in 24 hours.

At a bombed out train depot in Friedrichshain, infamous for anti-capitalism protests, livewire music venues and spectacular graffiti, art historian and painter Georg Zolchow, explains how Berlin’s street culture was revitalised by the fall of the wall. Georg leads the Graffiti Workshop for Alternative Berlin, a company that introduces tourists to the city’s mesmerising underbelly. “Artists from the Soviet-occupied East emerged to find a completely alien world. They began to squat in buildings that formerly belonged to the State. And paint.”

Explaining the difference between graffiti and street art, Georg says with graffiti you’re painting your name repeatedly. “You play with fonts… let them dance a little, have a game. Street art is urban communication.” What they have in common is rebellion. Urban art tends to be rude, challenging and confrontational.

Balancing on a large pile of rubble, Axel Void points out his latest work: a mural of a dismembered rat. “We’re planning to have breakfast on the terrace facing it,” he grins breezily. Undeniably, this work is designed for the streets, not strait-laced suburbia. Yet, urban art’s become irresistible to buyers looking to add oomph to their collections.

Legendary Banksy sells for tens of thousands of pounds. If he spray-paints a wall, his work is either cut out by a collector, or covered in protective Perspex. Even though it’s illegal, it raises the value of the building it’s on. Urban art’s buyers range from celebrities like Brad Pitt and Christina Aguilera to sharp investors expecting huge returns.

It’s ironic that the driving force is anti-capitalism. ‘Reclaim the streets’ is a common theme on the walls of Berlin. “We need to take back the city. Berlin is full of advertisements. I think it’s important that we have more than just commercial signs out there,” says Alias, whose powerful black, white and red images of wistful little boys and jaunty dogs in scarves have made him famous. When graffiti goes it’s a sign of the city getting gentrified, of rents going up. “In the end, who does the city belong to. Absentee landlords? Advertisers? Or the people who actually live in it?”

Brush with commerce

Many artists start as vigilantes. Alias began spray painting at 14 in his parent’s village to protest a proposed nuclear dumping ground. He has his own code of ethics: “I focus on old walls. I don’t trash walls, I make them better.” He says it’s important to have his work on busy streets. “I’m transporting an emotion. How and where I do it is important; I need to reach people.”

About five years ago, a gallery contacted him on MySpace, leading to a successful exhibition in Hamburg. He now sells regularly in galleries, and offers prints of his work for €300 each. “It’s a good way to finance my work on the street. Each spray can is €3.80. I work with art paper. It gets expensive.” He seems vaguely uncomfortable with the commerce. “It’s kind of strange. So I don’t work on canvas for galleries: I paint on material found on the streets like wood and metal.” Ironically ‘Street cred’ is essential for sales. “A fan asked me to spray paint his house for €600. It was super strange; this rich man in a big car taking me to his house. For him, it’s trendy. A little revolution for his friends.”

Secretive El Bocho, of the city’s most energetic artists, plasters his vivid posters across doorways, stairwells and on huge walls, transforming grungy spaces. His most popular character is ‘Little Lucy’ a girl who’s does terrible things to her cat. “Political statements are too easy… I tell stories. I try to make my work positive, it’s art in an open space and I want it to create a good feeling.”

Like most street artists, he works at night. “The feeling is different, the colours… The sudden, explosive changing of an urban space with a huge unexpected poster excites me.” He avoids new houses, drawing a line between art and vandalism. “Sometimes it’s tough to find space – I can’t paint over graffiti because then there’s a war.”

At the age of 33, El Bocho’s paintings already sell for between €3000 and €10,000 in galleries. His work on the street, therefore, is constantly ripped by sticky-fingered entrepreneurs with Ebay accounts. He adds, “I’m a product. Does that make me a sell out? Much more people see my work on the street than they would in the gallery. If I criticise capitalism in the streets and then sell my T shirts for a couple of euro in the mall, that would be hypocritical. So I do my own work, and I sell at a high price I set myself. This way I’m respecting my art.”

El Bocho does design jobs, illustrates political columns in newspapers, creates CD covers for the music business and owns a gallery. His work on the street is the engine for other projects. “Commercially – everyone likes the idea of this wild young artist from Berlin working for them,” he laughs. “I think my work in a gallery is as powerful as on the street.” As for the strict anonymity, it’s just convenient. “If I give a TV interview I wear a mask, not because my work is criminal but because I want to work freely without people taking pictures. I don’t want my neighbours to know I’m El Bocho.”

Back to 25-year-old Axel Void in the former squat, just back from a successful show in Palermo titled ‘Nothing New For Trash Like You,’ where he was paid to cover three walls with murals. He says it’s not fair to expect artists to choose between passion-fuelled art on the street and commercial success. “If I say I’m doing red it doesn’t mean I can’t use blue anymore. For me painting is something I like to do. I do what I think is aesthetic. And of course, I have to live, so I need to find a way to make it work.”

Sell out?

Kunsthaus Tacheles, a bizarre, dramatically painted, five-storey building moved from subversive nerve centre to tourist trap in just a decade. When the Berlin wall came down in 1989, an artists’ collective moved in illegally, turning Tacheles into a focal point of Berlin’s urban art scene. Today, despite its graffiti splattered walls, crowded electronic music nights and thousands of awed visitors, its residents are being dismissed by local artists as ‘sell outs.’ The overpriced tourist tat on sale inside only serves to reinforce this opinion. Tacheles is currently threatened with demolition and its residents are fighting to keep it open by asking for donations and signed appeals from visitors. They plan to turn it into an ‘autonomous International art and culture house.’ Yet, word on the street is that Tacheles is unlikely to survive.

This is weather for cyclists, who zip past followed by their adoring dogs. For girls in pink stockings, tiny denim shorts and warm pullovers sashaying down the roads. For pink-cheeked babies being taken for a walk by chic, slim mothers in designer jeans and carefully set hair.

On the Nahaufnahme journalist exchange programme, which is what has brought me to Berlin, I spend my days at the Berliner Zeitung offices, learning how differently journalists work here, and realizing how much we have in common. There’s much that’s new. The layouts and stories here are styled differently, planned in the mornings over a series of meetings. Since my German is still admittedly shakey, I’ve resorted to running the text through Google translate to read the papers in the morning. It’s not the best way to determine style, but it gives me a good idea of story angles and ideas. I also enjoy reading the simpler columns slowly, with an online dictionary to help with unfamiliar words.

Despite the differences, I feel at home at the office. The focused tension and beehive of activity just before pages are passed reminds me of The Hindu. So does the morning routine, of zipping though other newspapers and websites to see if a story’s been missed. Then there’s the universality of major news, like the recent death of Steve Jobs, and subsequent rush to get stories, analysis and pictures organized.

In this staunchly German environment, I find more similarities: the way everyone’s tables are stacked with newspapers and books, the ritual of endless cups of coffee,how journalists’ desks always feature a strange assortment of odds and ends. Over here I sit between pen drives, post-its and an inexplicable model of a wolf. Back home, I have no doubt, that the intern currently in my chair is wondering what to make of the misshapen Stone Buddha I proudly display, a gift from a gang of bread-making life prisoners I interviewed at Puzhal prison.

I give silent thanks to Goethe Institut Chennai, and my teachers Hem and Dhanya, at unexpected times. As I walk into a cafe and ask for ‘Milchkaffee’ painlessly. In the supermarket shopping for groceries when I realize I  understand the all-German labels. When I need directions, and have the confidence to take them down in – admittedly slow and simple – German. My grammar still leaves much to be desired, but I´m surviving.

And it’s a completely different experience from the time I first visited Germany 5 years ago, not knowing a word of of the language.(When I got lost in Cologne, nobody could give me directions in English. Finally, a very patient German man, realizing we had French in common, explained my route in French.) Knowing even a little of the language is like being given a key to unlock the city. Even though many people here speak English, I enjoy listening to the rapid German around me, and trying to guess what it means, grabbing words from here and there. It makes Berlin feels foreign and exotic.

It helps that the city’s so proudly individual. It’s resisted being swamped by the global chains that are standardizing the world, taking pride in funky little cafes and eccentric bars, many of which are the centre of spontaneous communities. Yesterday I stumbled upon the Gaudy Cafe next to my Prenzlauer Berg apartment, where the Australian Barista told me they have a language exchange programme on Wednesday evenings. Add glamorous art exhibitions, live wire flea markets and underground music events – in Berlin there’s always something to do.

For a journalist, this is a dream city to report on with it’s independent, gritty, individualistic vibe. The Berliner Zeitung’s journalists have been astonishingly warm and helpful. Astonishingly, because most journalists are frantically busy, and I didn’t expect the level of help and interest I’m getting with my stories here. Via the journalists I’m meeting people and getting a far better, deeper understanding than would ever have be possible if I was just a tourist. Tomorrow I’m interviewing a secretive underground street artist in his studio. After that I’m attending ‘Strokes’ an urban art show. The next day, I plan to see Das Schlaue Füchslein at the Komische Oper.

I’m living Berlin and loving it.

——————————————————

(I was in Berlin on ‘Nahaufnahme journalist exchange programme’ working at the Berliner Zeitung newspaper. The program was organized by the Goethe-Institut / Max Mueller Bhavan Chennai)

Berlin’s favourite fast food is the curry-wurst, a startling combination of sliced sausages and a dark, viscous tomato sauce, deepened with paprika and flavoured with curry powder. At the sun-filled Sgaminegg café, my Berliner friend regularly orders frothy cinnamon-dusted ‘Chai lattes’ with apple pie. I snootily dismiss them as inauthentic, but as time goes by I’m gradually captivated by their sweet, vanilla-scented lushness.

The Germans I meet ask about my opinion of the Indian restaurants in Berlin. They tell me the food’s unapologetically inauthentic. However, inauthentic is not always a bad thing. Look at what we’ve done to Chinese food in India, creating a fiery, oily but delicious new cuisine by blending the most obvious, populist elements of Chinese cooking, and reinterpreting them for a mass desi audience. A cuisine should be strong enough to be adapted in many ways and tailored to suit different tastes without losing its soul. This way it transcends borders.

Yet, I’m decidedly less forgiving when a friend takes me to Ashoka, a trendy Indian restaurant in chic Charlottenburg, West Berlin. It looks promising, crammed with German customers happily spooning up their ‘lentil dal’ and ‘saag aloo’.

The meal starts promisingly with steaming samosas, liberally dusted with chaat masala. Then comes a sugary raita, butter chicken that tastes like a cross between cranberry juice and tomato sauce and finally a black dal that’s chewy with husk. It’s all washed down with refreshing mango lassi, a German-Indian restaurant staple, made from canned mangos.

Is this Indian food? Across Berlin, Indian restaurants serve the same fare. They use paprika instead of chilli powder, parsley instead of coriander and pour prodigious amounts of cream into every curry. Sometimes you’ll find sugar in a dish, sometime cheese floating on top of a curry. Yet, in a city with very few Indians, it works. From ‘Yogi-Haus’ to ‘Maharadscha’ to ‘Namaskar’, on Saturday night, every Indian restaurant is full. So who decides what’s traditional?

Personally, I prefer the W-Imbiss approach. Instead of hankering for authenticity it calls itself Indian-Californian fusion. The steamy little kitchen specialises in naan pizzas.

We stagger in late at night, exhausted and starving, and are quickly served a Jewish naan, slathered with sour cream, capers, sliced onions and generous slices of salmon.

Despite being tempted by the Dirty Naan — ghee, garlic, fenugreek and chillies — we settle for a Indian red lentil soup, which tastes like sambar and is served with a salad. The vibe’s relaxed and friendly. So friendly we get into an intense political discussion with the guy eating a quesadilla at the next table, and end up polishing off his bowl of super-hot sauce.

However, since I’m on a mission to find at least one authentic Indian restaurant in Berlin for this story, the pressure is on.

Finally, through a network of Indian friends, I hear about a tiny place called Agni in Alt-Moabit, a quiet part of Berlin. As soon as we enter, the smell of tandoori and presence of Indian customers convinces me that we’ve finally hit gold. ‘Uncle Sanjay’ who runs the kitchen with his wife, is from Delhi where he studied catering with ITDC Ashok group. He moved to Germany as a cook 21 years ago, worked with a series of restaurants and finally decided to start his own.

In classic Indian style, he cooks us a massive meal of kebabs, stuffed parathas and dal, and then brings out a complimentary tray of rich, milk sweets as he pulls his chair up to our table and settles down for a gossip. He eats his own lunch as we chat — dal-roti.

“In the end,” he chuckles, “this is what I like best.” It seems appropriate. To cross continents and end up feeling the most at home with a plate of dal-roti in a small room shiny with plastic lights and alive with the sound of Kishore Kumar.”

There’s no prettier way to put it. Waiting for my flight out of Ibiza, I watch a procession of , muscle-sore party boys and It Girls ouch and groan their way to Departures. As a blonde Brad Pitt look alike passes out on the bench beside me, his friends stand around helplessly, weakly clutching their six packs and water bottles. After some feverish mumbling, they hoist him up, and wobble to their gate. Think: Saving Private Ryan. In slow motion. With tattoos. And massive hangovers.

A weekend in Ibiza, hedonistic party capital of the world, can be rough.

In the sixties, this island, a part of the Balearic archipelago of Spain, became famous as an idyllic refuge for hippies tripping on flower power, ‘love-not-war’ philosophies and acid – not necessarily in that order. Gradually its distinctive music and anything-goes attitude drew bohemians and rock stars, artists and party chasers, the wild and the reckless from all over the world. If you were hip, cool and anti-establishment, Ibiza was the place to be.

Eventually, the 24-hour raves, fuelled by trance, alcohol and a cocktail of chemical uppers (illegal but absurdly easy to obtain) earned it the tag ‘Gomorrah of the Mediterranean Sea.’ By the late nineties, the Vengaboys were trilling about ‘going to Ibiza,’ but for a large part of the party world, the island was ‘over.’ It had become too accessible, too obvious, too crowded. A metaphor for bad behaviour, desperate partying and juvenile high jinks.

Till now. My friends and I land in Ibiza to find it in middle of a rejuvenation. The hippies and artists are reclaiming the North, along with the likes of celebrities like Jade Jagger. The Gucci tourists are back to sipping sangria over spicy paella in Eivissa Town’s graceful medieval Dalt Vila area, flush with designer boutiques. (We’re told that “rupee squillionaire” Lakshmi Mittal’s yacht is anchored here.) Electronic Dance Music, Ibiza’s greatest export, plays everywhere, a sound track to sunsets, full moons and baking afternoons on the beach. And the clubs, some of the best on the world, are vying with each other to source designer DJs and host supremely riotous party nights.

It seems like the ideal place for three girls to channel their inner hippies. We’re concluding a hectic two week holiday, and after hefty doses of culture, history and architecture in Barcelona and Lisbon, we plan to do little besides lounge about in a zen-like stupor all day, soaking up the music, art and atmosphere. And of course, party through the nights.

This is the start of the ‘season’ – which stretches from June to October. We head to rocking San Antoni to watch sunrise from Café Del Mar. However, with its regulation bouncers and grimly chic waiters it seems rather naff so we amble down a line of sea-facing cafes to find a breezy bar with zingy mojitoes and wonderfully eccentric customers.

As the sun goes down in a flaming chaos of colour, a shy Spanish man with a braided beard teaches us tricks on his unicycle, watched appreciatively by the local Don Juan who chats us up using his scruffy dog as an icebreaker. A British playboy, who lives on his yacht, introduces us to passing friends (“everyone knows everyone else here”), and between it all our tousle-haired Argentinean waitress gives shopping tips. This fluid confluence of nationalities is a large part of Ibiza’s magic.

We choose Pacha, arguably the island’s best known club, to party the night away. Although Pacha has clubs around the world, from New York to Munich, its flagship is in Ibiza. It’s Flower Power night, a tribute to the island’s most colourful phase. Bathed in joyful pink, yellow and blue light, the front doors open into a multi-level room where hundreds of people dance to the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin… The energy is palpable, the music infectious.

Our charming Polish friend Maciek, a global nomad who has spent six months of a year working in Ibiza for the past 10 years, shows us around the club’s five rooms, capable of holding 3,000 people in all. We dance. We lounge. We sing, ‘All we are saying is give peace a chance,’ with a thousand people, hands in the air. The night ends on the terrace as day breaks, watching the sky slowly turn a delicate shade of blue.

In time-honoured Ibiza tradition, we wake up by afternoon and stumble out with sunglasses, hats and hangovers. There’s a dizzying variety of new age fetishism on offer in town, from snake massage therapy (150 Euros an hour) to nude power yoga. We settle for caffeine instead, sitting placidly at a café, watching determinedly botoxed women in clingy dresses totter by.

The buzz at the café is all about David Guetta, who organizes the ‘F**k Me I’m Famous’ nights at Pacha every Thursday, bringing in the likes of Will.I.Am, Taio Cruz and Black Eyed Peas. Since we’re in the mood for a more placid form of clubbing, we head to Bora Bora beach to snooze in the warm powdery sand while all around us beautiful people in gym-toned bodies and designer swimwear groove to the beat of yet another DJ, in yet another bar.

Maciek drives us out of town to demonstrate why he loves Ibiza on our final day on the island. We glide past wide open fields, quiet beaches and glittering salt pans, Ibiza’s white gold. And always, in the background, the deep blue Mediterranean sea. Our last few hours on the island are spent on Las Salinas beach, soaking up the sun, watching cold jelly-fish laden waves wash upon the shore and listening to a DJ dreamily spin that now intensely-familiar Balearic beat.

This certainly isn’t the most glamorous way to have a drink in Portugal. It is, however, the most atmospheric.

In Lisbon’s Alfama district – a maze of candy-coloured houses exuberant with dangling clothes lines – bars unapologetically ramble all over the street. My friends and I dive into a flurry of skinny lanes, watched by old ladies peering curiously from their windows and plump cats wearing supercilious expressions.

After an hour of rambling, we end up at a particularly charming bar, with its daily menu scrawled on cardboard paper and plastic chairs set right on the road. Fortunately only three cars go by in the time we’re there, leaving me just enough time between moving furniture to gossip with the neighbours and sample some fried cod croquettes.

At the next table, I watch with fascination as an old lady, roughly eighty years old, grandly enters with her dog. She grabs a chair and a beer and then sits down for a languid smoke, the leash casually draped around her shoulders. Beside her a gang of stylish old men with rakish hats order a round of beers. A friend tells us this is how to find a good restaurant – look for the ones filled with retired locals.

The next day, on our way to Castelo beach, we stop at Costa Da Caparica, a scenic ferry and bus ride away from Alfama. Our search of antiquated Portuguese people ends at a tiny corner restaurant where we order the country’s much loved grilled sardines, silvery and crisp, soaked with the unmistakable flavour of a charcoal grill.

Over the week we spend in Lisbon, this becomes a familiar smell. Especially because Alfama district, where we’re staying, is swinging into street party mode as summer sets in and random street corners are taken over by smoky sardine grills. We take deep appreciative breaths, savouring the aroma every night, as we head out for Fado music, pub crawls or merely another evening of knocking back countless shots of Ginga, the much-loved and dangerously addictive liqueur made by infusing ginja berries (or sour cherry) in alcohol.

Later in the week we decide to supplement our childhood history classes by a visit to Belem, from where Vasco Da Gama set out for India. The Jeronimos Monastery, a fantastical tangle of spires and sculptures, is easily one of the prettiest monuments I’ve ever seen.

Once we’ve done tourist thing, José Guerreiro, guide turned buddy from the Pancho walking tour, takes us to his favourite haunt: Pasteis de Belem. Loved by the Portuguese as well as tourists, this enormous café has been making its signature egg custard tarts since 1837.

As legend goes, in the beginning of the 19th century this was a small general store linked to a sugar cane refinery. When the liberal revolution of 1820 closed down all convents and monasteries, someone from Jeronimos began making these sweet pastries as an attempt at survival. This secret recipe has been passed on through generations of master confectioners.

Our waiter at Pasties de Belem proudly brings us a tray and suggests we eat each pastry with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon. Carefully crafted, the flaky, buttery pastry is balanced by a sweet, wobbly interior.

Back in Alfama, we take to rambling through dark alleys to discover new restaurants. One of our best meals is in a hot, crowded Filipino-run nameless restaurant comprising of just two rooms, one of which has unfortunately been captured by a group of spectacularly untalented karaoke singers.

We squeeze into chairs in the main dining room, and are served bowls of deliciously salty olives speckled with garlic along with a generous jug of scarlet sangria. Plates of golden fried rolls filled with mincemeat follow. And then plates heaped with grilled sausages, rice and steamed vegetables. A pot pourri of food traditions – but one that works.

As we leave the gregarious owner laughs as he explains why he has no signboard. “They told me it’s 550 Euro to register,” he says, “So I call my restaurant Hollywood Grill, but only in my head!”

Her biological family may be in Japan, where she’s an associate professor at the Graduate School of Social Sciences, Hiroshima University. But right now she’s bouncing with excitement about visiting the people she lived, and bonded, with for one and a half years in Trichy while doing research for her doctorate on the ‘dream narratives’ of the Narikuruva (alternatively known as the Vaghizi) people.

 “I came to Chennai first in 1996 to meet them. I’ve been fascinated by the gypsies almost all my life,” says Ayako, now thirty eight years old and fluent in Tamil as well as the Narikuruva dialect. “Though they’re always seen as vagabonds and criminals, they’re also so attractive and mysterious. I was curious about how they see themselves.”

When she finished school, Ayako made a journey that would influence the rest of her life. “I went to the South of France to meet the Gitan gypsies… you know, the ones who do flamenco…” (Once of Europe’s most prominent gypsy groups, the Gitans, who spent many years in Spain before settling in France, are stereotypically colourful, with dusky skin, rousing music and theatrical dancing.) “I stayed with them for a long time; living in camping sites… we became friends.”

Discussing how India is the original home of the gypsies, she explains how their travels around the world are shrouded in mystery. “They began from North West India sometime between the 2nd and 9th century. Today, because of politics they’re forced to settle down. But even if they are not nomadic their lifestyles are very fluid. They change jobs constantly, and do work that’s inherently unstable, like picking scraps, selling antiques, gardening…” She adds, “Because they were always the last to come, they’re perpetual outsiders.”

She chose to travel to Chennai because she was curious how little information there was available about the gypsies of South India. “I went to Madras University and asked about the Vaghizi. They live in the streets, in Triplicane, by the beach…”

Although her first visit was brief she was so fascinated she vowed to return. “I decided to do a Doctorate on them, and this time I wanted to live with them. Otherwise I can never understand how they live and what they feel.”

Since Trichy has the biggest population of Vaghizi, she decided to go there. “No local research assistant would come with me. I was told they’re dirty, dangerous…” So she went alone, and stayed for one and a half years. “For the first 4 or five months it was very hard. Five of us shared one room. Men, women and children all sleeping together. There was no electricity at first, but I got it connected, put in a fan. Also a phone.”

“After a while it got easier. I even went on a business travels with them. We took buses to Goa, Sabrimala to sell beads…” While they have no written records, stories and names are passed down through generations. “One man I met in Trichy could recite his ancestors’ names for 17 generations. They also pass on a folded cloth that represents their goddess.”

The food was wildly varied, cooked on wood fires. “Narikutti Curry… I think that’s jackal – or is it a fox – from the forest. I’ve eaten cat once,” Ayako says blithely, adding “Also pigeons, rabbits… local vegetables. It’s good food. I love the rasam, Same spices but made in a different way. So good.”

Her PhD on their ‘Dream Narrative’ was based on early morning conversations, when everyone discussed their dreams. “For them dreams are important. In their dreams they are goddesses.” Like the Gypsies of Europe who celebrate ‘Black Sarah’ their patron saint (also called Sara-la-Kali and Black Madonna), the Vaghizi believe in a female higher power.

Mesmersized by her new family, she kept extending her stay. “I finally left because I had to go back and write the thesis. It’s tough to keep in touch. They are out of the house a lot of the time… and even when they are home often the phone is cut,” she sighs, adding “Although I submitted my research, I’ve come back every year.”

Ayako’s current trip’s dedicated to the street performers in Gujarat, also of gypsy origin. “I’m here for just one month this time.” Right now however, she’s is a hurry to get to Trichy. “I’m staying a week… and looking forward to going home!”

The adventure seemed so much more fun earlier that afternoon, when I was safely eating fish fingers at the sprawling Mana Island Resort. Fiji comprises 330 islands strewn across the South Pacific Ocean. Mana’s the largest on the Mamanuca chain, renowned for silky white beaches, bustling coral reefs and Tom Hanks’ “Castaway” (shot on Monuriki). We land at Nadi Airport on Viti Levu, then take a graceful yacht (aptly named Opulence) from Port Denaru marina to Mana Island, about 45 minutes west.

I’m slathering myself in sun block, airily discussing the merits of snorkelling over scuba diving when the team from Aqua Trek arrives with a boisterous round of ‘Bulas’. Over here, the cheery Fijian greeting ‘bula’ is as ubiquitous as frangipani, which is threaded into welcome garlands, piled atop fluffy beach towels and tucked behind the ears of the hunky local men.

A dive for conservation

Aqua Trek’s popular with divers for its experienced local instructors and ‘shark encounters’. In 1999, the company’s Brandon Paige (or as they like to call him — ‘The Shark Whisperer’) created a dive to educate people and aid in the conservation of these creatures.

Divers get to watch up to eight species of shark — from silvertips to 16-ft tiger sharks — get fed.

It’s safe because they operate on mutual respect. Besides, the Aqua Trek guys grin, there hasn’t been a shark attack in Fiji in years. “There’s always a first,” I mutter darkly, as the music of the movie “Jaws” swells up threateningly in my head.

Half-an-hour later, we’re at the Dive Shop, getting outfitted for our swim before clambering on to the boat. Dives offered from here include the South Beach dive, “home to many stingrays”. If that doesn’t excite you, there’s ‘Gotham City’, hangout of the batfish. And, of course, The Supermarket, where the shark encounter takes place. Further north, they offer “beautiful wall dive where you can swim with schools of Barracuda”.

We’re headed to the North Reef, guided by dive masters Jonetani Rokoua and Ilisoni Vaniqi. The sun’s gentle on our faces, the wind’s in our hair, and I’m sidling up to Ilisoni. “So, any sharks expected?” I say, my air of breeziness only slightly marred by the fact that I’m chewing nervously on my cheery orange flippers. “Sure,” he grins, gently pulling them away, and indicating it’s time I put them on. I gulp. “The thing is, I ate fish fingers,” I quaver. “They might, you know… um… want revenge?”

He looks concerned. “Okay, remember this.” I grab a notepad, and nod rapidly. “When you see a shark, look him in the eye…” “And?” I say, breathlessly. Ilisoni finishes: “And say, bula.” He dives off the boat.

I slide into the water, warm enough for a baby’s bath, adjust the snorkelling mask, and look into the sea. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Intensely coloured corals form a swaying backdrop to bustling crowds of flamboyant fish. Every colour in the palatte is represented, in fearless combinations.

We swim over schools of self-important Sergeant Major fish, striped convict fish with guilty expressions, ill-tempered triggerfish biting off coral bits. A triggerfish pulls faces at me, wriggling his fat little Picasso-bright body, as his partner pouts her Angelina Jolie lips. A brilliant cloud of tiny blue and green chromis rises up out of the corals.

You never realise how much personality fish have till you go underwater. After snorkeling, we scuba dive, becoming participants rather than audience, swimming carefully to avoid harming corals as delicate as lace. The soft corals gently sway as we swim past spotting electric blue starfish between them. We wriggle between schools of zipping, darting and laughing parrotfish. Angel fish float about thoughtfully as if they’re composing sonnets. Jonetani points out the clownfish. Glowing orange with artfully placed streaks, the local variety — the Fiji Barbari, is loved for its playfulness, and is an unofficial mascot for the divers.

It’s certainly lucky for us. While we affectionately blow bubbles at Nemo, Jonetani tugs my hand. We watch in awe as a majestic baby white-tip reef shark glides past regally. Following from a respectable distance, we see another. And, then comes the black tip reef shark — with that characteristic triangular fin, the staple of screechy horror flicks. I’m too fascinated to worry.

Back in the boat, we head to a sand spit: our own little island. Jonetani bounces ashore with a picnic basket: hot tea and bags of chocolate cookies. We walk about jabbing our bare feet on prickly pretty corals, soak up the sun, and finally dive right back into the invitingly blue sea.

(The writer was in Fiji on the invitation of Tourism Fiji)

We thoughtfully sip on chilled Chardonnay cocktails served in tender coconuts as Joshua sums up our first class on Fijian dating. “So, left ear if you’re looking and right if you’re cooking.”

The irony seems a bit unfortunate for the pig-on-a-spit at the Musket Cove Island resort, wearing a jaunty frangipani behind his right ear. Served with tapioca, bowls of bright salad and piles of juicy skewered prawns, this dinner’s an attempt to rediscover the food of traditional Fiji. Destination of choice for tourists from New Zealand and Australia for decades, the islands’ resorts — many owned by expatriates — have spent years focusing on International food with imported ingredients. They now realise it’s time to introduce more local recipes for food tourists and culture-vultures.

Fiji comprises 330 islands in all, of which less than one-third are inhabited. The islanders are so friendly, it’s difficult to believe that this was once a land of fierce cannibals. All that’s left of that lifestyle today are cute brain-picking forks sold in chic boutiques on Viti Levu (site of the nation’s capital city Suva). Apparently they’re great for salads.

Our cooking class is conducted by the beach at Musket Cove Island Resort just before Mr Piggy makes his debut. Under a spectacular island sunset, we learn how to make the much-loved Kokodo. Fresh Mahi Mahi fish is cubed and marinated in lemon, salt and vinegar overnight. Then it’s mixed with finely chopped cucumber, tomato, onion, and capsicum. Finally, the whole concoction is slathered in cool, rich, luxurious coconut cream.

At the local market in Nadi, Viti Levu, we weave between bundles of emerald spinach, chunky taro roots and piles of fat ginger. Though lots of produce comes from Australia and New Zealand, the government is now encouraging local farms, and requesting resorts to buy from them. Fish is plentiful, of course. A long, laden counter glistening with Red snappers and Barracuda. Sea bream and Coral trout. Blue fin trevally, Long-nosed emperors and knots of eels. The small fish are tied on a string, forming a necklace only Lady Gaga could wear, and sold in sets of 10.

Over here, families celebrate major occasions with a Lovo feast, also a staple at almost every resort. The work begins early in the day, as the Lovo pit is filled with wood, then set on fire. Rocks are placed on top of this, so they turn red hot. Then food — wrapped in plaited banana leaves — is placed inside, covered and left to cook for hours. The result is delicious: tender vegetables infused with the flavour of charcoal and spices. Meat so luscious it practically falls off the bone.

On our last day we dive off a boat, to swim in the warm Pacific waters clutching a fistful of soggy bread to feed the fish. They swim towards us indolently and nibble delicately, like socialites at brunch. In the evening, despite our sea-tangled hair and flaming sunburns, we make an effort to glam up for dinner. We’re headed to The Plantation, a fine-dining restaurant at the Sonaisali Island resort. After a flurry of dainty starters, we eat slow cooked pork set on a crab cabbage roll paired with a delicate apple and muscatel confit teamed with glasses of heady red wine. Dessert’s a delicate toffee basket filled with ripe tropical fruit topped with sorbet.

Our host suggests we end our evening with Angry Fijians — a wicked shooter comprising banana liqueur, Malibu rum and Bailey’s Irish cream. He kicks off his shoes and leads us to the Zero Bar at the other end of the property, insisting we walk to enjoy the balmy sea breeze. The perfect Fijian antidote to la-di-dah dining: star strewn skies, barefoot bars and giddy nightcaps.

Egg tarts as sweet as sunshine

Springy, bouncy, wiry noodles in steaming soup

Flashy Mongkok by night

It’s midnight and we’re prowling through the dark, chilly alleys of Kowloon, Hong Kong.
As Temple Street’s night market quietens down, people flaunting fake Louis Vuittons, triple piercings and shiny leather pants elbow past looking for a late night snack. In true flashy big city style, the neon boards and electronic signage act like disco lights, covering the scene in surreal red-blue-green swathes.
We’re looking for Tim Ho Wan, the cheapest Michelin starred restaurant in the world. This tiny eatery, run by the former dim sum chef of the Four Season’s hotel is so popular we’re warned there’s a three hour wait for tables. Yet, in Mongkok, the locals – busy eating pungent tofu, Siu Mai and a Hong Kong style fried chicken covered in sesame seeds – don’t seem to know its exact location.
By 1 a.m. we stumble upon an alternative: a petite, steamy, bright eatery bursting with teenagers wearing their angst and iPhones as badges of honour. After much gesticulation the owner brings us a warm basket, filled with succulent fish dim sum and a bowl of sharp soya sauce. It’s teamed with sticky fried rice studded with disconcertingly sweet, fatty sausage.
Our Hong Kong food adventure’s off to an interesting start.
The next day we wake up to delicate stir fried vermicelli noodle crunchy with peanuts and a stodgy congee. It’s time to tick off the two next items on our ‘best of Hong Kong food’ list: silk stocking tea and egg tarts.
Hong Kong’s Central Business District is chic and busy, bustling with fashionistas in elegant winter coats and edgy hairdos. At the Good Spring Herbal Pharmacy, young bankers in sharp suits and startlingly feminine manbags delicately sip on ginseng tea, dispensed from an ornate, steaming brass pot. Inside, pharmacists read Chinese prescriptions written in graceful calligraphy, rapidly choosing roots and powders from heavy wooden cabinets and wrapping them up in crisp paper.
After a glass of Sweet Flower tea, tasting of honey and gardens, we trip into the Lan Fong Yuen tearoom. This heaving café claims to have invented Hong Kong milk tea, strained through a silk stocking. Serendipity sees us seated with charming Ad executive Jacqueline Ho, who logs onto Hong Kong’s popular OpenRice website on her iPhone to show us the best places to dine. After cups of the thin, smooth milky tea, served in heavy Lipton cups, she walks us to the Tai Cheong Bakery next door for egg tarts.
Ten minutes in line, and we’re rewarded by a warm, wobbly egg tart. Set in a flaky, buttery, golden pastry shell, the deep yellow tart is silky and just sweet enough to be satisfying. The city’s last British Governer, Chris Patten agrees. The store front boasts a blown-up picture of him pasted across the window, declaring his allegiance.
Day three’s dedicated to noodles. And, hopefully, that elusive Michelin meal. Back in central after a lot of walking, much of it uphill thanks to the city’s steep inclines, we find ourselves staring at an unexpected bonus – the Michelin ‘approved’ sign outside a random restaurant in the CBD. Inside, it’s quiet but for the steady sound of slurping as the family at the next table enjoys their bowl of noodles. Our noodles, however, lack punch – they’re watery and tasteless. The sticky rice served with soy and honey glazed pork is delicious, however. The pork’s so succulent and well done, it can be taken off the bone with just chopsticks.
Ever since travelling-celebrity Chef Antony Bourdain ‘discovered’ Mak’s Noodle in Wellington Street, it’s been a tourist magnet. However, following Jacquline’s advice to pick crowded restaurants, we head to Tsim Chai Kee, opposite Mak’s and positively bursting with the local lunch crowd. Inside, the community beach is so narrow and packed I’m a little worried my hungry neighbour will mistake my elbow for his lunch.
Tsim Chai Kee serves just three kinds of noodles: shrimp, fish balls and beef. My bowl of translucent wantons stuffed with king shrimp set on a generous squiggle of wiry, springy noodles arrives quickly. The noodles, wallowing in a fragrant broth, have to be teased out with chopsticks and a soup spoon.
Nobody bothers with small talk. Everyone’s here to eat, and eat well. Who needs a pat from Michelin with food so good.