Sitting in my study at home in Langwarrin can I draw all the last few weeks together.
Interviewer: So what was the best food?
Neil: Well, it was all good. I don’t remember eating anything I didn’t like, though a lot of the coffee was lame. Nice to have English sausages again, and eat lots of foie gras. The prawn croquettes in stock I had in Sheung Wan were good, as was the chicken liver in Lin Heung. The jamon iberico and Malloran sausage in Elciego were fantastic. But I believe the joy of surprise. It is difficult to explain how good the pain aux raisens (Aus speak: escargot) I bought from some random backstreet bakery in a Bayonne were. So the laurels go to the escargot.
Interviewer: So what was the best wine?
Neil: On purely emotional grounds it was the Faustino Gran Reserva Rioja 1995. If I was a bit more unemotional about it then maybe the Vega Sicilia that I bought a glass of from a tapas bar in Logrono. The St. Joseph I bought in Paris and drank in Biarritz was good too.
Inteviewer: And how about the rankings of hotels you and Pat keep
Neil: Well, we’ve been debating this as the hotel in Elciego was that good. I can’t decide whether to put it on an equal footing as Cape Lodge in Margaret River, Australia as the single best hotel I’ve ever been in.
Inteviewer: Anything Else?
Neil: Yes. However great the holiday certainly was, and however great it was to enjoy the regionality of France and Spain, the crazy roads in Hong Kong, Never Never Land in the UK, & all that food and all that wine, the best thing was simply to be with all my family, and be with friends, some of whom I’ve not seen in years. That statement might read a bit crap, and I’m open to a cynic’s accusation of my writing something to keep a friend or family member reading this happy. But it is true. How often do I have the opportunity to sit with my family that live so far away and simply enjoyed sharing time with them as the nice people they actually are? How wonderful is it to catch up with friends after so long and see that in the intervening five years they’ve built something wonderful, like Adeline & Ben’s family, or have a wonderful horizon such as Ollie and Lucy with the daughter they are expecting, or can face an uncertain future having built a core of stability in the face of economic adversity such as Martyn and all my friends from Direct Line?
And I thought of Indigo. Are we depriving Indigo of something by living away from all this? Living in dynamic Hong Kong as we briefly pondered years ago, or missing something by not living in some outer-suburb or other in London?
In a sense the answer is obviously yes. But, I wouldn’t bring up a kid in a mono-cultural regional town in Spain, or in the schizophrenic Basque Region, or in Paris, which once out of the jewellery box centre is one tough city indeed. Nor would I bring one up in any suburb of London that I would be able to afford in a lifetime (and neither would most Londoners). Brett, the Brisbane-ite we met in Paris earlier in the holiday noted that during the British portion of his holiday he saw the British youth out on the streets ‘looking bored’. Hong Kong people given a choice often send their kids overseas to be educated….often to Australia.
And so sitting here I feel pretty darn good. We had a wonderful holiday, mostly because of the people we shared time with. On leaving Melbourne Airport I sat in the car driving down freeway at 100 in the Green Goddess….so easy due to the lack of congestion, and had a nice Melburnian coffee to my side….proper coffee. The sun was shining, and the air was nice and dry.
It felt good.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Tuesday 29 September 2990 Onwards: Homeward Bound O
For no particularly good reason it felt like we were on the homeward leg of the holiday to Melbourne even before we got to England. Maybe it was the thought of there only being one week left of the entire holiday, maybe the thought of two long haul flights coming up within days of now.
The 200km drive down the A1 to London Heathrow was uneventful, as was customs, as was duty free (albeit my buying five bottles of Grand Reserve Rioja), and onwards to Hong Kong.
At Hong Kong we popped up to Mong Kok for an enjoyable tour of the flower, bird and goldfish markets before being taken to another traditional Cantonese restaurant in Sheung Wan.
Indigo, pictures standing in-front of the flowers giving her Chinese name, Dzi-lan
It was very busy as today was the 60th anniversary of communist rule in China. So the harbour had a massive fireworks show. The TV coverage showed a military parade of the type I’d last seen in the 80’s Soviet era. The locals showed no apparent emotion or opinion either way, though I did note that the editor of the South China Morning Post that day did note the need to cleanse the Party of corruption. The next day I picked up the bottle of Sean Thackrey Orion 1994 that I’d ordered two weeks beforehand, the culmination of three years of searching for his wine. Patrick had helped me get to the vendor’s office by hailing a taxi for me. The journey through Mid-Levels, Sheung Wan the opened out to the vistas of Central yet again reinforcing the dynamism of Hong Kong. It really is a special place. After picking up new glasses for Pat we went back to the MIL’s and then by bus to the airport. Wing Hei cried as we walked to the departure gate checkpoint.
The 200km drive down the A1 to London Heathrow was uneventful, as was customs, as was duty free (albeit my buying five bottles of Grand Reserve Rioja), and onwards to Hong Kong.
At Hong Kong we popped up to Mong Kok for an enjoyable tour of the flower, bird and goldfish markets before being taken to another traditional Cantonese restaurant in Sheung Wan.
Indigo, pictures standing in-front of the flowers giving her Chinese name, Dzi-lan
It was very busy as today was the 60th anniversary of communist rule in China. So the harbour had a massive fireworks show. The TV coverage showed a military parade of the type I’d last seen in the 80’s Soviet era. The locals showed no apparent emotion or opinion either way, though I did note that the editor of the South China Morning Post that day did note the need to cleanse the Party of corruption. The next day I picked up the bottle of Sean Thackrey Orion 1994 that I’d ordered two weeks beforehand, the culmination of three years of searching for his wine. Patrick had helped me get to the vendor’s office by hailing a taxi for me. The journey through Mid-Levels, Sheung Wan the opened out to the vistas of Central yet again reinforcing the dynamism of Hong Kong. It really is a special place. After picking up new glasses for Pat we went back to the MIL’s and then by bus to the airport. Wing Hei cried as we walked to the departure gate checkpoint.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday 28 September 2009: Woodsetts, Yorkshire
For all the hell of travel in London, and the nightmare of the A23 two days earlier, from the word go the drive from Euston to my parents was a easy. The traffic density meant that the 3.5 hour journey required more intense concentration while driving but was otherwise easy. Oddly, people in the south did not speed very much, while people in the north did.
The road down to my parents’ village seemed small and pokey, but the village itself looked well kept. The house which seemed so large when I was a kid, seemed quite small now – probably the effect of being in Aussie houses. It too was well kept. We enjoyed a late lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with my mum’s apple crumble for afters. My dad seemed happy in his own home, and the mental load of being in France having been lifted.
Craig and Ian visited from Barnsley and Newcastle respectively. It was so good to see them. I hadn’t met Ian for about 8 years, and Craig for 15. In my mind the years did not matter and we chatted for hours.
The road down to my parents’ village seemed small and pokey, but the village itself looked well kept. The house which seemed so large when I was a kid, seemed quite small now – probably the effect of being in Aussie houses. It too was well kept. We enjoyed a late lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with my mum’s apple crumble for afters. My dad seemed happy in his own home, and the mental load of being in France having been lifted.
Craig and Ian visited from Barnsley and Newcastle respectively. It was so good to see them. I hadn’t met Ian for about 8 years, and Craig for 15. In my mind the years did not matter and we chatted for hours.
Sunday 27 September 2009: Never Never Land
In my scrapbook at home have an article published in about 2002 in the London Evening Standard. Written for locals it was about Croydon. It suggested that for maybe tourists high of the ‘Never Never Land’ of central London and all of its delight should – if they wanted to visit the real England – go to Croydon, as it was the nearest place to London where the real England appeared. Central London was somehow unrepresentative of the country as a whole. I thought then, as I do now, that this entire view was true.
It had been so, so very good to see everyone (except the prostitute) from Croydon two nights previous, and likewise to see my London friends in the eaterie on Saturday. I felt passionate about them. However, Croydon as a physical place I had little feeling for. Today was for Indigo. She can’t remember Never Never Land, the place of her birth. Today we went there.
She asked to go to the only things she knew of, the London Eye, and Big Ben. We got there by taxi using the best driver I’d been with in years. He drove London, and drive it well: Sharp, quick witted, fast, yet safe. Indigo was pumped and really enjoyed the London Eye. I was quite emotional, for the first time in the UK. I’d have done anything to be own a place in central London and live there the rest of my life, and Pat bought into the idea. Always did. And within seconds of being outside the taxi I felt the pulse, the rush, the colour, and the energy of central London. The theatres, the art house cinema, the A list exhibitions that London and maybe only four other cities in the world gets. And I longed again for this, thought about my quiet, working class suburb on the outskirts of Melbourne and my long commute, the price we had paid. And it was at this point I evoked in my mind that article in the Evening Standard. Buying in central London was just out of reach in even 1996 – the bottom of the property market before the longest economic boom in modern history – I’d only just started a graduate job. Adeline had family help in buying a 1 bed apartment in Marylebone, surfed the property market and now had a mortgage free three bed detached house in Streatham at the age of 35. Buying in central London went farther and farther out of reach as the boom went on. Central London was a Never Never Land then, and remained ever increasingly through our decision to leave, and was equally so now. In the 2-3 years leading up to our migration we tried hard to find a formula that worked for us in England, but never quite could. Never Never Land is nothing like the real England that the newspaper article evoked. Nor is it anything like the towns in the shires that we could have bought a place in for a mortgage at 5 times my salary, for a 10 minute commute to a station for a one hour train ride to work. My brain says we did the right thing, but standing on the banks of the Thames my heart still yearned.
We got a boat cruise down the Thames to Tower Bridge and back before walking past Big Ben, Westminster Cathedral, Household Cavalry, Trafalgar Square thence to Buckingham Palace. Indigo began to take interest in the statues we saw. So I told her about Winston Churchill and the times in which he lived, and how people feel about him. Then I told her about Oliver Cromwell, the killing of Charles I, and how on the restoration of the monarchy twenty years later the new king Charles II ensured Cromwell’s head was removed from his body and stuck on a spike. I forgotten how there was a statue of Abraham Lincoln across from the Houses of Parliament, so we talked about slavery and the American Civil War. And then I had to talk about Horatio Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar. There was near circularity about that as to explain it I had to mention the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and Napoleon. More talk of wars and blood.
Got the tube from Green Park to South Kensington where we ate at Paul’s. Met Ann, and the Chans and went in the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaur section, and later on the mammals. Very good.
More tube and train. Hell, Victoria Station is so busy. Travel in London is so...well, if not difficult, then intense. There are simply so many people. Now to Streatham Common, letting the girls play. Tamara and Indigo really got on. Tamara looks like Adeline. It struck me yet again what a superb family the Chans were. We not met them since we left – before they were wed and before kids. There they were a great family unit, settled in a nice mortgage free house in London, with safe jobs and a great attitude. Ben is very mentally active and creates a really stimulating environment around Adeline and the kids from which they will most surely benefit. Adeline, so maternal now, was superb.
It had been so, so very good to see everyone (except the prostitute) from Croydon two nights previous, and likewise to see my London friends in the eaterie on Saturday. I felt passionate about them. However, Croydon as a physical place I had little feeling for. Today was for Indigo. She can’t remember Never Never Land, the place of her birth. Today we went there.
She asked to go to the only things she knew of, the London Eye, and Big Ben. We got there by taxi using the best driver I’d been with in years. He drove London, and drive it well: Sharp, quick witted, fast, yet safe. Indigo was pumped and really enjoyed the London Eye. I was quite emotional, for the first time in the UK. I’d have done anything to be own a place in central London and live there the rest of my life, and Pat bought into the idea. Always did. And within seconds of being outside the taxi I felt the pulse, the rush, the colour, and the energy of central London. The theatres, the art house cinema, the A list exhibitions that London and maybe only four other cities in the world gets. And I longed again for this, thought about my quiet, working class suburb on the outskirts of Melbourne and my long commute, the price we had paid. And it was at this point I evoked in my mind that article in the Evening Standard. Buying in central London was just out of reach in even 1996 – the bottom of the property market before the longest economic boom in modern history – I’d only just started a graduate job. Adeline had family help in buying a 1 bed apartment in Marylebone, surfed the property market and now had a mortgage free three bed detached house in Streatham at the age of 35. Buying in central London went farther and farther out of reach as the boom went on. Central London was a Never Never Land then, and remained ever increasingly through our decision to leave, and was equally so now. In the 2-3 years leading up to our migration we tried hard to find a formula that worked for us in England, but never quite could. Never Never Land is nothing like the real England that the newspaper article evoked. Nor is it anything like the towns in the shires that we could have bought a place in for a mortgage at 5 times my salary, for a 10 minute commute to a station for a one hour train ride to work. My brain says we did the right thing, but standing on the banks of the Thames my heart still yearned.
We got a boat cruise down the Thames to Tower Bridge and back before walking past Big Ben, Westminster Cathedral, Household Cavalry, Trafalgar Square thence to Buckingham Palace. Indigo began to take interest in the statues we saw. So I told her about Winston Churchill and the times in which he lived, and how people feel about him. Then I told her about Oliver Cromwell, the killing of Charles I, and how on the restoration of the monarchy twenty years later the new king Charles II ensured Cromwell’s head was removed from his body and stuck on a spike. I forgotten how there was a statue of Abraham Lincoln across from the Houses of Parliament, so we talked about slavery and the American Civil War. And then I had to talk about Horatio Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar. There was near circularity about that as to explain it I had to mention the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and Napoleon. More talk of wars and blood.
Got the tube from Green Park to South Kensington where we ate at Paul’s. Met Ann, and the Chans and went in the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaur section, and later on the mammals. Very good.
More tube and train. Hell, Victoria Station is so busy. Travel in London is so...well, if not difficult, then intense. There are simply so many people. Now to Streatham Common, letting the girls play. Tamara and Indigo really got on. Tamara looks like Adeline. It struck me yet again what a superb family the Chans were. We not met them since we left – before they were wed and before kids. There they were a great family unit, settled in a nice mortgage free house in London, with safe jobs and a great attitude. Ben is very mentally active and creates a really stimulating environment around Adeline and the kids from which they will most surely benefit. Adeline, so maternal now, was superb.
Saturday 26 September 2009: Streatham
The incident with the prostitute at 3am in the evening had meant I had seven shades of no sleep again when I tried to get a live internet radio feed for the AFL Grand Final. The Age reported it was half time and the Saints were winning. My friend Tanvi saw I was online, and she put her laptop in front of her TV in Australia, set up a Skype video conference so I could watch the second half. The Saints lost in the time added on during the fourth quarter. Crud.
We taxied to Da Tung in the Wing Yip centre on Croydon’s Purley Way. It had been our place to get yum cha while living in the UK. And next door’s Tai Pan bakery sold the best dan mark goon and cha siu bao I’d ever known. There we met Adeline and Ben Chan, and Martyn and Nikki – with whose son was a cause of concern due to domestic concerns prior to his going to the London School of Economics. Yum cha was still good. It still sells some of those old fashioned Cantonese dishes like dza lai wong bao (deep fried coconut custard buns) that you can’t get anywhere else – including Hong Kong.
The five mile journey from Croydon to Streatham straight up the A23 Brighton Road was one I had driven – and when training for the marathon, had run – innumerable times. Martyn and Nikki kindly offered to drive us up. I took one hour. I was a total reminder of London and its traffic. It was horrific. The needless constriction in the road near Waddon station, the maddening junction by Trinity Way. Oh, yes, the memories came straight back. Turning off onto Streatham’s side streets, more memories: the thin roads with parked cars aligning each side leaving space for only one car to drive through. Spotting a car coming the opposite way leading to the duck and weave, the stop and start. Surely, driving through Baghdad is easier. God, I’m glad I got away from this.
We met friends, RJ, Ollie, & Lucy (now 7 months pregnant) for a nice evening meal. Having met them all in Australia within the past two years gave a feeling of great continuity with them all.
We taxied to Da Tung in the Wing Yip centre on Croydon’s Purley Way. It had been our place to get yum cha while living in the UK. And next door’s Tai Pan bakery sold the best dan mark goon and cha siu bao I’d ever known. There we met Adeline and Ben Chan, and Martyn and Nikki – with whose son was a cause of concern due to domestic concerns prior to his going to the London School of Economics. Yum cha was still good. It still sells some of those old fashioned Cantonese dishes like dza lai wong bao (deep fried coconut custard buns) that you can’t get anywhere else – including Hong Kong.
The five mile journey from Croydon to Streatham straight up the A23 Brighton Road was one I had driven – and when training for the marathon, had run – innumerable times. Martyn and Nikki kindly offered to drive us up. I took one hour. I was a total reminder of London and its traffic. It was horrific. The needless constriction in the road near Waddon station, the maddening junction by Trinity Way. Oh, yes, the memories came straight back. Turning off onto Streatham’s side streets, more memories: the thin roads with parked cars aligning each side leaving space for only one car to drive through. Spotting a car coming the opposite way leading to the duck and weave, the stop and start. Surely, driving through Baghdad is easier. God, I’m glad I got away from this.
We met friends, RJ, Ollie, & Lucy (now 7 months pregnant) for a nice evening meal. Having met them all in Australia within the past two years gave a feeling of great continuity with them all.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday 25 September: Croydon, England
I’d been busy writing a draft of my blog when the plan banked and I saw the sea lapping the shore of England, my first glimpse of this island in well over four years. My thoughts were akin to those on 15 May 2005 when I saw Melbourne from the sky on my migratory trip: that I was meant to be feeling something more. I wasn’t empty, but equally not stirred into passion. I was curious about what on Earth has happened to this country and in particular my old employer, Direct Line, part of the RBS group that lost GBP40 billion last year,
My notes are those of a tourist, at least until I got to see my friends in the pub. The train ticketing system is bizarre, but the Thameslink train, which we used to think as being tediously slow, felt like a shinkasen in comparison to my usual fare.
I passed my old office in Lansdowne Road. It was a new office when I worked there, and its bold signage exuded the confidence that the company had. It looked faded now. The hotel next door was new then too. It looked more jaded now. The staff were sans brain, and the corridors smelt like a musty curry. Well, it was only for one night. I turned on the TV to learn that Davina McColl is now considered a beauty worthy of advertising cosmetics.
We walked through the local shopping mall. I felt a certain otherness, a certain detachment, looking at something once so familiar, remembering all those mundane things so quickly forgotten like the name of that bookshop on the corner, the place me and Pat sometimes met for lunch, and so on. The shops floors were more tightly packed with goods, and lots of stores were on sale. We ate in Yo! Sushi – one of our old haunts and enjoyed finally eating Asian food again after a week of croissant, cheese and foie gras.
We agreed to split for the evening. I toured some shops for an hour to kill the time. The gossip magazines were in a hullaballoo about so-called celebrities that I’d never heard of – the B-list of fame has moved on. Somebody called ‘Fiz’ is getting married against all advice. The shelves of wine in the supermarkets had almost no Aussie wine on them. It seems the Poms have tired of the cheap plonk that satisfied them at volume for over a decade.
Waterstones book shop reflected British interests -a very large section on military history. A decent section on politics – mostly British – and some counterculture stuff. For all the political books I did wonder whether British politics was actually producing any ideas that would affect my life. I suspected not. There was a very reasonable poetry section. The shop, in an ordinary outer suburb of London compared very favourably with those in outer Melbourne.
I found myself stopping in the middle of the street to listen to some of the accents, in particular the warm tones of some first generation Afro-Caribbean ladies, and some total geezer standing outside a pub in the market: ‘na wot I mean?’.
I met my friends and former colleagues from Direct Line in the Spreadeagle. I loved working in that place. Everyone was so positive and friendly. Martyn Hammond, one of the people I’ve had the most contact with since leaving was there, looking healthier and more relaxed that I’ve ever seen him.
There stories were much the same, with a despondency about there working lives. “He’s getting VR” (VR = voluntary redundancy), or “He applied for VR and was rejected”. “He’s leaving”, “No contractors are being renewed”. At least many of my friends here had paid off their mortgages. Even with this air of pathos I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. The intervening years did not seem to matter. I wish I had a lot longer to speak to everyone.
Steve Daley whisked a very drunk (about 8 pints of Guinness) me and Martyn to South Croydon for a ruby (i.e. Ruby Murray = Curry). I ate a chicken dhansak. They asked me about my job and I mentioned that the first two years were very difficult for me due to the nature of the area of the bank I worked in, but things were a lot better now. Steve took this and spoke at some length about investment strategies. We gathered he was day trading.
It was 3:15am. I had been in bed for 90 minutes when the prostitute had woken us up by knocking repeatedly on the door. I guess she had the wrong room number. So I went back to sleep for another 3 hours to await the AFL Grand Final.
My notes are those of a tourist, at least until I got to see my friends in the pub. The train ticketing system is bizarre, but the Thameslink train, which we used to think as being tediously slow, felt like a shinkasen in comparison to my usual fare.
I passed my old office in Lansdowne Road. It was a new office when I worked there, and its bold signage exuded the confidence that the company had. It looked faded now. The hotel next door was new then too. It looked more jaded now. The staff were sans brain, and the corridors smelt like a musty curry. Well, it was only for one night. I turned on the TV to learn that Davina McColl is now considered a beauty worthy of advertising cosmetics.
We walked through the local shopping mall. I felt a certain otherness, a certain detachment, looking at something once so familiar, remembering all those mundane things so quickly forgotten like the name of that bookshop on the corner, the place me and Pat sometimes met for lunch, and so on. The shops floors were more tightly packed with goods, and lots of stores were on sale. We ate in Yo! Sushi – one of our old haunts and enjoyed finally eating Asian food again after a week of croissant, cheese and foie gras.
We agreed to split for the evening. I toured some shops for an hour to kill the time. The gossip magazines were in a hullaballoo about so-called celebrities that I’d never heard of – the B-list of fame has moved on. Somebody called ‘Fiz’ is getting married against all advice. The shelves of wine in the supermarkets had almost no Aussie wine on them. It seems the Poms have tired of the cheap plonk that satisfied them at volume for over a decade.
Waterstones book shop reflected British interests -a very large section on military history. A decent section on politics – mostly British – and some counterculture stuff. For all the political books I did wonder whether British politics was actually producing any ideas that would affect my life. I suspected not. There was a very reasonable poetry section. The shop, in an ordinary outer suburb of London compared very favourably with those in outer Melbourne.
I found myself stopping in the middle of the street to listen to some of the accents, in particular the warm tones of some first generation Afro-Caribbean ladies, and some total geezer standing outside a pub in the market: ‘na wot I mean?’.
I met my friends and former colleagues from Direct Line in the Spreadeagle. I loved working in that place. Everyone was so positive and friendly. Martyn Hammond, one of the people I’ve had the most contact with since leaving was there, looking healthier and more relaxed that I’ve ever seen him.
There stories were much the same, with a despondency about there working lives. “He’s getting VR” (VR = voluntary redundancy), or “He applied for VR and was rejected”. “He’s leaving”, “No contractors are being renewed”. At least many of my friends here had paid off their mortgages. Even with this air of pathos I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. The intervening years did not seem to matter. I wish I had a lot longer to speak to everyone.
Steve Daley whisked a very drunk (about 8 pints of Guinness) me and Martyn to South Croydon for a ruby (i.e. Ruby Murray = Curry). I ate a chicken dhansak. They asked me about my job and I mentioned that the first two years were very difficult for me due to the nature of the area of the bank I worked in, but things were a lot better now. Steve took this and spoke at some length about investment strategies. We gathered he was day trading.
It was 3:15am. I had been in bed for 90 minutes when the prostitute had woken us up by knocking repeatedly on the door. I guess she had the wrong room number. So I went back to sleep for another 3 hours to await the AFL Grand Final.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009: Bilbao - Guggenheim Museum
Fresh from yet-anther-wine-binge: Faustino I 1996 being matched by some La Mancha Gran Reserva 1996 (very nice and understated), Riscal 2007 from Castilla & Leon, reserve Vina Tondonia white (very good again, particularly with sheep’s milk cheese), we decided to go to Bilbao as a family to go to the Guggenheim.
The two hour drive was easy enough, everyone noting the Spanish propensity to live in unendearing apartment blocks, often in valleys, where smog seemed to collate. The whole route was mountainous as we followed the northern edge of Spain. Bilbao as a city didn’t exactly blow my mind, however, as the visit was fleeting that may be unfair.
My initial reaction to the exterior of the Guggenheim building was muted, probably because it was stylistically similar to the hotel we had in Elceigo: both are designed by Frank Gehry. Me and dad pondered whether the interior of the building would be more interesting than the art it enclosed. Actually, the building is indeed superb, and especially the interior. It constantly evolves to the eye and mind, ever changing, ever beautiful – kind of a potted, modern Venice all in one building. However, the building was dwarfed by one the greatest works of art I have ever seen. An entire 100 meter section – an entire room – is given over to “The Matter of Time” by Richard Serra. An incredible series of massive, modernist, and minimalist steel sculptures. Dizzying, awe inspiring, challenging, sensually consuming, space defying – I was
Enraptured. So was Pat.
My father chuntered pot-shots against modern art.
The video installations in other rooms grabbed me too, just like they did in the Museum of Modern Art in Paris. And similarly the dress circle of first half 20th
Artists evoked my yawns. I suspect that aside from Guernica I could happily do without ever seeing another Picasso – he bores me with his formulaic daubs.
We had too many Euros left in cash, so we simply had to spend them. Two tee-shirts and the obligatory fridge magnet later we slightly lighter in the wallet department, but not enough, so we stopped off at a supermarket and bought a Roda Reserva 2005 and a Campilla Gran Reserva 1995.
That evening we dined in Chez Albert on Biarritz’ waterfront. A platter of seafood including oysters, sea snail, cockles, langoustines, crab and prawn, was followed sole in a champagne sauce. Pat had amazing gambas and my dad ate scallops on a bed of Basque boudin. A good meal, and a fitting end with my family to the end of this part of the holiday.
The two hour drive was easy enough, everyone noting the Spanish propensity to live in unendearing apartment blocks, often in valleys, where smog seemed to collate. The whole route was mountainous as we followed the northern edge of Spain. Bilbao as a city didn’t exactly blow my mind, however, as the visit was fleeting that may be unfair.
My initial reaction to the exterior of the Guggenheim building was muted, probably because it was stylistically similar to the hotel we had in Elceigo: both are designed by Frank Gehry. Me and dad pondered whether the interior of the building would be more interesting than the art it enclosed. Actually, the building is indeed superb, and especially the interior. It constantly evolves to the eye and mind, ever changing, ever beautiful – kind of a potted, modern Venice all in one building. However, the building was dwarfed by one the greatest works of art I have ever seen. An entire 100 meter section – an entire room – is given over to “The Matter of Time” by Richard Serra. An incredible series of massive, modernist, and minimalist steel sculptures. Dizzying, awe inspiring, challenging, sensually consuming, space defying – I was
Enraptured. So was Pat.
My father chuntered pot-shots against modern art.
The video installations in other rooms grabbed me too, just like they did in the Museum of Modern Art in Paris. And similarly the dress circle of first half 20th
Artists evoked my yawns. I suspect that aside from Guernica I could happily do without ever seeing another Picasso – he bores me with his formulaic daubs.
We had too many Euros left in cash, so we simply had to spend them. Two tee-shirts and the obligatory fridge magnet later we slightly lighter in the wallet department, but not enough, so we stopped off at a supermarket and bought a Roda Reserva 2005 and a Campilla Gran Reserva 1995.
That evening we dined in Chez Albert on Biarritz’ waterfront. A platter of seafood including oysters, sea snail, cockles, langoustines, crab and prawn, was followed sole in a champagne sauce. Pat had amazing gambas and my dad ate scallops on a bed of Basque boudin. A good meal, and a fitting end with my family to the end of this part of the holiday.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Faustino I Gran Reserva 1996
My favourite wine in all the world in red Rioja wine. I reaffirmed the faith this evening with my family with my favourite bottle of my favourite wine from my favourite wine region: Faustino I Gran Reserva 1996 Rioja Tinto. Even its bottle is spectacular with a mottled grey effect covering all the glass, and its garish old world label with some old world portrait of guy from another era. The flavour takes me back to other places in time – I remember every bottle I’ve drunk – only three. The first in 1995 with Adam Shaw, Alison, Dan & Maddy at Adam’s flat in Clapham Junction, London. I was wearing my University College London rugby top. I’d only just got into the university rugby union side (the only person from a state school!). The bottle cost an exorbitant GBP12. Everybody was wowed. Maddy was rioja obsessed for weeks afterwards. The second bottle was in 1997 a few days after Pat and I got married. We drank it with her father and brother Patrick in our apartment in Ranston Street, Marylebone in London. We all enjoyed it. A year later Patrick was in a shop in Hong Kong as recognised the bottle. The shopkeeper immediately went up to him and told him what good taste he had, so out of guilt he bought it. The last was a bottle I bought and opened on the Millennium with Pat and my parents the morning after watching the firework display over the Thames on New Year’s Eve. That was before the 4 hour commute the 9 miles home to Croydon – the place was pandemonium. But I saw my mum look childlike as she watched the fireworks for those 20 delicious minutes on Embankment. The years peeled back as it took her back to Victory over Europe celebrations in 1945 when she stood as a child on the banks of the Thames.
So Faustino I is a marker in time. It was fitting that I drank it with all my family, being together for the first time in nearly 5 years. I look forward for the next time.
And finally as drink it is the style of Rioja I prefer – completely over the top oak, heaps of vanilla – a style I only like with this region, and no other. New Riojas are more fruit driven. They please the critics more, but not I. I like being taken to the place Faustino I takes me. And so do all of my family, Pat, Ann, mum & dad. There’s never an argument over this stuff.
And so we drank a glass each, maybe two, and in relative silence, appreciated every drop on offer.
So Faustino I is a marker in time. It was fitting that I drank it with all my family, being together for the first time in nearly 5 years. I look forward for the next time.
And finally as drink it is the style of Rioja I prefer – completely over the top oak, heaps of vanilla – a style I only like with this region, and no other. New Riojas are more fruit driven. They please the critics more, but not I. I like being taken to the place Faustino I takes me. And so do all of my family, Pat, Ann, mum & dad. There’s never an argument over this stuff.
And so we drank a glass each, maybe two, and in relative silence, appreciated every drop on offer.
Wednesday 23 September 2009: Rioja a Go Go
We had brekkie. Actually, we had three brekkies as we all went nuts on seeing what was on offer. The sliced boar’s head was nice but was topped by the Mallorcan sausage, and the amazing jamon Iberico. The Serrano and Riojan chorizo were good but overshadowed by the Iberico. Five Spanish cheeses, mostly local, but including the obligatory Queso Manchego. Local honeys and jams, four different types of Spanish bread, freshly cooked tortilla served with mushrooms and amazing Riojan bacon – the best bacon I’ve ever had. Such was the volume of wine we consumed the previous night we elected not to have the Cava that we there in the ice bucket. Pat loved the local almond tart, and the plum bread. I had the best coffee of this holiday.
Having checked out of the hotel we drove via Laguardia to Briones where we visited the Museum of the Culture of Wine. The audio guide was specially programmed to have commentary that bore no relation to the thing we were looking at. Aside from an interesting film on how corks are made the place for a modern waste of space.
Onwards to Haro in the Rioja Alta, where we tasted wine in Vina Tondonia, served by an assured Oxford graduate. The youngest wine we tasted was a reserve from 2000, with the rest being from 1988, 1991. I bought a lovely gran reserve Rioja 1991. Ann got two reserve white wines with excellent toasted buttery and nutty flavours and and long, long finish. Will be great with Manchego.
Heartache followed when we found out that Bodegas Roda was closed. At least that saved me $100 on a basic bottle.
We drove back by a different route, touching the regions of Burgos, and then Castilla & Leon before entering the Basque Country again. The country now full of mountainous pine forest, and villages right on cliff edges. Spectacular stuff.
Having checked out of the hotel we drove via Laguardia to Briones where we visited the Museum of the Culture of Wine. The audio guide was specially programmed to have commentary that bore no relation to the thing we were looking at. Aside from an interesting film on how corks are made the place for a modern waste of space.
Onwards to Haro in the Rioja Alta, where we tasted wine in Vina Tondonia, served by an assured Oxford graduate. The youngest wine we tasted was a reserve from 2000, with the rest being from 1988, 1991. I bought a lovely gran reserve Rioja 1991. Ann got two reserve white wines with excellent toasted buttery and nutty flavours and and long, long finish. Will be great with Manchego.
Heartache followed when we found out that Bodegas Roda was closed. At least that saved me $100 on a basic bottle.
We drove back by a different route, touching the regions of Burgos, and then Castilla & Leon before entering the Basque Country again. The country now full of mountainous pine forest, and villages right on cliff edges. Spectacular stuff.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Tuesday 22 September 2009: Spain, tapas in Logrono, wine in La Rioja
Another good day. If Pat wasn’t ill it would have been better still.
At about 8:30 Pat, Ann and I set off. Having accidentally gone north on the peage we did a U-turn at Bayonne and made our way across the Spanish border via the freeway.
We turned south at San Sebastian as we figured getting off the freeways might help us see something more interesting. We were venturing far of the tourist routes. The autobia took us through the lush, cloud covered Pyrenees. The drops were precipitous. The towns no longer the quaint quiet French ones with lovely houses, but built up close towns of apartment blocks, such as Tolosa, Ikaztegieta, and Beasain. We turned onto a small country road at Beasain and made our way through one of the twistiest roads I’ve ever driven on through San Gregorio to a Pyrenean peaks.
Having taken pictures at a monument at a cloud covered viewpoint south of Lizarraga the scenery took a dramatic change. The cloud and precipitous drops disappeared and suddenly we were on the grain covered plains of Navarra.
The driving was easy in the sun drenched autumnal shades of the country. As we approached Logroño the bodegas (wineries) appeared. Loads of the them. The size and number of these operations was impressive, and more extensive that that in, say, Coonawarra.
Logroño is not a tourist town. The capital of La Rioja it is for the locals and their only industry – viticulture and wine making. Having all lost our battles to operate a Spanish public toilet we made for Calle San Juan, in Logroño’s market area. The energy of this area was fantastic, and enhanced as it was clearly some kind of public holiday or event day. We ordered tapas at three joints in calle. At the first mushrooms and prawns on mini-toasts. At the second a whole welter – toasted goats cheese with fruit, mussels with aubergine, prawn stuffed pimientos and on and on. My sister washed this down with the local grape juice. As the driver in the rio, I was left drinking some orange juice. We managed one more tapas joint, which sold Vega Sicilia, Roda and many more top rank wines by the glass. I bought my sister a small glass of Vega Sicilia for 15 Euros (AUD 30). By God it was good.
Pat was noticeably ill and she struggled to get around the town. We popped by a supermarket to get some stuff for her, and of course I had to raid the wine section buying a Faustino I Gran Reserva 1996 for a mere 18 Euros, and a 1996 wine from La Mancha for 6 Euros.
We made for the hotel. Pat’s navigation has been good and we got to Elciego easily. The Frank Gehry designed Marques de Riscal hotel is stunning, not only as a hotel, or its design, but as a contrast to the traditional village of Elciego behind, and again a contrast to the backdrop of the Pyrenees with its cotton wool clouds lodged firmly on the peaks. We had high expectations of the hotel but close up it just got better. The bathroom is huge, I actually got lost in it! Even the toilet had its own IP phone.
While Pat rested me and Ann wandered the beautiful streets of Elciego. Nice town. Drank coffee in a local bar and watched the longest TV program about squid conceivable. The Spanish know how to talk.
As the Autumnal sun began its slow descent into night Pat joined us in the hotel bar. I booked the evening’s meal.
“What time, Sir?”
“How about 7:30”
A pause.
“This is Spain, Sir. Nobody eats before 10. The restaurant doesn’t open until 9.”
We chose the ‘traditional’ restaurant as opposed to the ‘gastronomique’. Pat ate local asparagus the size of thick candles, Ann a lovely local stew that included clams. I had some deliciously light croquetes. I think the staff were a little upset when we ordered French white wines – grand reserve Sancerre and premier cru Chablis - and an awesome Portuguese red, but hey, if they are going to put it on the menu….
For mains we had pork foot (best dish of the night), lamb cutlets, and monkfish, washed down with Clos Mogador - okay from Priorat, not Rioja, but at least it is Spanish.
At about 8:30 Pat, Ann and I set off. Having accidentally gone north on the peage we did a U-turn at Bayonne and made our way across the Spanish border via the freeway.
We turned south at San Sebastian as we figured getting off the freeways might help us see something more interesting. We were venturing far of the tourist routes. The autobia took us through the lush, cloud covered Pyrenees. The drops were precipitous. The towns no longer the quaint quiet French ones with lovely houses, but built up close towns of apartment blocks, such as Tolosa, Ikaztegieta, and Beasain. We turned onto a small country road at Beasain and made our way through one of the twistiest roads I’ve ever driven on through San Gregorio to a Pyrenean peaks.
Having taken pictures at a monument at a cloud covered viewpoint south of Lizarraga the scenery took a dramatic change. The cloud and precipitous drops disappeared and suddenly we were on the grain covered plains of Navarra.
The driving was easy in the sun drenched autumnal shades of the country. As we approached Logroño the bodegas (wineries) appeared. Loads of the them. The size and number of these operations was impressive, and more extensive that that in, say, Coonawarra.
Logroño is not a tourist town. The capital of La Rioja it is for the locals and their only industry – viticulture and wine making. Having all lost our battles to operate a Spanish public toilet we made for Calle San Juan, in Logroño’s market area. The energy of this area was fantastic, and enhanced as it was clearly some kind of public holiday or event day. We ordered tapas at three joints in calle. At the first mushrooms and prawns on mini-toasts. At the second a whole welter – toasted goats cheese with fruit, mussels with aubergine, prawn stuffed pimientos and on and on. My sister washed this down with the local grape juice. As the driver in the rio, I was left drinking some orange juice. We managed one more tapas joint, which sold Vega Sicilia, Roda and many more top rank wines by the glass. I bought my sister a small glass of Vega Sicilia for 15 Euros (AUD 30). By God it was good.
Pat was noticeably ill and she struggled to get around the town. We popped by a supermarket to get some stuff for her, and of course I had to raid the wine section buying a Faustino I Gran Reserva 1996 for a mere 18 Euros, and a 1996 wine from La Mancha for 6 Euros.
We made for the hotel. Pat’s navigation has been good and we got to Elciego easily. The Frank Gehry designed Marques de Riscal hotel is stunning, not only as a hotel, or its design, but as a contrast to the traditional village of Elciego behind, and again a contrast to the backdrop of the Pyrenees with its cotton wool clouds lodged firmly on the peaks. We had high expectations of the hotel but close up it just got better. The bathroom is huge, I actually got lost in it! Even the toilet had its own IP phone.
While Pat rested me and Ann wandered the beautiful streets of Elciego. Nice town. Drank coffee in a local bar and watched the longest TV program about squid conceivable. The Spanish know how to talk.
As the Autumnal sun began its slow descent into night Pat joined us in the hotel bar. I booked the evening’s meal.
“What time, Sir?”
“How about 7:30”
A pause.
“This is Spain, Sir. Nobody eats before 10. The restaurant doesn’t open until 9.”
We chose the ‘traditional’ restaurant as opposed to the ‘gastronomique’. Pat ate local asparagus the size of thick candles, Ann a lovely local stew that included clams. I had some deliciously light croquetes. I think the staff were a little upset when we ordered French white wines – grand reserve Sancerre and premier cru Chablis - and an awesome Portuguese red, but hey, if they are going to put it on the menu….
For mains we had pork foot (best dish of the night), lamb cutlets, and monkfish, washed down with Clos Mogador - okay from Priorat, not Rioja, but at least it is Spanish.
Monday 21 September: Basque Country and Bayonne
Four of us went shopping early on Monday morning. Mum, dad, me and my id. My id made all the decisions about what to buy. Eight bottles of wine, spanning the local Jurançon, burgundy, Vacqueyras, Pomerol, Chateauneuf-de-Pape & Cahors; a whole foie gras liver, and a can of terrine to foie gras in case the whole liver wasn’t enough. Five blocks of cheese, including local Basque variants – none of the five of which I’ve heard of, and four very large duck breasts. Perigoux is nearby so presumably once the foie gras livers have been used there is a large amount of duck meat to go around. Basically, I had my orgy of shopping.
Half and hour later on, and the a knowing grimace from Pat later we set off for the day’s journey. We kind of made it up on the fly, but we made for the steppes of the French Pyrenees, to the villages of Ascain then Sare.
This ended up being idyllic country, the charismatic provincial architecture and sleepiness amongst the steppe. It struck me how lush this area was, how full of plant life; and how much water there was available. The contrast with my home could not have been greater. Even in the cobble strewn twisting streets the silence reigned supreme. It was delicious.
Of the two we stayed longer in Sare, where almost everything was written neither in French or Spanish, but the local Euskadi. We ate in a Basque restaurant, my family sipping from the local cider. I drank the local apple juice, so full of rounded flavour. We dined on local hams, pates and fresh salads. We were surrounded by local Basque adverts which decorated the joint along with blackened dried pimientos hung from the ceiling in bunches. Amongst the adverts was included one for Basque ‘Bob’s Beer’.
Outside I took some photos of the Pyrenees, then noted the Basque flag flying outside. The adjoining wall was daubed in the graffiti supporting the terrorist organisation ETA. Heaven was not without its imperfections. Indigo joined me and I tried to explain what we were looking at. Yet another occasion when I ended up explaining murder and war in Europe, reminding me how lucky I am as an Australian, and how much I accepted these things as part of my day to day when I was a European.
Pat, having been suffering from hay fever all morning was feeling better now as we drive north again the Bayonne. We really liked Bayonne, and its medieval streets around the cathedral. In fact, a second shopping spree for the day started, with Pat seeing some jewellery she liked, and my seeing some exceptional coats that I hoped Pat would like – which she did. We simply don’t see design like this in Melbourne or Hong Kong. We toured the ancient streets and enjoyed every second.
A thoroughly enjoyable day.
Half and hour later on, and the a knowing grimace from Pat later we set off for the day’s journey. We kind of made it up on the fly, but we made for the steppes of the French Pyrenees, to the villages of Ascain then Sare.
This ended up being idyllic country, the charismatic provincial architecture and sleepiness amongst the steppe. It struck me how lush this area was, how full of plant life; and how much water there was available. The contrast with my home could not have been greater. Even in the cobble strewn twisting streets the silence reigned supreme. It was delicious.
Of the two we stayed longer in Sare, where almost everything was written neither in French or Spanish, but the local Euskadi. We ate in a Basque restaurant, my family sipping from the local cider. I drank the local apple juice, so full of rounded flavour. We dined on local hams, pates and fresh salads. We were surrounded by local Basque adverts which decorated the joint along with blackened dried pimientos hung from the ceiling in bunches. Amongst the adverts was included one for Basque ‘Bob’s Beer’.
Outside I took some photos of the Pyrenees, then noted the Basque flag flying outside. The adjoining wall was daubed in the graffiti supporting the terrorist organisation ETA. Heaven was not without its imperfections. Indigo joined me and I tried to explain what we were looking at. Yet another occasion when I ended up explaining murder and war in Europe, reminding me how lucky I am as an Australian, and how much I accepted these things as part of my day to day when I was a European.
Pat, having been suffering from hay fever all morning was feeling better now as we drive north again the Bayonne. We really liked Bayonne, and its medieval streets around the cathedral. In fact, a second shopping spree for the day started, with Pat seeing some jewellery she liked, and my seeing some exceptional coats that I hoped Pat would like – which she did. We simply don’t see design like this in Melbourne or Hong Kong. We toured the ancient streets and enjoyed every second.
A thoroughly enjoyable day.
Sunday 20 September 2009: Biarritz
We awoke in the dark at about 6am. The train arrived on time in Biarritz just before 8. Greeted by my parents we made right for the station café and breakfasted on croissants and croque monsieurs. Picked up the hire car at the airport and dealt quite well with driving on the other side of the road.
The villa is gorgeous. Modern, spacious, with good quality fittings. It seems to have more en suites and toilets than bedrooms. Several bedrooms all with en suites, a swimming pool, a good kitchen, two large lounges, and all mod cons. Finally we could relax. And relax we did, in the quiet, with my family. First time all together in oh so many years. It felt good.
A 15 minutes walk and we were at the beach, complete with surfers. We ate at a local café, that basically offered a reasonable paella and a not so good chicken basque. But it was so much cheaper than Paris. We ambled back.
The sun came out. Me and Ann played with Indigo in the pool. I read Oracle Bones lounging by the pool while the exhausted Pat slept.
Several hours later, and two bottles of wine with the family later, I joined her for a very good snooze.
The villa is gorgeous. Modern, spacious, with good quality fittings. It seems to have more en suites and toilets than bedrooms. Several bedrooms all with en suites, a swimming pool, a good kitchen, two large lounges, and all mod cons. Finally we could relax. And relax we did, in the quiet, with my family. First time all together in oh so many years. It felt good.
A 15 minutes walk and we were at the beach, complete with surfers. We ate at a local café, that basically offered a reasonable paella and a not so good chicken basque. But it was so much cheaper than Paris. We ambled back.
The sun came out. Me and Ann played with Indigo in the pool. I read Oracle Bones lounging by the pool while the exhausted Pat slept.
Several hours later, and two bottles of wine with the family later, I joined her for a very good snooze.
Saturday 19 September: Art in Paris
When I lived in Europe my ideal day out was in an art gallery. I would take a day of annual leave just to visit an exhibition. When people ask me do I miss London, or England I normally tell them that there are some things I miss indeed: family, friends and the museums & art exhibitions. While Melbourne does have exhibitions, it’s not the same, and my passion if not asleep then drowsy.
Today it spasmodically awoke.
Still the ethos was to show Indigo things. Since we did not have to check out of the hotel until midday, we chose to get to the Lourve and spend a couple of hours there. We suggested some areas of the Louvre that Indigo might wish to go to, and respected her choice not to see the Mona Lisa. Instead we went to the Egyptian and Assyrian sections.
She seemed to really enjoy these. Rather than pushing information on her, we tried to be more passive by answering her questions when asked, so we talked about mummies, all the animals the Egyptians praised and their writing.
However, it turned out that the Louvre had a special exhibition on about the great Venetian painters, Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto. So we bought tickets.
Sometime in about 2003 ‘The Late Review’ on BBC TV ran a review of an exhibition of Titian. I thought the reviewers’ comments pretentious when they said that you could really see where Van Gogh and a deluge of other great artists got their inspiration for. I went to the exhibition and was spellbound. Even to my untrained eye the reviewers’ comments could be seen to be true. It was the best exhibition focussing on one painter that I’ve ever been to.
So to walk into rooms of Titians had the effect of sending my mind back to another era when I lived in London. I was hardly in the present at all. Indigo distracted me the most, and in a nice way. She started taking an interest in a pictures of the Last Supper. They had works on this subject by Tinteretto, Titian and Veronese side by side. I had to explain what the last supper was in the Bible, some stuff about symbolism in painting (Jesus’ head often having a halo of light about his head to help illiterate viewers understand who was who), the meaning of the glass of wine. We also talked about the fact that Jesus is always depicted as a white guy with long hair and a beard, when in fact nobody has a clue what he looked like. That got Indigo talking about her views on God and such.
We left, checked out of the hotel. We had another 9 hours before catching our overnight train. What to fill it with?
A quick look at my guide (so out of date that prices are denominated in French Francs) said we were near the George Pompidiou Centre and it’s Museum of Modern Art. So we popped down, stopping off at Starbucks where I despratel;y tried to get a decent coffee.
The first floor of the museum, populated to temporary thematic exhibitions was simply stunning. My mind awoke. I was buzzing. And Indigo was buzzing too and that was feeding my energy. Feminism in modern art was just a starter and was great. Me and Indigo watched a film on Semiotics in the Kitchen, before moving on to watching a 15 minute film of fluorescent light bulbs falling out of their ceiling fixtures one by one until the room was dark. It was at once tense, funny, boring, and totally captivating. More and more pieces, none by anyone I’d heard of just thrilled. This was what I loved about the art thing in London, this was what I’d not had while in Melbourne.
But Pat was desperate to go to the next floor with its Kandinsky’s. In the end I never actually got to see them – there were too many paintings. We were greeted upstairs by Rothcko – check, Pollock – check, Matisse – check, Picasso – yawn – check. The usual dress circle of pre-1950 20th century art. Where my mind by buzzing the floor below, I was bored senseless upstairs. My mind was switched off again.
We dined in the open air restaurant in the Pompideiu Centre. A mass of Norweigian smoked salmon for me, and two large slabs of foie gras for Pat. So much that she gave me half of hers. So, the tally is two days in Paris and two foie gras sessions for Neil.
Got the train to take Indigo to the Arc de Triomphe which she remained interested in for a whole 2 minutes. I had to explain why it was so famous, and ended up talking about wars and triumphal marches again. We split so Pat and Indigo could go shopping down the Champs-Elysee, and I could see whether Le Caves Taillevent was still trading.
Le Caves Taillevent is a wine shop in the 8th Arrondisement and is alleged to stock half a million bottles of wine from a selection of over 1,100 types. I was on a mission. Wine Library TV carried a review of wines from Lirac, a sub-region of Rhone, which were apparently the thing to have in the 1950’s but were not well known now, though really good and cheap. I’d not been able to buy any in Melbourne or Hong Kong. Well, I’ve got one now, but it was the only one this shop had, so I’m not optimistic. If a major specialist in France doesn’t stock much of the stuff I wonder how good it can be. I also bought more St Joseph and a Vacqueyras which he highly recommended. God, I’m an Rhone-Head.
And so onto Gare d’Austerlitz and the overnight train to Biarritz. Indigo was totally pumped. First class, where I am writing this now, frankly looks a bit daggy. Just a vending machine for food selling crisps and junk .
Today it spasmodically awoke.
Still the ethos was to show Indigo things. Since we did not have to check out of the hotel until midday, we chose to get to the Lourve and spend a couple of hours there. We suggested some areas of the Louvre that Indigo might wish to go to, and respected her choice not to see the Mona Lisa. Instead we went to the Egyptian and Assyrian sections.
She seemed to really enjoy these. Rather than pushing information on her, we tried to be more passive by answering her questions when asked, so we talked about mummies, all the animals the Egyptians praised and their writing.
However, it turned out that the Louvre had a special exhibition on about the great Venetian painters, Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto. So we bought tickets.
Sometime in about 2003 ‘The Late Review’ on BBC TV ran a review of an exhibition of Titian. I thought the reviewers’ comments pretentious when they said that you could really see where Van Gogh and a deluge of other great artists got their inspiration for. I went to the exhibition and was spellbound. Even to my untrained eye the reviewers’ comments could be seen to be true. It was the best exhibition focussing on one painter that I’ve ever been to.
So to walk into rooms of Titians had the effect of sending my mind back to another era when I lived in London. I was hardly in the present at all. Indigo distracted me the most, and in a nice way. She started taking an interest in a pictures of the Last Supper. They had works on this subject by Tinteretto, Titian and Veronese side by side. I had to explain what the last supper was in the Bible, some stuff about symbolism in painting (Jesus’ head often having a halo of light about his head to help illiterate viewers understand who was who), the meaning of the glass of wine. We also talked about the fact that Jesus is always depicted as a white guy with long hair and a beard, when in fact nobody has a clue what he looked like. That got Indigo talking about her views on God and such.
We left, checked out of the hotel. We had another 9 hours before catching our overnight train. What to fill it with?
A quick look at my guide (so out of date that prices are denominated in French Francs) said we were near the George Pompidiou Centre and it’s Museum of Modern Art. So we popped down, stopping off at Starbucks where I despratel;y tried to get a decent coffee.
The first floor of the museum, populated to temporary thematic exhibitions was simply stunning. My mind awoke. I was buzzing. And Indigo was buzzing too and that was feeding my energy. Feminism in modern art was just a starter and was great. Me and Indigo watched a film on Semiotics in the Kitchen, before moving on to watching a 15 minute film of fluorescent light bulbs falling out of their ceiling fixtures one by one until the room was dark. It was at once tense, funny, boring, and totally captivating. More and more pieces, none by anyone I’d heard of just thrilled. This was what I loved about the art thing in London, this was what I’d not had while in Melbourne.
But Pat was desperate to go to the next floor with its Kandinsky’s. In the end I never actually got to see them – there were too many paintings. We were greeted upstairs by Rothcko – check, Pollock – check, Matisse – check, Picasso – yawn – check. The usual dress circle of pre-1950 20th century art. Where my mind by buzzing the floor below, I was bored senseless upstairs. My mind was switched off again.
We dined in the open air restaurant in the Pompideiu Centre. A mass of Norweigian smoked salmon for me, and two large slabs of foie gras for Pat. So much that she gave me half of hers. So, the tally is two days in Paris and two foie gras sessions for Neil.
Got the train to take Indigo to the Arc de Triomphe which she remained interested in for a whole 2 minutes. I had to explain why it was so famous, and ended up talking about wars and triumphal marches again. We split so Pat and Indigo could go shopping down the Champs-Elysee, and I could see whether Le Caves Taillevent was still trading.
Le Caves Taillevent is a wine shop in the 8th Arrondisement and is alleged to stock half a million bottles of wine from a selection of over 1,100 types. I was on a mission. Wine Library TV carried a review of wines from Lirac, a sub-region of Rhone, which were apparently the thing to have in the 1950’s but were not well known now, though really good and cheap. I’d not been able to buy any in Melbourne or Hong Kong. Well, I’ve got one now, but it was the only one this shop had, so I’m not optimistic. If a major specialist in France doesn’t stock much of the stuff I wonder how good it can be. I also bought more St Joseph and a Vacqueyras which he highly recommended. God, I’m an Rhone-Head.
And so onto Gare d’Austerlitz and the overnight train to Biarritz. Indigo was totally pumped. First class, where I am writing this now, frankly looks a bit daggy. Just a vending machine for food selling crisps and junk .
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday 18 September 2009: Welcome to Paris
Having been to Paris about three times before in our lives, it was kind of refreshing to go – albeit for less than 48 hours – with nothing in particular on the agenda other than show Indigo some of the major sights. As Indigo went to Paris about a week before we migrated it would be interested to see what she could remember. Well, that was the Idea.
The Reality was that neither nor Pat got a wink of sleep on the 12 hour flight so sleep had become an agenda item. We had landed at 6:10am in the morning and somehow had to get through the day. Pat doesn’t necessarily deal with tiredness all that well.
So when my map didn’t have the exact street of the hotel, very centrally located in Les Halles Pat got a bit uptight, bought another street map which had even less detail than the one I had. We got the rush hour RER train to Chatelet-Les Halles where we found a street map posted in the station. The hotel was very nearby.
We tried to bring forward our check-in time to no avail as the hotel was booked out. But we were able to store our luggage and thus unencumbered we were free to peruse Paris.
As it was so close we went to Notre Dame. I wasn’t sure how Indigo would react to this (or anything else in Europe) so was surprised when she seemed moderately impressed and wanted a photo of her taken with Notre Dame in view. She seemed to have some awareness of the story of the hunchback. At the façade, I got her playing a game of ‘find the monster’ with the grotesques the stonemasons carved, and I started telling her about how in medieval times Christians genuinely thought their world was chockers with angels and demons that fought in an endless battle.
Over the next few hour a couple of things struck me. First, and perhaps the most obvious was the need to explain event hundreds or even thousands of years ago, something I would not have even have blinked at when I lived in Europe, but had become wholly unaccustomed to while living in Melbourne. It kinda just doesn't need to occur. My sense of history has changed since moving to the new world. Second, was the need to explain things in terms of war, blood and the evil that man has done. Again, this doesn't really occur where we are now. The Arc de Triomphe in the distance – built by a dictator who wanted to rule all of Europe. The Louvre – yes was a palace of a king (have to look that up, but actually wasn’t it Cardinal Richelieu’s?) , but France doesn’t have a king. They beheaded one in 1792 (?). Charlemagne’s statue outside Notre Dame – another dictator. Joan of Arc’s statue inside Notre Dame – ‘a woman who thought God told her to kill the English’.
Hoorah – got a decent coffee! Then to the Eiffel Tower which Indigo seemed to enjoy. We met two Aussie’s in their fifties. Nice people from Brisbane. They joined us for lunch. We chose the bistro L’Ardoise on Rue de Mont Thabor. Pat and I went in 2000 and was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. The only meal where I had veal and actually understood what the fuss was about. Indigo woofed down her lamb – really enjoyed it. Pat had ravioli of scampi followed by turbot. My prejudices and memories got the better of me and so I had duck foie gras terrine followed by the veal. All washed down with a wonderful bottle of 2006 St. Joseph – a wine that goes ever up in my estimation. The meal was nice, but not mindblowing. The bill was however. I’m feeling very Australian in my reaction to these European prices.
It was 3pm and we went back to the hotel to sleep, which we did so for the next 4-5 hours. We awoke & eat again, this time more simply in the hotel.
I asked Indigo which were her favourite bits of the day. ‘The [RER] trains and the lunch’ she said. I asked her what she remembered about Notre Dame to see how much she had absorbed. ‘The flowery windows and the monsters’.
The Reality was that neither nor Pat got a wink of sleep on the 12 hour flight so sleep had become an agenda item. We had landed at 6:10am in the morning and somehow had to get through the day. Pat doesn’t necessarily deal with tiredness all that well.
So when my map didn’t have the exact street of the hotel, very centrally located in Les Halles Pat got a bit uptight, bought another street map which had even less detail than the one I had. We got the rush hour RER train to Chatelet-Les Halles where we found a street map posted in the station. The hotel was very nearby.
We tried to bring forward our check-in time to no avail as the hotel was booked out. But we were able to store our luggage and thus unencumbered we were free to peruse Paris.
As it was so close we went to Notre Dame. I wasn’t sure how Indigo would react to this (or anything else in Europe) so was surprised when she seemed moderately impressed and wanted a photo of her taken with Notre Dame in view. She seemed to have some awareness of the story of the hunchback. At the façade, I got her playing a game of ‘find the monster’ with the grotesques the stonemasons carved, and I started telling her about how in medieval times Christians genuinely thought their world was chockers with angels and demons that fought in an endless battle.
Over the next few hour a couple of things struck me. First, and perhaps the most obvious was the need to explain event hundreds or even thousands of years ago, something I would not have even have blinked at when I lived in Europe, but had become wholly unaccustomed to while living in Melbourne. It kinda just doesn't need to occur. My sense of history has changed since moving to the new world. Second, was the need to explain things in terms of war, blood and the evil that man has done. Again, this doesn't really occur where we are now. The Arc de Triomphe in the distance – built by a dictator who wanted to rule all of Europe. The Louvre – yes was a palace of a king (have to look that up, but actually wasn’t it Cardinal Richelieu’s?) , but France doesn’t have a king. They beheaded one in 1792 (?). Charlemagne’s statue outside Notre Dame – another dictator. Joan of Arc’s statue inside Notre Dame – ‘a woman who thought God told her to kill the English’.
Hoorah – got a decent coffee! Then to the Eiffel Tower which Indigo seemed to enjoy. We met two Aussie’s in their fifties. Nice people from Brisbane. They joined us for lunch. We chose the bistro L’Ardoise on Rue de Mont Thabor. Pat and I went in 2000 and was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. The only meal where I had veal and actually understood what the fuss was about. Indigo woofed down her lamb – really enjoyed it. Pat had ravioli of scampi followed by turbot. My prejudices and memories got the better of me and so I had duck foie gras terrine followed by the veal. All washed down with a wonderful bottle of 2006 St. Joseph – a wine that goes ever up in my estimation. The meal was nice, but not mindblowing. The bill was however. I’m feeling very Australian in my reaction to these European prices.
It was 3pm and we went back to the hotel to sleep, which we did so for the next 4-5 hours. We awoke & eat again, this time more simply in the hotel.
I asked Indigo which were her favourite bits of the day. ‘The [RER] trains and the lunch’ she said. I asked her what she remembered about Notre Dame to see how much she had absorbed. ‘The flowery windows and the monsters’.
Thursday 17 September 2009: Onwards to Paris
The myriad of lights on an airport’s runaway at night is beguiling. One’s thoughts are one’s own rainbow. My thoughts are always the same. I remember the last moments of being in England on the 3rd of May 2005. I remember trying to evoke stirring national themes but thinking of none. The plane taking off. The last sight of the land where I was born being a motorway – I fancy the M25 – with a million people busying themselves with their ordinary lives. The flight attendant disturbing me and my looking way. On looking back a moment later my homeland had gone and a new one beckoned.
Leaving Hong Kong Pat’s thoughts were her own. It never gets easier, the only thing that stays the same is the predictability of it occurring. There aren’t any words for it, and the only thing I can do is be there for her if she needs me. One moment of quiet before another year of silence.
The flight was a night one. The odd thing about night flights is that unless you are very hard headed the whole of the preceding day seems somehow written off in your mind. Compounding this we had both discussed how this first leg of our holiday was the longest single continual stretch in any one place. We both felt we were only just settling down, and now how we were on the move already.
After yum cha in Aberdeen with Ho Dzi, Yi-Dje, MIL, Wen and Wing Hei, Pat went with her mother to sell some of her gold jewellery to a dealer. The price was good, and although we weren’t really in need of the money Pat had been wanting to do this for some time to get it out of the way. It was important that a gwai-lo wasn’t there, as the merchants would notoriously negotiate a worse deal. Pat and I went to Causeway Bay to pick up the new glasses. We bought an additional two pairs on the spot, and got a very good price. The Mandarin speaking gwai-lo next to us in the opticians paid similar glasses for twice the price we paid.
As we had to get back to Wah Kwai fairly soon we gave ourselves 30 minutes in Sogo. Essentially it was like a supermarket challenge where you could keep anything you could pick up in 5 minutes. We had 30, had a stack of cash from a gold sale, credit cards nowhere near the max, and absolutely no scruples about going nuts in this shop. We decided to split up. “Have fun” I said, perfectly sincerely, to Pat.
My 30 minutes started in the mens clothes department. It was a great time to buy, as the summer stock was being cleared, just as Australia was entering the hotter half of the year. And the prices were keen, and the exchange rate good. Hugo Boss spotted. Nah! A duck and a weave – Calvin Klein – my favourite. Unspeakable-Italian-name. A shimmy and an chicane to the AUD 600 jacket I liked. Nah! Actually, all I really wanted was a waistcoat, but I couldn’t find one. Abjectly, I left the menswear floor. I found the ceramics. My father is from The Potteries in England, Pat is Chinese with a master’s degree in Chinese antiquities. I used to proof read her cermanics essays. I really like ceramics, and the stuff on offer here was good. But the wonderful mugs were a bit too much. In the shoes department I heard the slurred Shrrrrrs, chrrrs of mandarin Chinese being spoken. I’ll digress for a moment.
I remember an article in the Economist in about 2002 when I lived in England about how the newly wealthy in mainland China were beginning to start a trend in global tourism, and tourist boards around the world were getting their first indication of what the mainland Chinese were interested in. With respect to England it was not the usual weighting of St Paul’s cathedral, and the standard diet of historic monuments, but included instead a small town about 70km outside London where the Clarks shoes factory outlet store was.
In Sogo the slurred sounds of mandarin were concentrated in the Clarks shoes concession.
The food hall offered no greater inspiration and so my attempt at flagrant materialist consumerism failed witheringly. Pat – who blew the 30 minute time bar we set by 15 additional minutes – wasn’t much better, having bought a few modest clothes for work.
We returned to Wah Gwai and packed. Said goodbye to family and got the taxi to the airport. The taxi driver had four mobile phones all arranged on top of the dashboard, the cab firm radio, two dangly things handing off the rear view mirror. What little windscreen real estate was left had undergone massive incursions by three enormous square window stickers, two identical ones boldly reading ‘JAPAN’ for no particularly good reason that I could make out. The continual procession of calls meant the driver bellowed at the top of voice all the way to the airport and frequently took his hands off the steering wheel while driving at 120 while he wrote down his bookings. If you can impagine the face of Daffy Duck as he says ‘Sufferin’ Suckertash’ after Bugs has done him over yet again, then that was my look at the end of this journey. I didn’t bother with an m’goi sai as we arrived at the airport.
Off all the shops that encapsulate how glib airports really are it is the newsagent-cum-bookstore. We are greeted by a wall of ‘business’ books. Some sad (male?), 39, greying executive: clever no doubt; the novelty of actually getting work to pay for business class having worn off and the tedious gap in time ever present, wondering how the next step up wasn’t simply gifted to him two years ago when senior management should obviously have seen his worth. Time is ebbing away and he’s paying this price for his family, of course.
The management books are nothing to do with success. They like diet advertisements are about transformation. Most diets don’t work and neither do most management books. It’s you that works.
Against expectations I did buy a book in the shop. Much as I admire Paul Theroux’s travel writing – let’s face it, it is the benchmark, I cannot but help admiring the sensitivity of Peter Hessler’s. River Town was amazing, so when I saw another by him I had no doubt it would be a treat.
As the duty free area faded and Gate 47 at Hong Kong airport approached it was not just Pat’s thoughts that were her own. For many –and for a long time that included me – airports were a beginning, be it to Bali, Las Vegas or Ibiza. Since 3 May 2005, regardless of the airport, they are a goodbye. I live in my own moment of quiet, for the things I left, for the heartache I created, for the opportunities gained, for the price we paid, always looking forward and always looking back.
Leaving Hong Kong Pat’s thoughts were her own. It never gets easier, the only thing that stays the same is the predictability of it occurring. There aren’t any words for it, and the only thing I can do is be there for her if she needs me. One moment of quiet before another year of silence.
The flight was a night one. The odd thing about night flights is that unless you are very hard headed the whole of the preceding day seems somehow written off in your mind. Compounding this we had both discussed how this first leg of our holiday was the longest single continual stretch in any one place. We both felt we were only just settling down, and now how we were on the move already.
After yum cha in Aberdeen with Ho Dzi, Yi-Dje, MIL, Wen and Wing Hei, Pat went with her mother to sell some of her gold jewellery to a dealer. The price was good, and although we weren’t really in need of the money Pat had been wanting to do this for some time to get it out of the way. It was important that a gwai-lo wasn’t there, as the merchants would notoriously negotiate a worse deal. Pat and I went to Causeway Bay to pick up the new glasses. We bought an additional two pairs on the spot, and got a very good price. The Mandarin speaking gwai-lo next to us in the opticians paid similar glasses for twice the price we paid.
As we had to get back to Wah Kwai fairly soon we gave ourselves 30 minutes in Sogo. Essentially it was like a supermarket challenge where you could keep anything you could pick up in 5 minutes. We had 30, had a stack of cash from a gold sale, credit cards nowhere near the max, and absolutely no scruples about going nuts in this shop. We decided to split up. “Have fun” I said, perfectly sincerely, to Pat.
My 30 minutes started in the mens clothes department. It was a great time to buy, as the summer stock was being cleared, just as Australia was entering the hotter half of the year. And the prices were keen, and the exchange rate good. Hugo Boss spotted. Nah! A duck and a weave – Calvin Klein – my favourite. Unspeakable-Italian-name. A shimmy and an chicane to the AUD 600 jacket I liked. Nah! Actually, all I really wanted was a waistcoat, but I couldn’t find one. Abjectly, I left the menswear floor. I found the ceramics. My father is from The Potteries in England, Pat is Chinese with a master’s degree in Chinese antiquities. I used to proof read her cermanics essays. I really like ceramics, and the stuff on offer here was good. But the wonderful mugs were a bit too much. In the shoes department I heard the slurred Shrrrrrs, chrrrs of mandarin Chinese being spoken. I’ll digress for a moment.
I remember an article in the Economist in about 2002 when I lived in England about how the newly wealthy in mainland China were beginning to start a trend in global tourism, and tourist boards around the world were getting their first indication of what the mainland Chinese were interested in. With respect to England it was not the usual weighting of St Paul’s cathedral, and the standard diet of historic monuments, but included instead a small town about 70km outside London where the Clarks shoes factory outlet store was.
In Sogo the slurred sounds of mandarin were concentrated in the Clarks shoes concession.
The food hall offered no greater inspiration and so my attempt at flagrant materialist consumerism failed witheringly. Pat – who blew the 30 minute time bar we set by 15 additional minutes – wasn’t much better, having bought a few modest clothes for work.
We returned to Wah Gwai and packed. Said goodbye to family and got the taxi to the airport. The taxi driver had four mobile phones all arranged on top of the dashboard, the cab firm radio, two dangly things handing off the rear view mirror. What little windscreen real estate was left had undergone massive incursions by three enormous square window stickers, two identical ones boldly reading ‘JAPAN’ for no particularly good reason that I could make out. The continual procession of calls meant the driver bellowed at the top of voice all the way to the airport and frequently took his hands off the steering wheel while driving at 120 while he wrote down his bookings. If you can impagine the face of Daffy Duck as he says ‘Sufferin’ Suckertash’ after Bugs has done him over yet again, then that was my look at the end of this journey. I didn’t bother with an m’goi sai as we arrived at the airport.
Off all the shops that encapsulate how glib airports really are it is the newsagent-cum-bookstore. We are greeted by a wall of ‘business’ books. Some sad (male?), 39, greying executive: clever no doubt; the novelty of actually getting work to pay for business class having worn off and the tedious gap in time ever present, wondering how the next step up wasn’t simply gifted to him two years ago when senior management should obviously have seen his worth. Time is ebbing away and he’s paying this price for his family, of course.
The management books are nothing to do with success. They like diet advertisements are about transformation. Most diets don’t work and neither do most management books. It’s you that works.
Against expectations I did buy a book in the shop. Much as I admire Paul Theroux’s travel writing – let’s face it, it is the benchmark, I cannot but help admiring the sensitivity of Peter Hessler’s. River Town was amazing, so when I saw another by him I had no doubt it would be a treat.
As the duty free area faded and Gate 47 at Hong Kong airport approached it was not just Pat’s thoughts that were her own. For many –and for a long time that included me – airports were a beginning, be it to Bali, Las Vegas or Ibiza. Since 3 May 2005, regardless of the airport, they are a goodbye. I live in my own moment of quiet, for the things I left, for the heartache I created, for the opportunities gained, for the price we paid, always looking forward and always looking back.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Wednesday 16 September: Ocean Park
If life ever affords me the opportunity to find out, I hope the experience of drinking a glass of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne is not the relative let down that Dom Perignon was last year. Cristal was created at the behest of a Russian tsar. We also have some 18th century tsar to thank for the notion that food is served in distinct courses. Eating with family tonight in a Shanghaiese restaurant in Aberdeen, or last night’s hot pot meal at the MILs with our extended family remind me that Chinese, and maybe other cultures don’t think of food like that. The western way has an aspect of selfishness to it. In a restaurant you order dish for yourself that satisfies your wants. In Chinese cuisine it is a fundamentally social discussion about ordering a selection of dishes that balances the needs of everyone, with balance of food composition. I prefer it for its selflessness and the fact it is a minor yet pleasant act of social binding and sharing of experience.
It is one of the very many things I like about Chinese culture and Chinese culture in Hong Kong. For all the tourist joy of Star Ferry, the cable car up to the Peak, it is the little ordinary things taken for granted here that I enjoy greatly. It would be wrong to take my previous writing as meaning I am critical or disparaging about HK and its people. I prefer to think I am critiquing it, and invariably in doing so I bring my western values with it. I love the neighbours opening their doors in the morning and letting us here their caged birds singing delightfully. The elderly doing tai chi as a communal act downstairs in the forecourt of the apartment block. Going swimming with my father-in-law and Mr & Mrs Yao at Repulse Bay at the ludicrously early time of 5:30am, the bay being full of locals already, some singing at the top of their voices while waist high in water (they believe it is therapeutic). My father-in-law practising his calligraphy. The throngs of elderly people outside HSBC at 10am and 3:30pm in Wah Kwai to catch the stock market open and close so they can get their day trades in. The sheer unreserved friendliness of people, especially to young children. It is said that you can judge how good a society by how it treats its children. In Hong Kong they are treated very well.
Coffee Darling?
“It is because of coffee?” I asked. “Yes” said Pat.
And so we decided not to get breakfast somewhere convenient and quick like Café de Coral and instead venture up to the MIL’s apartment where the stove-top espresso maker was. I’d been hoping to avoid going to the apartment, for we had all agreed that we were in a hurry. We were going to take Indigo to Ocean Park Theme Park and we needed all the time we could get. My experience was that as soon as we ended up in the MIL’s minutes rapidly into hours. I was used to being in the flat for two hours though it was not planned.
Having established the principle of ‘coffee and go’ we ventured to the MIL’s only a couple of minutes away.
Two hours later we left. Ah-Wen was in but MIL wasn’t, she was at the doctor’s for an appointment delayed due to the typhoon. And now they all wanted to go to Ocean Park. So we waited. I wasn’t annoyed, it is what I’ve come to expect. My visits to Hong Kong go at a different heartbeat to elsewhere and it is I that has to change to accommodate it.
“I warn you” said Pat “it [Ocean Park] is full of Mainlanders.”
It is worth taking a while to analyse this sentence and its foundations.
The analysis is by way of a story that starts with the camillia plant – or at least one of the 30 or so species of it better known as tea. Europeans loved it and it was only known to exist in central China. The Europeans had an insatiable appetite for tea and by the time it had passed through the Chinese middlemen and had been transported it cost a lot. The Europeans were unable to sell much to the Chinese in return. So the Europeans were haemorrhaging money. Rather than observing and considering their next move and learning to find nice things that the Chinese wanted they simply excused themselves by concluding that China was ‘closed’. Any open-minded reading of its history would suggest the total opposite. It is a diabolic lie and the consequences of that conclusion more diabolical still. The west shoved opium in China’s way to make enough money to pay for the tea, and when China resisted being drugged the west took its land instead. One day in the middle of the 19th century when a Dutch botanist turned up in Calcutta with a mystery plant sample he found in northern India all were surprised to discover it was tea – growing wild in India (Indians didn’t drink tea at this point). The colonial British were very happy. They didn’t have to buy tea from the Chinese anymore as they could plant it in their colonial lands. But they could still sell opium to the Chinese. The Chinese treasury collapsed with the one sided exchange and China descended into chaos. End product? Down the line a Communist China and a little enclave of British colonialism called Hong Kong. Admittedly, if you were in that enclave and on the other side of that nearby border you had the Cultural Revolution busily killing 70 million of its own people then you too would feel a little insular and distrustful of what was on the other side.
When Pat left university she worked in Hong Kong as an import/export agent. This involved trips to factories in Guandong Province. Her stories aren’t nice, and are echoed by those from those from her friends.
Ocean Park was indeed full of Mainlanders. Unsurprisingly, the world did not end, and anyone we met were ordinary human beings like you or I. I was glad I didn’t hear anyone that spoke Mandarin with a Beijing accent, as it sounds painful to my ears.
Ocean Park was good fun. There’s a fund ride portion and a zoo/animal show portion. We did animals first. The pandas – both the black and white kind, but also the red panda kind were their. While having reservations about whether they should be in zoos, it was totally amazing to see them. However, I suspect cultural differences affected reactions to the sea lion show, with the westerners in the audience including myself thinking the sea lion was totally degraded. The non-westerners had different notions. I’m not being critical of the non-westerners here. I suspect that if I really analysed my notions on the matter, deconstructed them and the like, they would probably be a mass of contradictory bunk. So I politely clapped at the end to, though I didn’t really enjoy it.
After lunch I reaffirmed my relationship with my testicles.
I’m really quite partial to my testicles. They are mine and are my only pair. I very much prefer them to be 1. attached to my body, and 2. going in the same direction as the rest of my body. Theme park rides challenge the second of those principles and consequently I’ve been suspicious of them all my life.
I did a few, and praised God that Indigo was too young to get on the triple 360 degree turning rollercoaster. I’m partial to the contents of my stomach too.
It is one of the very many things I like about Chinese culture and Chinese culture in Hong Kong. For all the tourist joy of Star Ferry, the cable car up to the Peak, it is the little ordinary things taken for granted here that I enjoy greatly. It would be wrong to take my previous writing as meaning I am critical or disparaging about HK and its people. I prefer to think I am critiquing it, and invariably in doing so I bring my western values with it. I love the neighbours opening their doors in the morning and letting us here their caged birds singing delightfully. The elderly doing tai chi as a communal act downstairs in the forecourt of the apartment block. Going swimming with my father-in-law and Mr & Mrs Yao at Repulse Bay at the ludicrously early time of 5:30am, the bay being full of locals already, some singing at the top of their voices while waist high in water (they believe it is therapeutic). My father-in-law practising his calligraphy. The throngs of elderly people outside HSBC at 10am and 3:30pm in Wah Kwai to catch the stock market open and close so they can get their day trades in. The sheer unreserved friendliness of people, especially to young children. It is said that you can judge how good a society by how it treats its children. In Hong Kong they are treated very well.
Coffee Darling?
“It is because of coffee?” I asked. “Yes” said Pat.
And so we decided not to get breakfast somewhere convenient and quick like Café de Coral and instead venture up to the MIL’s apartment where the stove-top espresso maker was. I’d been hoping to avoid going to the apartment, for we had all agreed that we were in a hurry. We were going to take Indigo to Ocean Park Theme Park and we needed all the time we could get. My experience was that as soon as we ended up in the MIL’s minutes rapidly into hours. I was used to being in the flat for two hours though it was not planned.
Having established the principle of ‘coffee and go’ we ventured to the MIL’s only a couple of minutes away.
Two hours later we left. Ah-Wen was in but MIL wasn’t, she was at the doctor’s for an appointment delayed due to the typhoon. And now they all wanted to go to Ocean Park. So we waited. I wasn’t annoyed, it is what I’ve come to expect. My visits to Hong Kong go at a different heartbeat to elsewhere and it is I that has to change to accommodate it.
“I warn you” said Pat “it [Ocean Park] is full of Mainlanders.”
It is worth taking a while to analyse this sentence and its foundations.
The analysis is by way of a story that starts with the camillia plant – or at least one of the 30 or so species of it better known as tea. Europeans loved it and it was only known to exist in central China. The Europeans had an insatiable appetite for tea and by the time it had passed through the Chinese middlemen and had been transported it cost a lot. The Europeans were unable to sell much to the Chinese in return. So the Europeans were haemorrhaging money. Rather than observing and considering their next move and learning to find nice things that the Chinese wanted they simply excused themselves by concluding that China was ‘closed’. Any open-minded reading of its history would suggest the total opposite. It is a diabolic lie and the consequences of that conclusion more diabolical still. The west shoved opium in China’s way to make enough money to pay for the tea, and when China resisted being drugged the west took its land instead. One day in the middle of the 19th century when a Dutch botanist turned up in Calcutta with a mystery plant sample he found in northern India all were surprised to discover it was tea – growing wild in India (Indians didn’t drink tea at this point). The colonial British were very happy. They didn’t have to buy tea from the Chinese anymore as they could plant it in their colonial lands. But they could still sell opium to the Chinese. The Chinese treasury collapsed with the one sided exchange and China descended into chaos. End product? Down the line a Communist China and a little enclave of British colonialism called Hong Kong. Admittedly, if you were in that enclave and on the other side of that nearby border you had the Cultural Revolution busily killing 70 million of its own people then you too would feel a little insular and distrustful of what was on the other side.
When Pat left university she worked in Hong Kong as an import/export agent. This involved trips to factories in Guandong Province. Her stories aren’t nice, and are echoed by those from those from her friends.
Ocean Park was indeed full of Mainlanders. Unsurprisingly, the world did not end, and anyone we met were ordinary human beings like you or I. I was glad I didn’t hear anyone that spoke Mandarin with a Beijing accent, as it sounds painful to my ears.
Ocean Park was good fun. There’s a fund ride portion and a zoo/animal show portion. We did animals first. The pandas – both the black and white kind, but also the red panda kind were their. While having reservations about whether they should be in zoos, it was totally amazing to see them. However, I suspect cultural differences affected reactions to the sea lion show, with the westerners in the audience including myself thinking the sea lion was totally degraded. The non-westerners had different notions. I’m not being critical of the non-westerners here. I suspect that if I really analysed my notions on the matter, deconstructed them and the like, they would probably be a mass of contradictory bunk. So I politely clapped at the end to, though I didn’t really enjoy it.
After lunch I reaffirmed my relationship with my testicles.
I’m really quite partial to my testicles. They are mine and are my only pair. I very much prefer them to be 1. attached to my body, and 2. going in the same direction as the rest of my body. Theme park rides challenge the second of those principles and consequently I’ve been suspicious of them all my life.
I did a few, and praised God that Indigo was too young to get on the triple 360 degree turning rollercoaster. I’m partial to the contents of my stomach too.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tuesday 15 September 2009: Flying Cows
Patrick Wong, my brother-in-law, is a really nice guy. Friendly, thoughtful, and so chilled out. He’s been chilled out all his life. This can be evidenced by an old black and white photo taken in about 1973. It features Patrick and Pat sitting on a fairground ride – one of those toy vehicles that you sit in and you put in 50c and music plays as the machine gently oscillates. In the picture Patrick can be seen looking up optimistically without a care in the world. Pat on the other hand - aged about 3 at this point - looks serious pi**ed off. She has that look about her. I learnt to recognise that look through experiencing the receiving end several times within a year of meeting her (and I still adore her!). When I first saw the picture in 1997 I literally cried with a knowing hysterical laughter. When Pat has that look she is in a seriously black mood. Paraphrasing Spinal Tap “How much more black can a mood get? None. None more black”. Luckily I don’t see that mood very often. But at 5pm today I witnessed essence de noir. More of that later.
The story of the day really began at about midday in the local Silver Café in Wah Fu estate eating corned beef and egg on ramen. The severity 8 typhoon had been a severe disappointment. I had entertained Hollywood-esque visions of cows flying past my 25th floor apartment and oil tankers being cast ashore in front of me – derring-do rescue stories. As it was the sev 8 seemed no different to severity 3 which was the status at midday. I’d experienced a severity 3 several years beforehand anyhow. Hong Kong people nonchalantly respond to a Sev 8 warning with ‘So we don’t have to go to work.’ The shops close and buses don’t run. The continual stream of container ships that pass the apartment discontinue.
That means we are apartment-bound. And Hong Kong apartments are jolly small.
And it is Indigo’s 8th birthday.
Poor girl. We’d meant to go to Ocean Park theme park the previous day but the typhoon was called. We’d spent a large amount of time in the apartment then. Now we had another day of this before us so it seemed. Indigo slumped in front of the TV for what have seemed an interminable period. Actually, she has been very, very good about it. Had a good, mature, attitude. Am very proud of her.
But at about 11am the typhoon was downgraded back to severity 3. Shops slowly opened, buses started, and the ships got going had again.
Pat and I slipped off to get our hair cut. The hairdresser in Aberdeen evidently knew Pat and was clearly rapt to see her. As she had her hair done I read my book, Alain de Botton’s “The Pleasure and Sorrows of Work’. I was reading the chapter on an artist that spent the last three years painting pictures of one particular tree. A tale of craftsmanship, obsession, and perfectionism. As my turn came up for a haircut I dwelt on this for some time. I’ve done my own hair for the past 7 years so I hadn’t been to a barber or hairdresser for a long time. The tone being set by the book I considered the hairdressers craft.
I can’t remember Pat ever having a bad haircut, but I only remember four haircuts as being particularly good, this being one of them. Each time the hairdresser was a Chinese. I guess there is some implied significance in that. Pat did really need the haircut. As bizarre as it sounds, her hair has acclimatised to Melbourne, and so reacted to the humidity of HK by beginning to impersonate a bogbrush.
I was told that the colours of my hair were really good. The cultural differences in hair aesthetics did not really translate across the divide. Neither would my thoughts on hearing this had they been verbalised.
With the rain now stopped and the typhoon waning I insisted we take Indigo out. It was her birthday, and she’d behaved well. We decided to go to the Science Museum in Tsim Tsa Tsoi on the Kowloon side. We got the bus to the museum.
To date, the Science Museum in London has been the best, though I guess the Smithsonian in Washington which we’ve not been to would probably be the world’s best. Scienceworks in Melbourne and Questacom in Canberra are both very good. What would HK’s offering to be like? I guess you need to wow your audience on first entry. Y’know, whet their appetite and stuff. So what was the first display? In proud neon we entered…wait for it….yes, the Occupational Safety section. Get the kids while they are young, eh? Jeez. What happened to rockets and strange goo? Actually, after the initial anti-climax it did get better and Indigo enjoyed it.
We left at about 5pm. Outside it was seriously, I mean, SERIOUSLY raining. Pat’s mood began to blacken, and I mean blacken. Obviously, the rain was my fault. How dare I do this to her. Even Thor decided to put up the ‘Please do not disturb’ sign and have a cig as Pat was throwing a few pointed thunderbolts in (not so) Dear Hubby’s direction.
Neither was Pat particularly grateful for the opportunity to stand in any number of puddles of all different sizes for prolonged periods of time with an umbrella. She won’t be able to do it in Melbourne y’know. How ungrateful is that?
We ended up on Nathan Road, the rain calming slightly.
At this point the story twists a little again. I’ve been to HK several times but have rarely done any of the tourist things. Yeah, I’ve been on the Star Ferry, and been up The Peak. So today’s route home afforded me the opportunity to go by some tourist things I’d never been to.
First up was Chunking Mansions. I’d always wanted to go, since watching Wong Kar Wai’s classic film ‘Chungking Express’. The desire probably had more to do with the fact that the delectable Faye Wong starred in the movie, and I wouldn’t say no to a highly improbable chance encounter. Chunking Mansions is famed for its Indian community - about 20% of people by my observation- and curries. It was very busy with lowlife. Long lines of people queuing for upstairs backpacker joints, massage parlours and presumably any number of dens of iniquity. The ground floor was a pantheon of small traders with metre wide shops selling any number of badly made dirt cheap goods. There were several attempts to hustle me. The guy that asked me if I wanted a prostitute did so with such a heavy accent I had no idea that is what he said, until Pat clarified for me (!) We left, ensuring Indigo didn’t see the rows of dildos on the shop by the exit we chose.
Only 100 metres later we were at the Peninsula Hotel. In front a Bentley parked majestically. It’s been on the wish list to get completely mulhered on the Peninsula Hotel bar since my friend Martyn Hammond told me about the pleasurable experience he had there. But standing outside all I could think of was the Bentley and how it, and the Peninsula Hotel harked back to colonial days, when Lords, Ladies, tycoons and Sherman McCoys stayed there knowing their place in the world – the superior one. The most damning thing about British colonial rule in Hong Kong is that the Hong Kong Chinese didn’t notice them go. You forget an itch quickly when it is gone. My now-deceased father-in-law was typical of his generation. He was no communist, but would rather be ruled by Chinese than anyone else, and would make money under any rule.
Got the Star Ferry across the harbour then the 4X service bus to Wah Fu. It was the first time either me or Pat paid any attention to the ads on the bus TV screen. They were worthy of comment. First, they were heavily focused on women and beauty. In the first an already skimpy cute woman is put under the knife to get a ‘HK Beauty Queen’ figure to end up on a billboard – yes, a cosmetic surgery ad for thin people to become thinner. Next a breast enlargement advert. The Chinese seem to have succumbed to the supposed (but not my) western aesthetic of big boobs are beautiful. Well, at the least the chiropractors will be kept happy. Next an advert for turtle jelly to keep the toxins out and get other women to envy your skin’s beauty. And finally, my favourite. Men, this is life changer so get your notepads ready.... Apparently women’s crotches emit a green coloured odour which creates a cloud around them wherever they go. Buy “Eve” crotch deodorant now! Well, as I’m a guy, I’ve never really had hang-ups about my rate of flatulence; but Pat, being un femme, still feels enthusiastic enough about my fom pei [Cantonese, lit. poisonous gases] to remind me when I’ve enjoyed an indiscretion. She pretends to be annoyed but I know she’s kidding really. Well, anyhow, now I can return the joke and comment on her green crotch vapour odour.
Goodnight.
The story of the day really began at about midday in the local Silver Café in Wah Fu estate eating corned beef and egg on ramen. The severity 8 typhoon had been a severe disappointment. I had entertained Hollywood-esque visions of cows flying past my 25th floor apartment and oil tankers being cast ashore in front of me – derring-do rescue stories. As it was the sev 8 seemed no different to severity 3 which was the status at midday. I’d experienced a severity 3 several years beforehand anyhow. Hong Kong people nonchalantly respond to a Sev 8 warning with ‘So we don’t have to go to work.’ The shops close and buses don’t run. The continual stream of container ships that pass the apartment discontinue.
That means we are apartment-bound. And Hong Kong apartments are jolly small.
And it is Indigo’s 8th birthday.
Poor girl. We’d meant to go to Ocean Park theme park the previous day but the typhoon was called. We’d spent a large amount of time in the apartment then. Now we had another day of this before us so it seemed. Indigo slumped in front of the TV for what have seemed an interminable period. Actually, she has been very, very good about it. Had a good, mature, attitude. Am very proud of her.
But at about 11am the typhoon was downgraded back to severity 3. Shops slowly opened, buses started, and the ships got going had again.
Pat and I slipped off to get our hair cut. The hairdresser in Aberdeen evidently knew Pat and was clearly rapt to see her. As she had her hair done I read my book, Alain de Botton’s “The Pleasure and Sorrows of Work’. I was reading the chapter on an artist that spent the last three years painting pictures of one particular tree. A tale of craftsmanship, obsession, and perfectionism. As my turn came up for a haircut I dwelt on this for some time. I’ve done my own hair for the past 7 years so I hadn’t been to a barber or hairdresser for a long time. The tone being set by the book I considered the hairdressers craft.
I can’t remember Pat ever having a bad haircut, but I only remember four haircuts as being particularly good, this being one of them. Each time the hairdresser was a Chinese. I guess there is some implied significance in that. Pat did really need the haircut. As bizarre as it sounds, her hair has acclimatised to Melbourne, and so reacted to the humidity of HK by beginning to impersonate a bogbrush.
I was told that the colours of my hair were really good. The cultural differences in hair aesthetics did not really translate across the divide. Neither would my thoughts on hearing this had they been verbalised.
With the rain now stopped and the typhoon waning I insisted we take Indigo out. It was her birthday, and she’d behaved well. We decided to go to the Science Museum in Tsim Tsa Tsoi on the Kowloon side. We got the bus to the museum.
To date, the Science Museum in London has been the best, though I guess the Smithsonian in Washington which we’ve not been to would probably be the world’s best. Scienceworks in Melbourne and Questacom in Canberra are both very good. What would HK’s offering to be like? I guess you need to wow your audience on first entry. Y’know, whet their appetite and stuff. So what was the first display? In proud neon we entered…wait for it….yes, the Occupational Safety section. Get the kids while they are young, eh? Jeez. What happened to rockets and strange goo? Actually, after the initial anti-climax it did get better and Indigo enjoyed it.
We left at about 5pm. Outside it was seriously, I mean, SERIOUSLY raining. Pat’s mood began to blacken, and I mean blacken. Obviously, the rain was my fault. How dare I do this to her. Even Thor decided to put up the ‘Please do not disturb’ sign and have a cig as Pat was throwing a few pointed thunderbolts in (not so) Dear Hubby’s direction.
Neither was Pat particularly grateful for the opportunity to stand in any number of puddles of all different sizes for prolonged periods of time with an umbrella. She won’t be able to do it in Melbourne y’know. How ungrateful is that?
We ended up on Nathan Road, the rain calming slightly.
At this point the story twists a little again. I’ve been to HK several times but have rarely done any of the tourist things. Yeah, I’ve been on the Star Ferry, and been up The Peak. So today’s route home afforded me the opportunity to go by some tourist things I’d never been to.
First up was Chunking Mansions. I’d always wanted to go, since watching Wong Kar Wai’s classic film ‘Chungking Express’. The desire probably had more to do with the fact that the delectable Faye Wong starred in the movie, and I wouldn’t say no to a highly improbable chance encounter. Chunking Mansions is famed for its Indian community - about 20% of people by my observation- and curries. It was very busy with lowlife. Long lines of people queuing for upstairs backpacker joints, massage parlours and presumably any number of dens of iniquity. The ground floor was a pantheon of small traders with metre wide shops selling any number of badly made dirt cheap goods. There were several attempts to hustle me. The guy that asked me if I wanted a prostitute did so with such a heavy accent I had no idea that is what he said, until Pat clarified for me (!) We left, ensuring Indigo didn’t see the rows of dildos on the shop by the exit we chose.
Only 100 metres later we were at the Peninsula Hotel. In front a Bentley parked majestically. It’s been on the wish list to get completely mulhered on the Peninsula Hotel bar since my friend Martyn Hammond told me about the pleasurable experience he had there. But standing outside all I could think of was the Bentley and how it, and the Peninsula Hotel harked back to colonial days, when Lords, Ladies, tycoons and Sherman McCoys stayed there knowing their place in the world – the superior one. The most damning thing about British colonial rule in Hong Kong is that the Hong Kong Chinese didn’t notice them go. You forget an itch quickly when it is gone. My now-deceased father-in-law was typical of his generation. He was no communist, but would rather be ruled by Chinese than anyone else, and would make money under any rule.
Got the Star Ferry across the harbour then the 4X service bus to Wah Fu. It was the first time either me or Pat paid any attention to the ads on the bus TV screen. They were worthy of comment. First, they were heavily focused on women and beauty. In the first an already skimpy cute woman is put under the knife to get a ‘HK Beauty Queen’ figure to end up on a billboard – yes, a cosmetic surgery ad for thin people to become thinner. Next a breast enlargement advert. The Chinese seem to have succumbed to the supposed (but not my) western aesthetic of big boobs are beautiful. Well, at the least the chiropractors will be kept happy. Next an advert for turtle jelly to keep the toxins out and get other women to envy your skin’s beauty. And finally, my favourite. Men, this is life changer so get your notepads ready.... Apparently women’s crotches emit a green coloured odour which creates a cloud around them wherever they go. Buy “Eve” crotch deodorant now! Well, as I’m a guy, I’ve never really had hang-ups about my rate of flatulence; but Pat, being un femme, still feels enthusiastic enough about my fom pei [Cantonese, lit. poisonous gases] to remind me when I’ve enjoyed an indiscretion. She pretends to be annoyed but I know she’s kidding really. Well, anyhow, now I can return the joke and comment on her green crotch vapour odour.
Goodnight.
Monday 14 September 2009: Hong Kong: G-Force and Hello Typhoon
I’m troubled by the quality of grouting in Hong Kong. It's simply not good enough. They spend heaps on high quality fixtures in shops and eateries, then stuff up on the grouting. The compensation is that Hong Kong PSV bus drivers must be the best in the world. The things they do with those buses on all those steep hills and bends, the caress of the brakes, the hugging of the curves. I wonder if it makes them good lovers?
To the outsider like me it seems that whatever it is that represents ‘sophistication’ to Hong Kong locals has changed over the years. One constant is that with real estate so uniform, small and so oppressively expensive it cannot be done via your choice of abode unless you are a tycoon.
But the advertising of off-the-plan real estate gives insight into the local mindset. I got used to new estates (i.e. new tower blocks) being called “Grovesnor Heights”, and “The Waldorf Apartments” which are invariably on rocky crags with precipitous drops as Hong Kong has no flat land. But then one day I watched the TV ad for the new apartment block whose sophistication knew no boundaries. “The Belchers” (sic) was advertised with content people sitting on soft lit balconies adjoining endless green vistas, looking into the distance to capture that marvellous view; a deft mix of the brush on easel before the daubing on palatial canvas. All true. No exaggeration at all. That was an advert circa 2003.
Hong Kong seems to have matured a little since then. Everyone can afford the latest consumer electronics so there is no point in competing there. However, western, and especially Euro things still seem to represent sophistication to the locals. The reams of fifth rate Bordeaux wine, Waitrose sausages, and Valronha concession stalls in glamorous food halls. And the English language per se. Wing Hei can recognise written English such as ‘elephant’ at 22 months of age, though I’ve not heard her say one word of Chinese.
Anyhow, the typhoon was coming in today, so we had to cancel arrangements to take Indigo to Ocean Park, or to go Tsim Tsa Joi. So we ended up at the Cyberport to watch ‘G-Force’. Enjoyed it. Ate Shanghaiese afterwards. The siu long bao were fantastic. But the show was stolen by the braised Chinese cabbage topped with top grade Chinese ham. Great stuff. Raided a supermarket on the way back and found Waitrose Cumberland sausages. Crickey! We both went into a lather on the spot. It is strange the things you end up pining for when in a new country. We really miss the English sausages from the better end of the quality spectrum. But not as much as I am pining for Melbourne coffee. The stuff here is lame.
At the MIL’s place we let Indigo choose what to eat as it is her birthday tomorrow, and she chose dzam liu food (dzam liu is the person in Chinese restaurants who roasts the meats). So we had roasted duck, belly pork and char siu. MIL did a cabbage dish with those dried prawns. I had forgotten how good they were. We drank the Frog’s Leap 2006 Napa Valley zinfandel, which was very acidic and had it not been for the fact that drinking zinfandel is a bit of a novelty for us nowadays, would have priced at AUD15 not the stupid amount we actually did pay for it at Berry Bros the previous day. Went back 'home'and polished off the 2007 Casablanca, Chilean pinot. Overrated. Hong Kong seems to specialise in sub-rate wine from all over the world.
Tonight the severity rating of the typhoon has been raised to 8.
To the outsider like me it seems that whatever it is that represents ‘sophistication’ to Hong Kong locals has changed over the years. One constant is that with real estate so uniform, small and so oppressively expensive it cannot be done via your choice of abode unless you are a tycoon.
But the advertising of off-the-plan real estate gives insight into the local mindset. I got used to new estates (i.e. new tower blocks) being called “Grovesnor Heights”, and “The Waldorf Apartments” which are invariably on rocky crags with precipitous drops as Hong Kong has no flat land. But then one day I watched the TV ad for the new apartment block whose sophistication knew no boundaries. “The Belchers” (sic) was advertised with content people sitting on soft lit balconies adjoining endless green vistas, looking into the distance to capture that marvellous view; a deft mix of the brush on easel before the daubing on palatial canvas. All true. No exaggeration at all. That was an advert circa 2003.
Hong Kong seems to have matured a little since then. Everyone can afford the latest consumer electronics so there is no point in competing there. However, western, and especially Euro things still seem to represent sophistication to the locals. The reams of fifth rate Bordeaux wine, Waitrose sausages, and Valronha concession stalls in glamorous food halls. And the English language per se. Wing Hei can recognise written English such as ‘elephant’ at 22 months of age, though I’ve not heard her say one word of Chinese.
Anyhow, the typhoon was coming in today, so we had to cancel arrangements to take Indigo to Ocean Park, or to go Tsim Tsa Joi. So we ended up at the Cyberport to watch ‘G-Force’. Enjoyed it. Ate Shanghaiese afterwards. The siu long bao were fantastic. But the show was stolen by the braised Chinese cabbage topped with top grade Chinese ham. Great stuff. Raided a supermarket on the way back and found Waitrose Cumberland sausages. Crickey! We both went into a lather on the spot. It is strange the things you end up pining for when in a new country. We really miss the English sausages from the better end of the quality spectrum. But not as much as I am pining for Melbourne coffee. The stuff here is lame.
At the MIL’s place we let Indigo choose what to eat as it is her birthday tomorrow, and she chose dzam liu food (dzam liu is the person in Chinese restaurants who roasts the meats). So we had roasted duck, belly pork and char siu. MIL did a cabbage dish with those dried prawns. I had forgotten how good they were. We drank the Frog’s Leap 2006 Napa Valley zinfandel, which was very acidic and had it not been for the fact that drinking zinfandel is a bit of a novelty for us nowadays, would have priced at AUD15 not the stupid amount we actually did pay for it at Berry Bros the previous day. Went back 'home'and polished off the 2007 Casablanca, Chilean pinot. Overrated. Hong Kong seems to specialise in sub-rate wine from all over the world.
Tonight the severity rating of the typhoon has been raised to 8.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sunday 13 September: An Orgy in Causeway Bay
First stop New Modern Vision Ltd on Jardine Crescent. Pat has been a customer since its early days 15 years ago. Iran wants a nuclear plant to get respect. North Korea fires missiles. But in Hong Kong no weapon is greater than the special discount card. And for New Modern Vision, Pat has that weapon. Pat and I each bought some glasses. Ker-ching….but not as ker-ching as tourists.
Now, let me introduce you to Xavier – otherwise affectionately known as Professor Yu – who holds a special place in my heart for being the first person to teach me foul Cantonese language…..di-u le lo mo-a: colloq, slang, abuse, lit. mother fucker…. in 1997 and getting me to unwittingly say it fluently to a horrified Pat. We met him along with several others from the gang for yum cha. Ducks feet and a couple of dishes made from pig’s trotters were notable dishes – mostly because they hardly had any meat. The buttons on the lift up to the restaurant were covered in cellophane. In fact, all buttons for lifts around Hong Kong are likewise. I feel there is a bit of a story there. Hong Kong is tropical, so people have to have reasonable hygiene to prevent infection. However, fuse this concern with Hong Kong historic insularity and culture shaped by rural notions of ‘everything is dangerous’ and you have quite a mix. I first noticed it when I visited HK after SARS struck. A culture developed of customers demanding to wash their utensils and crockery at restaurants – so low was trust in restaurant hygiene. Several years later it is now the norm. Now, with H1N1 Swine flu people have taken to covering any surface that multiple people might touch with cellophane and replacing it every day or so, rather than just wipe it down.
Next Berry Bros & Rudd where I bought a case of 2007 Dow’s vintage port en primeur (i.e. not even bottled until 2010), a bottle of premier cru Chablis, and some Napa Valley zinfandel. Two dresses, 3 work shirts, 5 footsies, one pair of stiletto shoes, a jacket, and a dress suit for Indigo later and the flow of money was now a river. In one dress in particular Pat looks ravishing. Hope she wears it on our wedding anniversary on the 24th.
We repaired to a café for two cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. I know it is meant to be the best coffee in the world, but to be honest I prefer my Lavazza. Besides, these people perculated the stuff. Living in Melbourne and its coffee culture has clearly won me over. Perculated coffee? Nah. No crema, no good.
Shopping ended with a torrential downpour and the news a typhoon was coming into Hong Kong.
Post Scriptum: It’s an easy, maybe even childish thing to make rude words and cheap laughs out of Chinese family shop names like “Fuk Yu”. I’m usually beyond all that. But yesterday on the bus home from Lin Heung we saw a cosmetics shop called ‘Dick Beauty’. Had to be worth a mention.
Now, let me introduce you to Xavier – otherwise affectionately known as Professor Yu – who holds a special place in my heart for being the first person to teach me foul Cantonese language…..di-u le lo mo-a: colloq, slang, abuse, lit. mother fucker…. in 1997 and getting me to unwittingly say it fluently to a horrified Pat. We met him along with several others from the gang for yum cha. Ducks feet and a couple of dishes made from pig’s trotters were notable dishes – mostly because they hardly had any meat. The buttons on the lift up to the restaurant were covered in cellophane. In fact, all buttons for lifts around Hong Kong are likewise. I feel there is a bit of a story there. Hong Kong is tropical, so people have to have reasonable hygiene to prevent infection. However, fuse this concern with Hong Kong historic insularity and culture shaped by rural notions of ‘everything is dangerous’ and you have quite a mix. I first noticed it when I visited HK after SARS struck. A culture developed of customers demanding to wash their utensils and crockery at restaurants – so low was trust in restaurant hygiene. Several years later it is now the norm. Now, with H1N1 Swine flu people have taken to covering any surface that multiple people might touch with cellophane and replacing it every day or so, rather than just wipe it down.
Next Berry Bros & Rudd where I bought a case of 2007 Dow’s vintage port en primeur (i.e. not even bottled until 2010), a bottle of premier cru Chablis, and some Napa Valley zinfandel. Two dresses, 3 work shirts, 5 footsies, one pair of stiletto shoes, a jacket, and a dress suit for Indigo later and the flow of money was now a river. In one dress in particular Pat looks ravishing. Hope she wears it on our wedding anniversary on the 24th.
We repaired to a café for two cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. I know it is meant to be the best coffee in the world, but to be honest I prefer my Lavazza. Besides, these people perculated the stuff. Living in Melbourne and its coffee culture has clearly won me over. Perculated coffee? Nah. No crema, no good.
Shopping ended with a torrential downpour and the news a typhoon was coming into Hong Kong.
Post Scriptum: It’s an easy, maybe even childish thing to make rude words and cheap laughs out of Chinese family shop names like “Fuk Yu”. I’m usually beyond all that. But yesterday on the bus home from Lin Heung we saw a cosmetics shop called ‘Dick Beauty’. Had to be worth a mention.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Sunday 13 September: Ready, set go...shopping
Hong Kong may do concrete better than anyone else, but it - or at least the Wong family - doesn't do built-in showers so well. I always forget about this inconvenience in life until I am faced with my mother-in law's designer shower with the head installed at the height of my nipples. While European medieval philosophers concerned themselves with debates on how many angels could stand on the head of a pin, I have more lowly needs. How to crouch down under a shower head and turn to get to the soap at ground level without pushing my posterior beyond the ill fitted shower curtain and flooding the room? Answers on a postcard, please. This time around we slept at Patrick and Wen's apartment. The shower here had no curtain whatsoever, and a thin sodden flannelette for a bath mat. I spent the next 10 minutes showering the room, with water occasionally splashing me.
My ablutions complete I returned the travel bed in the lounge where Pat surprised me on her waking. She normally has two modes of waking. One, reserved for weekends means waking at 10am and saying 'so tired' before disappearing for 20 minutes to do mysterious things in private that the male is not allowed to know about. Or there is work mode which means getting up 40 minutes after me, with an unaspirated 'Don't talk to me, Fucker, I'm not a morning person' and walking past me as though I am not there. As I am very much a morning person, the boost to my ego this renders has cultured me into getting out of the house within 40 minutes to seek solace in my car stereo turned up to ear splitting proportions and making my way to work. So when she woke at 7am and was calm and chatty I could only conclude the day was going to be different. And, yes, I thought I knew why. The orgy of shopping that was about to begin could be credit card melting. And I am a willing participant.
My ablutions complete I returned the travel bed in the lounge where Pat surprised me on her waking. She normally has two modes of waking. One, reserved for weekends means waking at 10am and saying 'so tired' before disappearing for 20 minutes to do mysterious things in private that the male is not allowed to know about. Or there is work mode which means getting up 40 minutes after me, with an unaspirated 'Don't talk to me, Fucker, I'm not a morning person' and walking past me as though I am not there. As I am very much a morning person, the boost to my ego this renders has cultured me into getting out of the house within 40 minutes to seek solace in my car stereo turned up to ear splitting proportions and making my way to work. So when she woke at 7am and was calm and chatty I could only conclude the day was going to be different. And, yes, I thought I knew why. The orgy of shopping that was about to begin could be credit card melting. And I am a willing participant.
Saturday 12 September 2009: Welcome to Hong Kong
There are five smells that I can evoke in my mind. The first, being my socks after a day of use, is not one I am fond to recall. Wine is the second and no surprise to anyone that knows me. Newly laid tarmac – divinely good, and my third. Fourth, the smell at the platform of a London Underground station – well, I’m a Londoner birth and its very evocative for me. After I moved away to the Midlands as a kiddie the day trips to London always started in my heart when I got to the first platform of the Tube. And last, Hong Kong...all of it.
The ‘Hong’ in Hong Kong is actually a corruption of Cantonese heung which means fragrant. While HK airport has a smell, the heung only really kicks in when I reach open air at the exit doors. For years I content to simply associate this heung in a nebulous but positive way with Hong Kong and all the treats it offers. I like being in Hong Kong. However, in 2001 my in-laws did their one and only visit to my home, which at the time happened to be in south London. They did their laundry one day, and I arrived home from work to a smell I concluded was Hong Kong. Since then, it has, and still is, disconcerting to mentally associate an entire city with laundry.
28C at 7am in the morning and the first thing to hit is the humidity. I was expecting this. 28C in a humid place feels hotter and more uncomfortable than in a less humid place such as Melbourne. Patrick, my brother-in-law greeted us at the airport and got us taxied to my mother-in-laws in Wah Kwai estate on Hong Kong Island.
There are three facts to know about Hong Kong. First, it is the busiest port in the world – a homage to the container (in 1960 London was the world’s busiest port but the Thames could not handle the depth of ever enlarging container ships). Second, it is the world’s most densely populated city: 6 million people in a shoebox. And third, Hong Kong people have only one solution to a problem: concrete. It is everywhere. If it can’t be solved with concrete than it can’t really be a problem.
A rite of passage travelling from the airport is to determine what has changed since last being there over four years ago. A new town now exists on Lantau Island that wasn’t there last time I visited. The apartment blocks are ever higher. In the late 1990’s the standard height of HK’s new apartment blocks was 35 storeys. Now it is 55, according to Patrick, who is a civil engineering project manager – so should know.By Hong Kong standards Wah Kwai Estate is older, having been built in the 1980’s. Apparently it is ‘middle class’ which I take on trust. Applying western standards of ‘showing’ oneself to be middle class is not possible. How often have you said ‘that concrete is so middle class'.
At the apartment I caught first sight of my only niece, Wing Hei. She’s getting on for 2 years old. It occurred to me how Chinese she was in attitude already. Quiet rather than rowdy. Observing-and-evaluating rather than doing-and-ruining. Nice kid. The apartment had been reorganised, now only having one TV in the lounge instead of two. A sofa had been removed to make way for kiddie toys. Wen and Patrick had obviously made a big thing about teaching Wing Hei English as there were English language labels on objects: table, door, window.
I knew in advance that Wing Hei would be phased by a big gwai-lo guy smelling of butter (to Chinese people Westerners have a strong body odour of butter due to the fact that Chinese traditionally don’t eat dairy produce. Our propensity to dairy comes out through our pores). Her shock was expected, she simply hasn't met a gwai-lo. For all Hong Kong people make a point of pride of it being East Meets West, it is very easy to avoid the West in HK, and for me much more enjoyable when we do. Wah Kwai is very much a locals area. No westerners here. I get stared at all the time. Quite enjoy it.
Got brekkie at a dai pai dong café in Wah Fu estate. Warmed pineapple bun with a slab of butter melting instead, iced coffee made with condensed milk, and a bowl of macaroni in soup with satay beef strips. Cost? Two aussie dollars.
Getting provisions
When I first went to Hong Kong I heard anti-supermarket stories. Better to go to the market they said. Better the culture of small traders they said. But over time this has changed. People getting sick of being ripped off by a small trader, or poor product. Better the consistency of the supermarket. In 10 years time they'll be mourning the demise of the small trader. So into Wellcome supermarket in Wah Fu we went. First thing to find was coffee, and a pang of patriotism as I saw Robert Timms expresso coffee there. Actually it was the only choice, and I would have preferred Lavazza anyhow. I noted that Euro goods were proudly marked out with a flag of the country of origin. I saw our Tim Tams. Hoorah! But no flag. The Union Jack displayed proudly by the Hob Nobs - not seen by my eyes in over four years. Had to buy them, along with the infamous Great Wall cabernet sauvignon. Pat's Achilles Heel is crackers and savoury biscuits. The aisles of Chinese crackers sent her into a spin. We left poorer, but happier.
At 7pm we made off the eat by catching the number 4 bus from Wah Fu to Sheung Wan via the ritually tortuous winding streets. The service buses are fitted with TVs to increase advertising opportunities. Sheung Wan is still full of shops selling dried fish and meat and other dried foodstuffs.
At my request our destination was Lin Heung (http://www.linheung.com). My father-in-law took us there several years ago and I greatly enjoyed what I now know to be really old fashioned Cantonese cuisine. I had asked to return.
We were in a new branch of it, where we met Man-gor, Yi-dje and Dzi-Man. Lin Heung seemed suspiciously clean, but there were reassuring omens in the hand scrawled menus on the wall, the sheer volume levels of the clientele, and the French toilet. My mother-in-law had pre-ordered eight treasures duck. The meal started well and never lowered its standard. A small slab of liver on top of an equally sized slab of pure fat, atop a slab of Chinese ham. Gorgeous. The baked eggs with fish belly was interesting but not mind-blowing. The show was stolen by a delightful winter melon soup cooked with a frogs legs stock. Balanced, mild and delectable.
Wine Tasting: Great Wall 2007, Cabernet Sauvignon (HKD39), China
Well I had too, it's a rite of passage. Almost no nose, but a slight hint of sourness. A taste - yuk - acidic and somewhat unpleasant. Bring out the Hawkes Bay merlot we held in reserve. Still, Great Wall was light years better than the Bass Phillip Village I drank in Bendigo earlier in the year.
Friday 11 September 2009: The Flight
Guess what, Pat insisted we use the opportunity afforded to us of being able to board the place especially early so that it is we that are now the suckers who stayed in our sardine seats an extra half hour more than everyone else. :-(
A brief tour of the features of the plane suggested several reforms mostly in gadgetry. However, one feature that that stayed the same was my abject ability to get one wink of sleep on an overnight long haul flight. I did manage 2 hours within the 9 hour flight. I’d taken my new PMP player and having listened to some of Bach’s cello concertos, watched Waltz with Bashir – an Israeli cartoon about a man who could not remember his involvement as a soldier with the massacres at Sabra & Shatila. The ending was very moving indeed. My eyes filled with tears. The well of emotion was broken as Indigo power-vomited next to me.
A brief tour of the features of the plane suggested several reforms mostly in gadgetry. However, one feature that that stayed the same was my abject ability to get one wink of sleep on an overnight long haul flight. I did manage 2 hours within the 9 hour flight. I’d taken my new PMP player and having listened to some of Bach’s cello concertos, watched Waltz with Bashir – an Israeli cartoon about a man who could not remember his involvement as a soldier with the massacres at Sabra & Shatila. The ending was very moving indeed. My eyes filled with tears. The well of emotion was broken as Indigo power-vomited next to me.
Friday 11 September 2009: Melbourne to Hong Kong - Airport and the End of the Idea
Airports and shopping malls are said to evoke the zeitgeist of the 20th century. The parallels in their contrariness struck me. We intend to enter shopping malls for a short periods only, but spend an age as we delight in an endless processing of material delights. Airports by contrast portend to offer speed, and instead put us through prolonged psychological torture.
And for some reason were are meant to delight in airports. The light and air of Norman Foster's Hong Kong airport - my destination - with graceful and pleasurable curve hiding from us fiendish complexity of systems in security, logistics?oh, and sewerage. But the most talented, cunning and evil of minds had already left their imprint upon the modern world before Norm' got there. Yes, the people that designed zer travel process.
Think about it. The basis point of the design is really a basic interrogation technique: good cop, bad cop. In good cop, bad cop the suspect never says a useful word to the bad cop, instead after a little roughing up, opening their soul to the good cop, leeching their secrets away. There are iterations of good, bad, good, bad, the bad sapping the will progressively until suspect is reduced to a being of no interest. Totally dehumanised. The founding principle of air travel is this very one. But whoever designed it was more malign - (s)he didn't stop at the basic GCBC. To design something so demonic with these refinements our person must have lived and observed a deeply cruel society, and must too have seen Chinese water torture. I figure it must have been a colonial Brit, a product of the savage English private schooling system, maybe in the 1930s, living in a warlord era China, observing the play-off being Nationalist and communist while invaders imposed ever more preposterous rule. Maybe airports were really invented by Somerset Maughan or JG Ballard.
So consider it. You enter the airport hours before the flight, and are lulled into a soporific boredom as you await the check-in counter to open. A flash of excitement ?check-in, then more boredom. Passing through immigration a rush of adrenelin. The boredom of duty free shopping being offered a selection of goods you never wanted but are forced now to contemplate as a prospective purchase might awake you from slumber. Shopped out you wait at the departure gate. Boredom. Boredom. (Fanfar) Joy of joy. The gate will open in 10 minutes. Can I contain myself? Some can't - they get too excited. They break the monotony of the lounge wait by getting up immediately and queue to get on the plane first, for the privilege of being in the sardine can of a plane for 9 hours and twenty minutes, instead of my 9 hours. Well done. Hell, I won't even have started on the in-flight magazine before they've gone stir crazy.
But the airport is a rarefied moment when you are forced to move from the enjoyment of the Idea or the Dream of the holiday, to having to deal with the Reality of the holiday. Often the Idea is better. I'd been variously enjoying and fretting on the Idea for my holiday since booking it 10 months earlier. Four countries - 'I'm jealous' say work colleagues sometimes sincerely, sometimes because that is what decorum mandates being said. A villa in France - aaah! London - eeeh! My first stop, Hong Kong seemed uncomplicated. Nice buzzing loud place, in a small flat, will eat lots and buy spectacles. Had stuffed up the flight bookings for Paris leaving us with only one day. But will be good to be there. Villa in Biarritz; all my family together - what a privilege. In regional France too. Great. Hope Mum brings a Scrabble set. Hope there are no arguments. Spain; un-fucking-believable Frank Gehry designed hotel in La Rioja, a wine region the produces my favourite wine in all the world, near the town of Logrono which has Spain's best tapas. And then there is England. England. Oh crap, the Idea of England does my head in. Spent 35 years of his life there, never disliked it, don't now. Actually quite liked it. But I'd totally lost between being tourist and doing something called 'visiting home' apparently as 'a native'. Has it changed, or have I? The prospect is actually quite confronting. What will the reality be? Dunno. Must admit to completely screwed in the head over it all. And we made the English stay too short. Thought the main point of the holiday was family time, and that was Hong Kong and France. England was meant to be short and easy. Meet the Croydon bunch one night and see if they give me a sledging over The Ashes or my accent, see our London friends another night, show Indigo Big Ben, Tower Bridge, British Museum and the London Eye, get bagels from Brick Lane and eat at Club Gascon. Go home to Australia. More people wanted a bit of us than we bargained for. In one sense we were charmed, but maybe on the precipice of keeping nobody happy in trying to keep everybody happy. Just prior to leaving we changed plans. Our four days in London have been halved as wee now driving up to Yorkshire. Actually can't wait for my mum's roast beef, and my dad's lasagne
So here in the airport lounge the idea of the holiday dies, and I go forth to meet my reality.
Post Scriptum: The Flight
Guess what, Pat insisted we use the opportunity afforded to us by having a Indigo with us of being able to board the place especially early so that it is we that are now the suckers who stayed in our sardine seats an extra half hour more than everyone else :(
A brief tour of the features of the plane suggested several reforms mostly in gadgetry. However, one feature that that stayed the same was my abject ability to get one wink of sleep on an overnight long haul flight. I did manage 2 hours within the 9 hour flight. I'd taken my new PMP player and having listened to some of Bach's cello concertos, watched Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli cartoon about a man who could not remember his involvement as a soldier with the massacres at Sabra & Shatila. The ending was very moving indeed. My eyes filled with tears. The well of emotion was broken as Indigo power-vomited next to me.
And for some reason were are meant to delight in airports. The light and air of Norman Foster's Hong Kong airport - my destination - with graceful and pleasurable curve hiding from us fiendish complexity of systems in security, logistics?oh, and sewerage. But the most talented, cunning and evil of minds had already left their imprint upon the modern world before Norm' got there. Yes, the people that designed zer travel process.
Think about it. The basis point of the design is really a basic interrogation technique: good cop, bad cop. In good cop, bad cop the suspect never says a useful word to the bad cop, instead after a little roughing up, opening their soul to the good cop, leeching their secrets away. There are iterations of good, bad, good, bad, the bad sapping the will progressively until suspect is reduced to a being of no interest. Totally dehumanised. The founding principle of air travel is this very one. But whoever designed it was more malign - (s)he didn't stop at the basic GCBC. To design something so demonic with these refinements our person must have lived and observed a deeply cruel society, and must too have seen Chinese water torture. I figure it must have been a colonial Brit, a product of the savage English private schooling system, maybe in the 1930s, living in a warlord era China, observing the play-off being Nationalist and communist while invaders imposed ever more preposterous rule. Maybe airports were really invented by Somerset Maughan or JG Ballard.
So consider it. You enter the airport hours before the flight, and are lulled into a soporific boredom as you await the check-in counter to open. A flash of excitement ?check-in, then more boredom. Passing through immigration a rush of adrenelin. The boredom of duty free shopping being offered a selection of goods you never wanted but are forced now to contemplate as a prospective purchase might awake you from slumber. Shopped out you wait at the departure gate. Boredom. Boredom. (Fanfar) Joy of joy. The gate will open in 10 minutes. Can I contain myself? Some can't - they get too excited. They break the monotony of the lounge wait by getting up immediately and queue to get on the plane first, for the privilege of being in the sardine can of a plane for 9 hours and twenty minutes, instead of my 9 hours. Well done. Hell, I won't even have started on the in-flight magazine before they've gone stir crazy.
But the airport is a rarefied moment when you are forced to move from the enjoyment of the Idea or the Dream of the holiday, to having to deal with the Reality of the holiday. Often the Idea is better. I'd been variously enjoying and fretting on the Idea for my holiday since booking it 10 months earlier. Four countries - 'I'm jealous' say work colleagues sometimes sincerely, sometimes because that is what decorum mandates being said. A villa in France - aaah! London - eeeh! My first stop, Hong Kong seemed uncomplicated. Nice buzzing loud place, in a small flat, will eat lots and buy spectacles. Had stuffed up the flight bookings for Paris leaving us with only one day. But will be good to be there. Villa in Biarritz; all my family together - what a privilege. In regional France too. Great. Hope Mum brings a Scrabble set. Hope there are no arguments. Spain; un-fucking-believable Frank Gehry designed hotel in La Rioja, a wine region the produces my favourite wine in all the world, near the town of Logrono which has Spain's best tapas. And then there is England. England. Oh crap, the Idea of England does my head in. Spent 35 years of his life there, never disliked it, don't now. Actually quite liked it. But I'd totally lost between being tourist and doing something called 'visiting home' apparently as 'a native'. Has it changed, or have I? The prospect is actually quite confronting. What will the reality be? Dunno. Must admit to completely screwed in the head over it all. And we made the English stay too short. Thought the main point of the holiday was family time, and that was Hong Kong and France. England was meant to be short and easy. Meet the Croydon bunch one night and see if they give me a sledging over The Ashes or my accent, see our London friends another night, show Indigo Big Ben, Tower Bridge, British Museum and the London Eye, get bagels from Brick Lane and eat at Club Gascon. Go home to Australia. More people wanted a bit of us than we bargained for. In one sense we were charmed, but maybe on the precipice of keeping nobody happy in trying to keep everybody happy. Just prior to leaving we changed plans. Our four days in London have been halved as wee now driving up to Yorkshire. Actually can't wait for my mum's roast beef, and my dad's lasagne
So here in the airport lounge the idea of the holiday dies, and I go forth to meet my reality.
Post Scriptum: The Flight
Guess what, Pat insisted we use the opportunity afforded to us by having a Indigo with us of being able to board the place especially early so that it is we that are now the suckers who stayed in our sardine seats an extra half hour more than everyone else :(
A brief tour of the features of the plane suggested several reforms mostly in gadgetry. However, one feature that that stayed the same was my abject ability to get one wink of sleep on an overnight long haul flight. I did manage 2 hours within the 9 hour flight. I'd taken my new PMP player and having listened to some of Bach's cello concertos, watched Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli cartoon about a man who could not remember his involvement as a soldier with the massacres at Sabra & Shatila. The ending was very moving indeed. My eyes filled with tears. The well of emotion was broken as Indigo power-vomited next to me.
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