The flight to Samoa was unremarkable, mostly because I was asleep throughout: we left Auckland at 7.30am, meaning that I was up at 4.30 and so was glad of the opportunity to catch up on sleep for the duration of the 4 hour flight. On arrival, the time was exactly what it would have been in Auckland, save that instead of being 13 hours ahead of GMT, we were now 11 hours behind: I had gained a day, and could live the 12th of March 2008 all over again.
Upon my landing in Samoa, I was approached by a customs officer who cheerfully informed me that they are trying to train up their drug sniffer dog – would I mind having some cocaine or crystal meth (it was unclear whether I was allowed a choice of class A drug) placed somewhere about my person and then waiting in line for customs clearance? The dog would then attempt to sniff me out.
Now: there are a number of reasons why a lone traveler, raised by his parents and circumstances to be suspicious of bureaucrats, waiting at the very back of a line (I had not filled out my landing declaration due to being asleep) to clear customs in a country 17,000 kilometres away from home might not want to have a quantity of drugs doubtless sufficient to be convicted of intent to supply (and thus carrying a maximum sentence of life imprisonment in a Samoan jail) placed on one's person without any friendly witnesses in the vicinity. The bizarre flimsiness of the explanation for the way in which the drugs ended up in my pocket would not help matters (why not train dogs using paid actors? police officers? inanimate bags belonging to the police?). “Are you completely f-ing insane?” seemed to sum up most of the reasons in one pithy word-burst, though I diplomatically restrained myself and limited my reply to pointing out that, although I had never been to the West Coast, I had been reliably informed that the sniffer dogs at LAX are sufficiently trained on volunteers (in all senses of the word) to make it undesirable for me to attempt to clear US customs in a few days' time carrying (by definition discernible) traces of coke either on my bag or my clothes. While I would presumably not be beaten (since I am not black), I would at least be guaranteed a cavity search from LA's finest, something I am (again, I must admit, through hearsay only) keen to avoid.
To his credit, the Samoan customs officer did not show by his facial expression whether he thought me unduly picky in matters of hands-in-bum searches by police, but moved on to find another victim (for those that care: he found one, traveling with his girlfriend; the dog found the drugs and it was all entirely legit; none of this makes me think that I was wrong to have declined the offer).
After this welcome and a rather thorough grilling from customs (“How long are you here for? Are you here on holiday?” “No, I have come from the UK with my British passport to live out my days sponging off the Samoan welfare system”), I was finally in the airport, to be surrounded by a thousand taxi-drivers, none of whom would take “no” for an answer. I was unsure whether I needed a cab – I had, stupidly, not researched whether there are other ways of getting into Apia, the capital – but after saying “no” twelve times, I was sure as hell going to walk rather than use one of the cab drivers that surrounded me. In the end, I did need one, and found a sufficiently quiet one in the corner to take me there (I do not doubt that this lesson in obstinate Western psychology and PR was entirely wasted on all present).
In Apia, I had about 90 minutes to kill before the transfer bus from my resort picked me up, so I used the time to have a quick look round the city (thankfully, I could leave my suitcase at the Tourist Information Desk, towering like a wardrobe over the ergonomic and well-travelled back-packs of my fellow travellers). The city is not huge and the main street runs parallel to the (northern) coast of the main island, where Apia stands. Apia has three fewer obvious landmarks than Auckland – though the people are very friendly and the flea market is fascinating (though once only) and the food market, behind it, plentiful. The supermarkets, although badly lit and drab, have pretty much everything one could need: instead of 12 brands of washing powder they have 2, but it's certainly enough. The usual third-world rule of “if a restaurant's door is open, it means that they're open and welcoming – but have no aircon” applies here as well, with the proviso that “if a restaurant's door is locked, they are open and welcoming of Westerners, have aircon and beautiful bathrooms”.
The resort where I am staying (the “Virgin Cove”, doubtless named by a Freudian) is actually on the other side of the island and the transfer there took a good hour. My fale (“hut”) is right on the beach (“one of the top thirty beaches in the world”, according to “Islands” magazine (“Islands”??)) and costs me the princely sum of £28 per night, half board (this is a superior, “secluded” fale; I could have got away with £25). It is the best value that anything has ever been. True, one needs to GET to Samoa, and should be rewarded once one has done so (it is certainly the most remote place I have ever been in – or am likely to find myself in in the near future – I hope), but even so. At high tide, the beach is two metres from my porch. The sun is unfailing. The water is a clear blue, with the reef against which the waves break just visible on the horizon (there be tiger sharks there, too – but not in the lagoon), providing enough wave action on the shore to be interesting, but never really enough to be too boisterous for bathing. The only slight complaint is the wind, which is – although not overly strong (not strong enough to lift sand off the beach, for example) is pretty constant throughout the day and wholly absent at night. That said, I suspect that it is only this that makes the 30+ degree heat bearable and quite pleasant.
The food is somewhat remarkable in its boringness: the fruit is always fresh, but that's about it. Given the presence of a number of types of free fish in the sea, which could be simply and superbly grilled every day and night without a word of complaint from all present, it seems odd that we're served overcooked (pre-frozen?) tuna and dull (though fresh) chicken. Still - £28. While I would happily pay more for better, I don't (other than here) grumble. I have spent three days in the company of Gore Vidal and Bryan Appleyard (and it's quite a menage...) and am toying with the idea of letting Thomas Pynchon join in. I am doing no sightseeing. I move to the beach, splash about in the sea, and languidly move back to my hut (inside: double bed (foam mattress), mosquito net, plywood locker with padlock. Two light bulbs and one power point (and only by virtue of my fale's seclusion - the cheaper ones have no electricity). C'est tout. The walls are actually blinds oven of palm-tree leaves, to be lowered or raised at will.)
**
After a pause in the narrative, it is now the last evening in Samoa (or, rather, MY last evening). Went to Robert Louis Stevenson's house and grave this morning – interesting, though I am forced to make some observations for those that will be tasked with arranging my final resting place:
1)Try and balance the importance of having a view against the difficulties that the climb is likely to cause those wishing to pay homage. One does not necessarily want to make it TOO easy, but one also doesn't want them to arrive at graveside sweaty, top off, dehydrated, covered in mud and with shoes requiring resoling. Hypothetically. It's not dignified.
2)Generally on the subject of accessibility – if you go to the lengths of situating the place more than a few thousand miles from the nearest town of over 50,000 people, dispense with the hill. Really – if they want to visit THAT much, they must have earned it.
3)If you DO bury me on a hill, perhaps do not inscribe the tomb with any couplet ending “the hunter is home from the hill”.
4)Minimalist is good. Carrara marble is better.
Tuesday 18 March 2008
Auckland
And that brings us almost up to date at the time of writing (i sit on the beach in Samoa as I type, pathetically squinting at the screen through sunglasses , trying to decipher what it is I have written on a screen rendered almost black by the sun): my last New Zealand stop was in Auckland, which is as Vancouveresque as Christchurch was Adelaidian. As with all cities that are fundamentally not geared towards pedestrians, it took me a while to get my bearings (Drus kindly picked me up from the airport and drove me around, which meant that on the rare occasions I walked, I was completely baffled), an effect conclusively amplified by the fact that Auckland is built on a number of hills and distances and directions are thus doubly difficult to gauge: what seems to be only a few hundred metres away to the left is actually best reached by taking a kilometre-long road straight ahead, and so forth.
The city is proudly home to only a few landmarks: the syringe-like Skycity Tower (“the tallest in the southern hemisphere”), the Harbour Bridge (none of the solid grace of Sydney's coat-hanger, but impressive in the way that all long bridges are) and the very-modern All Saints cathedral are perhaps the most obvious. Auckland is also a far more stylish place than Christchurch or Queenstown (or, dare I say it, Sydney?) if one knows where to look; some of the styles on offer are not the author's (some great takes on streetwear, some interesting twists on post-Japanese-goth), but they're present nonetheless. The High Street area specifically has a number of shops of interest – though one suspects that by the time the reader is next there, this may be at least rivaled (if not overtaken) by the surging might of the Britomart district.
Almost straight from the airport, Drus drove me down to the fantastic beach at Piha, which was a bit of a drive, but entirely worth it: a rare combination of waves as tall as yours truly breaking on a sandy beach, meaning that one could joyfully exhaust oneself jumping into them, getting thrown about and so forth, all without any risk of death or paralysis by reef or rock. this was really as great an introduction to Auckland and its environs as one can imagine, and I still smile at the memory.
Auckland is also home to the Auckland War Memorial Museum, which functions brilliantly both as war memorial (I don't know who visits the Cenotaph more than once a year at the very very most; what better way to remember than by visiting something that has other, legitimate, uses?) and a museum (three distinct floors: New Zealand in wars, Natural History and The Maori People and Their History). The Natural History Floor cheerfully informs one that Auckland will be completely obliterated by a volcanic eruption in the next thousand years or so (“though it could happen any day”), the War History floor is interesting, but I'm afraid not compared to equivalents in London. The Maori floor is fascinating, in terms of the history, the examples of arts and crafts and the reconstructions and details that have gone into the exhibits. Architecturally, the new Atrium is also rather fantastic. To top it all off, the Souvenir Shop (if one can call it that – some of the souvenirs run into the thousands of dollars) is by far the best one that I have found anywhere in New Zealand and, come to think of it, might be one of the best in the world: genuinely beautifully made ceramics, carvings (bone, wood, jade), indigenous feathered capes that look like something McQueen might have made (did make, with his red ostrich-feather dress of 2005, if memory serves) – as well as rather smaller, simpler items, though all superbly sourced. I have no idea if it is as usual to pass on compliments to a shop's buyer as it is to a restaurant's chef, but I certainly did.
The city is proudly home to only a few landmarks: the syringe-like Skycity Tower (“the tallest in the southern hemisphere”), the Harbour Bridge (none of the solid grace of Sydney's coat-hanger, but impressive in the way that all long bridges are) and the very-modern All Saints cathedral are perhaps the most obvious. Auckland is also a far more stylish place than Christchurch or Queenstown (or, dare I say it, Sydney?) if one knows where to look; some of the styles on offer are not the author's (some great takes on streetwear, some interesting twists on post-Japanese-goth), but they're present nonetheless. The High Street area specifically has a number of shops of interest – though one suspects that by the time the reader is next there, this may be at least rivaled (if not overtaken) by the surging might of the Britomart district.
Almost straight from the airport, Drus drove me down to the fantastic beach at Piha, which was a bit of a drive, but entirely worth it: a rare combination of waves as tall as yours truly breaking on a sandy beach, meaning that one could joyfully exhaust oneself jumping into them, getting thrown about and so forth, all without any risk of death or paralysis by reef or rock. this was really as great an introduction to Auckland and its environs as one can imagine, and I still smile at the memory.
Auckland is also home to the Auckland War Memorial Museum, which functions brilliantly both as war memorial (I don't know who visits the Cenotaph more than once a year at the very very most; what better way to remember than by visiting something that has other, legitimate, uses?) and a museum (three distinct floors: New Zealand in wars, Natural History and The Maori People and Their History). The Natural History Floor cheerfully informs one that Auckland will be completely obliterated by a volcanic eruption in the next thousand years or so (“though it could happen any day”), the War History floor is interesting, but I'm afraid not compared to equivalents in London. The Maori floor is fascinating, in terms of the history, the examples of arts and crafts and the reconstructions and details that have gone into the exhibits. Architecturally, the new Atrium is also rather fantastic. To top it all off, the Souvenir Shop (if one can call it that – some of the souvenirs run into the thousands of dollars) is by far the best one that I have found anywhere in New Zealand and, come to think of it, might be one of the best in the world: genuinely beautifully made ceramics, carvings (bone, wood, jade), indigenous feathered capes that look like something McQueen might have made (did make, with his red ostrich-feather dress of 2005, if memory serves) – as well as rather smaller, simpler items, though all superbly sourced. I have no idea if it is as usual to pass on compliments to a shop's buyer as it is to a restaurant's chef, but I certainly did.
Christchurch
Christchurch is like Adelaide. I was warned of this – not entirely disagreeable – fact by tourists in Queenstown (I was not told of the prohibitive costs of taxis though) and New Zealand's second-largest city entirely lived-up to the comparison (I am told that Adelaide is also, appropriately, its sister-city). Christchurch is also meant to be “the most English town outside of England”. I am not sure who comes up with these pithy monikers, but he's a bit hit-and-miss: other than having borrowed pretty much every place-name from the Old Country, it struck me as being in no way Albion-like: the grid-streets, the explicitly-Australianesque terraces of houses and shops, the non-English modern architecture, the most-un-English river (called Avon, but far more picturesque than its name-sake – and more cleanly so than the Cherwell or the Cam, which both have stretches of overgrown dankness, whereas the antipodean Avon contends itself with a few well-spaced willows and other such delights. It's picture-book-England, but not England as-is).
Which is not to say that it isn't a lovely town – it has a lovely gallery (pretty collection of pre- 19th century art: nothing headline grabbing, no Caravaggios or even Cimabues here – but then one exepcts none – but some nice European landscapes and New Zealand portraits and, occasionally, vice versa), some superb restaurants (the Dryden-recommended Cookn' with Gas, despite its demented name, was a highlight) and even the odd nice shop (look up Plume if you're ever there – a mix of the New Zealand-designed Nom*d and Zambesi with the more familiar though surprisingly leftfield Dries van Noten and Mrtin Margiela; why the Antwerpers should sell particularly well here is a bit of a mystery). The only gay club in the city is typically provincial, in a “where everybody knows everybody's name – and what they look like naked” way.
I also spent a day doing the Tranz Alpine, a train that crosses the local Alps – and, indeed, the South Island (one soon gets the sense that, to the extent that people were exiled here, it was for lack of imagination more than anything else) daily, first from East to West and then, an hour later, the other way. The terminals are less remarkable (especially Greymouth, on the appropriately named River Grey in the West) than the journey in the middle (“one of the top six train journeys in the world”, the phantom moniker-maker informs us; one assumes that “ten” was felt to be too many to be interesting and “three” too contentious to be believed). It is certainly picturesque, with valleys, gorges, rivers and hills aplenty. Again, sit-down tourism of the best kind.
Which is not to say that it isn't a lovely town – it has a lovely gallery (pretty collection of pre- 19th century art: nothing headline grabbing, no Caravaggios or even Cimabues here – but then one exepcts none – but some nice European landscapes and New Zealand portraits and, occasionally, vice versa), some superb restaurants (the Dryden-recommended Cookn' with Gas, despite its demented name, was a highlight) and even the odd nice shop (look up Plume if you're ever there – a mix of the New Zealand-designed Nom*d and Zambesi with the more familiar though surprisingly leftfield Dries van Noten and Mrtin Margiela; why the Antwerpers should sell particularly well here is a bit of a mystery). The only gay club in the city is typically provincial, in a “where everybody knows everybody's name – and what they look like naked” way.
I also spent a day doing the Tranz Alpine, a train that crosses the local Alps – and, indeed, the South Island (one soon gets the sense that, to the extent that people were exiled here, it was for lack of imagination more than anything else) daily, first from East to West and then, an hour later, the other way. The terminals are less remarkable (especially Greymouth, on the appropriately named River Grey in the West) than the journey in the middle (“one of the top six train journeys in the world”, the phantom moniker-maker informs us; one assumes that “ten” was felt to be too many to be interesting and “three” too contentious to be believed). It is certainly picturesque, with valleys, gorges, rivers and hills aplenty. Again, sit-down tourism of the best kind.
Queenstown
The thing I desperately needed after Sydney – what everyone desperately needed, as they flew off to beaches and retreats all around the region that week – was rest, and Queenstown was to provide at least some of that. I was met by Jan, the owner of what can loosely be termed a “bed and breakfast” in which I was staying – loosely because, although they provided me with a bed and with breakfast, she and her husband Martin also provided me with afternoon drinks, rides into town, pleasant company and one of the best views that I have ever enjoyed. The weather was gorgeous if somewhat chilly, with not a cloud in the sky and the view over Lake Wakatipu, toward the Remarkables mountain range, completely unobstructed. Queenstown being the self-proclaimed “world capital of adventure”, I promptly booked myself in for a sky-dive from 12,000 feet the next morning and went for dinner (good, though from a distance of two weeks, unremarkable).
The next morning was miserable and my freefall-in-the-sky was first postponed and then canceled altogether. I spent most of the day dozing and looking at the view, still majestic (more majestic?) because of the now omnipresent clouds. I also managed to get myself a table at a restaurant that had been recommended to me by Fabian in Sydney (“it's got a weight on the back of the door, that goes up and down as the door opens and closes” was how he described it, and I now know exactly what he meant). The highlight of the meal was the slow-cooked lamb, which was perfectly done and indecently good – indecent both because there sometimes remains, even in an atheist, a residual feeling that Something This Good Must Be Bad, and because the meat fell away from the bone of the shank so easily as to suggest nothing so much as a coital, rather than anatomical, connection between the two – certainly more than “just good friends”, but perhaps not quite “married couple”. Whether because of this image, or its own melt-in-the-mouth virtues, it was sublime. As so often in such cases, the restaurant went on to completely fuck it up by serving cheese that would have been mediocre had it not been seemingly kept in a freezer prior to meeting me – little squares of frigid pasteurised plastic that might as well have been the prophylactic remains of the sensuous lamb coupling of the course before.
There is a choice that all first-time visitors to Queenstown must make: visit Milford Sound or Doubtful Sound? Most choose the former, though I am not sure why: the latter has by far the better name (though its origins are dull: Captain Cook thought it doubtful that if he sailed down it, he would manage to sail back out to sea. Before I found this out, I had images of sailors long-dead making doubtful sounds there – but then, I always do), is more interesting to get to (coach, then boat, then coach, then boat – rather than coach/boat for Milford) and may be, by some accounts, more beautiful. One also gets to visit the largest power station in New Zealand, which was far more fun than it sounds.
Doubtful Sound itself is actually a fjord, left as a majestic scratch on the landscape by the glaciers of the last ice-age and now a beautiful and deserted boat-ride for awed tourists, sheer (yet lush green) valley sides rising up on either side of the water, dolphins swimming alongside the boat (although New Zealand has only two types of native(ish) land-mammal (the short-tailed and the long-tailed bat), having broken away from the rest of the Pangaean landmass before mammals evolved, it has a number of marine mammals to keep it company) and seals resting lazily on rocks just out to sea, taunting Canadian tourists by being just out of reach. It was a great way to spend a day, all in all – the sort of passive tourism that requires no real effort or expending of calories, and yet makes one feel worthy for having done something – and Something Big, at that – with one's day.
The next morning was miserable and my freefall-in-the-sky was first postponed and then canceled altogether. I spent most of the day dozing and looking at the view, still majestic (more majestic?) because of the now omnipresent clouds. I also managed to get myself a table at a restaurant that had been recommended to me by Fabian in Sydney (“it's got a weight on the back of the door, that goes up and down as the door opens and closes” was how he described it, and I now know exactly what he meant). The highlight of the meal was the slow-cooked lamb, which was perfectly done and indecently good – indecent both because there sometimes remains, even in an atheist, a residual feeling that Something This Good Must Be Bad, and because the meat fell away from the bone of the shank so easily as to suggest nothing so much as a coital, rather than anatomical, connection between the two – certainly more than “just good friends”, but perhaps not quite “married couple”. Whether because of this image, or its own melt-in-the-mouth virtues, it was sublime. As so often in such cases, the restaurant went on to completely fuck it up by serving cheese that would have been mediocre had it not been seemingly kept in a freezer prior to meeting me – little squares of frigid pasteurised plastic that might as well have been the prophylactic remains of the sensuous lamb coupling of the course before.
There is a choice that all first-time visitors to Queenstown must make: visit Milford Sound or Doubtful Sound? Most choose the former, though I am not sure why: the latter has by far the better name (though its origins are dull: Captain Cook thought it doubtful that if he sailed down it, he would manage to sail back out to sea. Before I found this out, I had images of sailors long-dead making doubtful sounds there – but then, I always do), is more interesting to get to (coach, then boat, then coach, then boat – rather than coach/boat for Milford) and may be, by some accounts, more beautiful. One also gets to visit the largest power station in New Zealand, which was far more fun than it sounds.
Doubtful Sound itself is actually a fjord, left as a majestic scratch on the landscape by the glaciers of the last ice-age and now a beautiful and deserted boat-ride for awed tourists, sheer (yet lush green) valley sides rising up on either side of the water, dolphins swimming alongside the boat (although New Zealand has only two types of native(ish) land-mammal (the short-tailed and the long-tailed bat), having broken away from the rest of the Pangaean landmass before mammals evolved, it has a number of marine mammals to keep it company) and seals resting lazily on rocks just out to sea, taunting Canadian tourists by being just out of reach. It was a great way to spend a day, all in all – the sort of passive tourism that requires no real effort or expending of calories, and yet makes one feel worthy for having done something – and Something Big, at that – with one's day.
Sydney Mardi Gras
I got the most peculiar sensation on landing at Kingsford Smith – that of coming home, or to A Home, at least. This was odd not only because I do not consciously think of Sydney as home, but also because I have only landed at the airport three times in my life, so there was nothing I really recognised that evening, not part of Botany Bay that was familiar as we came in to land that evening. Still, the feeling was there and – despite the changes that have taken place in some parts of the city – the feeling stayed all weekend.
The main purpose of visiting Sydney was to partake in the delights of Mardi Gras – a sight (not to mention the other senses) denied me the last time i was here by the thoughtless timing of the beginning of my training contract: I left in January, Mardi Gras is in early March. This year was the 30th anniversary of the first one, the event being most obvious in the larger-than-usual number of visitors than anything else. The parade itself, on Saturday, was unusual for me, since it took place after night-fall (most sensible, since it allowed for a great use of light colour) – I had managed to bag Dan (who kindly put me up for the weekend) and myself tickets to watch the specdtacle from the members' area on Taylor Square, so we did so in relative comfort, without having to queue for ages, shove too much or sit on beer-crates from early afternoon until 8, when the parade started. Also unusual was the sheer size of the after-party (“Too Big” being the obvious description – or, if not too big, then “insufficiently fragmented”: 90% of the 15-20,000 revellers danced around in one of two airplane-hangar-sized spaces, making finding friends impossible and turning the whole lot into two giant mosh-pits. Fun, in its own way, but less so than the after-after-after-party at Home, the next night – we wisely decided not to attend Toybox at Luna Park on Sunday afternoon, allowing for sleep and allowing me to catch up with my friend Michael, whom I had rather missed).
Singapore
The next stop was Singapore, a place the measure of which one gets as one comes in to land: I have never seen another landscape so verdant and lush, so seemingly bountiful and so wholly and completely inorganic. It looked as though a gigantic model-builder had arranged the shrubs and trees, the buildings and roads and cared for them with the help of nature, never managing to get rid of the original signs of the maker. Every plant and lawn, every bit of nature – not to mention the architecture, which was determined to look resolutely and consciously man-made – was created, not begotten. Most odd.
The hotel in which I was staying was a case in point – all of the design and architecture was tortured and self-proclaiming: table-tops cleverly but pontlessly suspended in mid-air by an intricate cantilevering of steel wires between ceiling and floor, a swimming pool that jutted its see-through side over the side of the building only to face a building site, and so forth. It was certainly comfortable, but rather over-done.
The next day, Renee-less, I met up with Kleine, who is a friend of my friend Joe back in London; Kleine was charged, somewhat unilaterally, by Joe with showing me around and recommending things to see and do – something that, I must say, he did with gusto and great ability, and I hope to one day repay the favour in London. We had a great lunch in a cheap-and-cheerful local place, followed soon after by a coffee or two and a shopping break at Burberry, where (with Kleine's sage advice) I acquired a bag that matches (or matched then) perfectly my new hair. This made me happy.
In the afternoon, I explored Chinatown and Arab Street, both of which were in their own ways interesting (Arab Street was probably the most run-down looking part of Singapore that I saw, and thus somehow the most human) – and then headed to the Night Safari, next to the zoo. This is a park dedicated to nocturnal animals, open only at night – one is treated to a show involving some of the animals, and can then spend the rest of one's time wandering around or being driven around on a little tram-thing, spotting giraffes and rhinos, elephants and hyenas as they all go about their nightly business. I then met up with Kleine and a couple of his Italian friends and we had giggly, raucous drinks at a place called Taboo; given my early flight the next morning, I did not stay long.
The hotel in which I was staying was a case in point – all of the design and architecture was tortured and self-proclaiming: table-tops cleverly but pontlessly suspended in mid-air by an intricate cantilevering of steel wires between ceiling and floor, a swimming pool that jutted its see-through side over the side of the building only to face a building site, and so forth. It was certainly comfortable, but rather over-done.
The next day, Renee-less, I met up with Kleine, who is a friend of my friend Joe back in London; Kleine was charged, somewhat unilaterally, by Joe with showing me around and recommending things to see and do – something that, I must say, he did with gusto and great ability, and I hope to one day repay the favour in London. We had a great lunch in a cheap-and-cheerful local place, followed soon after by a coffee or two and a shopping break at Burberry, where (with Kleine's sage advice) I acquired a bag that matches (or matched then) perfectly my new hair. This made me happy.
In the afternoon, I explored Chinatown and Arab Street, both of which were in their own ways interesting (Arab Street was probably the most run-down looking part of Singapore that I saw, and thus somehow the most human) – and then headed to the Night Safari, next to the zoo. This is a park dedicated to nocturnal animals, open only at night – one is treated to a show involving some of the animals, and can then spend the rest of one's time wandering around or being driven around on a little tram-thing, spotting giraffes and rhinos, elephants and hyenas as they all go about their nightly business. I then met up with Kleine and a couple of his Italian friends and we had giggly, raucous drinks at a place called Taboo; given my early flight the next morning, I did not stay long.
More Tokyo and a bit of Kyoto
After spending some hours writing the previous instalments of this blog, I eventually headed out to Meguro, an up-and-coming part of Tokyo that seems to have attracted a large number of mid-century furniture sellers, little homewares shops and general designery of the I-never-knew-I-needed-that school of shopping. This took up all of the afternoon – the shops are unevenly spaced along a long stretch of Meguro-dori, and seeing even a small part of them can be quite a walk. Some of the shops were fantastically well priced (in one of those mad moments that some might say punctuate my shopping life, I stood in one contemplating shipping a sofa I don't really need to London), while others had clearly bought into the Tyler Brule-driven hype about themselves and decided that “morally outrageous” would be the only price bracket they'd be happy in. That said, there were some beautiful Hans Coper/ Lucie Rie ceramics in one that were, while my-nose-is-bleeding expensive, actually pretty reasonable for the two artists. I bought none, which was my personal triumph for the day.
That night, Ed took me and another friend to a rather exciting Italian place, which was really italian-as-done-in-Tokyo, which is a somewhat different thing – traditional fish and meats would be pared with Japanese vegetables, nipponite influences and arranged in a typically unitalian, careful way. From here, we proceeded to explore the local bars and, later, a club – which I can mostly remember as being Rihanna-and-gap-year-student-filled and sweaty.
Kyoto was next – I had bought my Japan Rail pass before arriving (I fancied that I might also detour to Nara and/ or Koya-san and the 7 day pass was entirely worthwhile for the Kyoto trip alone), and had already booked my rather basic ryokan-style room. In retrospect, leaving Tokyo for the weekend and going to Kyoto was probably not a fantastic idea – sounds like I missed a fun Saturday night – but then losing your wallet within half an hour of arriving in a city whose language you don't speak isn't that clever either, and that didn't stop me.
Having found the place where I live (I have, consistently, proved unable to navigate Japanese maps, partly because they look weird, partly because the address system is a non-Western – and, objectively bizarre – homing-in-on-area-then-neighborhood-then-block craziness and partly – and this is a big part of it – because they rotate all maps displayed so that the top shows what's in front of you, rather than pointing to the North. Two maps on two walls of the same room would thus be 90° out of sync. This is not as objectively bizarre as the addressing system, since it is just a convention that maps aren't rotated in the West, but is still confusing to a Bear of Little Brain like yours truly), I checked in and paid in advance (it was one of those sort places). I then, inexplicably, left my wallet on the counter and proceeded to go upstairs to my room, play on the Internet and so forth. I had just heard from Renee that she had to fly out with work and would not be in Singapore when i went there, so I'd need some accomodation – so I started to book that, when I realised that I was no longer in possession of my wallet. Searches for it proved fruitless – no-one had seen it, which could only mean that it was pilfered by one of the other guests. Shame, but I shall not dwell on the boring process of cancelling my cards etc – save to recommend AmEx to all of you, and to let you know that HSBC would take the best part of two weeks to get replacement cards to me, even though I was the one paying for the FedEx and asked for them ASAP. AmEx cleverly bypassed the problem by being a truly international firm, who just printed new cards for me in Tokyo the next business morning – I now forever have illegible Japanese characters on my cards for ever, which I assume say “Best before” and other such anodyne things – though it may well be “retarded gaijin who can't even look after a wallet”.
The more pressing problem of not having a wallet was the lack of access to food and other such basics. It quickly dawned on me that I have absolutely no legal means of payment for Stuff until I get back to Tokyo – and that I would thus have to try and hit the golden mean between leaving Kyoto immediately and seeing nothing, or staying for two days as planned and not eating during all of that time and seeing everything I'd planned. I opted for one day.
Kyoto is the old capital of Japan (actually, it's AN old capital of Japan, Nara being the other, yet older, one), but this fact is very confusing to one who has just arrived there: it is phenomenally, staggeringly and filthily ugly, in a way that only 1970s concrete – both painted and raw – can manage to be. Every shade in the greige/brown palette fights with every other, dank greys and diphtheria-browns attacking from one side of the road, to be rebuffed by dusty consumption-pink and dried-on-egg-yellow. It is all futile, since all are ultimately defeated by a peculiarly unattractive lichen grey-green. It is not a welcoming sight.
In the middle of all of this are various temples and palaces, fight9ing for attention – some more successfully than others. Yet, as is often the case, the ones that manage to get one's attention are the rather duller specimens; the true treasures need to be found in the backstreets, behind grocers and tiny tea-rooms, in the middle of blocks that have, over centuries, been built up around them.
As son as I arrived in Kyoto, it started snowing and did not stop again until after I left. When I woke up in the early morning, everyhting was covered by a fragile blanket (shroud, perhaps, given the concrete) of white and I rushed out to capture it all on film, dimly aware that I must also make the most of my time, before hunger strikes.
The pretty bits of Kyoto are really VERY pretty; in my experience, they tended to be concentrated on the east side, with rival temples and other sites meandering gently up a series of hills, allowing the penurious early morning visitor to sneak past the gate-keeper and enjoy unparalelled views of the city while standing among hillside graves, many of them looking to be long-forgotten. The other side of Kyoto – that of the old artisans of all kinds, making beautiful brooms, tea-cakes and rice-paper, of elaborate kaiseki cuisine served by agreeable maidens – was sadly denied yours truly because of the peculiar state of his financial affairs.
Partway through the day, I did find some money - ¥1000 – in a jeans pocket. This is equivalent roughly to five of Her Majesty's pounds sterling and was enough to pay for a McDonald's meal (I tried to make even this travesty a cultural experience by ordering the exotic “seafood burger”. It was horrific.) and to allow me access to view the just-coming-into-view plum blossoms at the Kitoman Teigu monastery – the site of a whole festival dedicated to the flower, which I had meant to attend on the Monday, but would now not be able to. I was served there some powdered green tea (which, as a genre – and with almost unbounded respect for Japanese culture and customs – I must declare to be singulalrly the most misguided drink conceived by any man or beast, anywehre – especially givebn the fact that the unpowder4d variety is most agreeable) and a slightly mediocre sweet, which is a shame, since I find very few Japanese sweets to be anything short of delicious. The momo blossoms were great – though I suspect they would be greater still in a week's time, when more of them would be out. Still, the juxtaposition of snow and blossom was most pleasing.
Just before leaving Kyoto, it occurred to me that I might be able to either pay for my rooms with a credit card (both dad and Ed had offered to lend money in that way), thus getting a “refund” of the cash I had already paid; however, sadly, the establishment where I was staying could not accept credit cards that were not present. Mock-outraged, I managed to at least convince them to repay me the money I had paid for the second night which I would not now be using. Most of this money was promptly spent on some lovely incense, procured from the shop that used to supply the Imperial court (the people of Kyoto are even more reverential about the equivalent of Royal Warrants than are the British).
Monday was spent reprinting my AmEx cards and making sure that they worked – having been denied the pleasure of spending for twenty-four hours, I needed numerous confirmations of my regained ability, to the joy of local sellers of bags and t-shirts (and, doubtless, to the eventual consternation of my bank manager, Keith). I also kept my appointment at the ominous sounding “Sin Den”, which I had booked weeks before Ed told me that it was THE place for Westerners to cut their hair; given the reputation for quantitative improvements in fun levels that blonds are said to enjoy, the name boded well for my (first ever) bleach-job. The results were at the higher end of my expectations – though it seemed (seems?) like much less of a difference to me than it did to others (Ed was at the very least polite enough to suggest it suited me during drinks at the Hyatt that evening – which were a lovely way to finish my Tokyo stay, with the whole nighttime city spread out before us). I left the next morning, a shameless and complete Edophile.
More Tokyo and a bit of Kyoto
After spending some hours writing the previous instalments of this blog, I eventually headed out to Meguro, an up-and-coming part of Tokyo that seems to have attracted a large number of mid-century furniture sellers, little homewares shops and general designery of the I-never-knew-I-needed-that school of shopping. This took up all of the afternoon – the shops are unevenly spaced along a long stretch of Meguro-dori, and seeing even a small part of them can be quite a walk. Some of the shops were fantastically well priced (in one of those mad moments that some might say punctuate my shopping life, I stood in one contemplating shipping a sofa I don't really need to London), while others had clearly bought into the Tyler Brule-driven hype about themselves and decided that “morally outrageous” would be the only price bracket they'd be happy in. That said, there were some beautiful Hans Coper/ Lucie Rie ceramics in one that were, while my-nose-is-bleeding expensive, actually pretty reasonable for the two artists. I bought none, which was my personal triumph for the day.
That night, Ed took me and another friend to a rather exciting Italian place, which was really italian-as-done-in-Tokyo, which is a somewhat different thing – traditional fish and meats would be pared with Japanese vegetables, nipponite influences and arranged in a typically unitalian, careful way. From here, we proceeded to explore the local bars and, later, a club – which I can mostly remember as being Rihanna-and-gap-year-student-filled and sweaty.
Kyoto was next – I had bought my Japan Rail pass before arriving (I fancied that I might also detour to Nara and/ or Koya-san and the 7 day pass was entirely worthwhile for the Kyoto trip alone), and had already booked my rather basic ryokan-style room. In retrospect, leaving Tokyo for the weekend and going to Kyoto was probably not a fantastic idea – sounds like I missed a fun Saturday night – but then losing your wallet within half an hour of arriving in a city whose language you don't speak isn't that clever either, and that didn't stop me.
Having found the place where I live (I have, consistently, proved unable to navigate Japanese maps, partly because they look weird, partly because the address system is a non-Western – and, objectively bizarre – homing-in-on-area-then-neighborhood-then-block craziness and partly – and this is a big part of it – because they rotate all maps displayed so that the top shows what's in front of you, rather than pointing to the North. Two maps on two walls of the same room would thus be 90° out of sync. This is not as objectively bizarre as the addressing system, since it is just a convention that maps aren't rotated in the West, but is still confusing to a Bear of Little Brain like yours truly), I checked in and paid in advance (it was one of those sort places). I then, inexplicably, left my wallet on the counter and proceeded to go upstairs to my room, play on the Internet and so forth. I had just heard from Renee that she had to fly out with work and would not be in Singapore when i went there, so I'd need some accomodation – so I started to book that, when I realised that I was no longer in possession of my wallet. Searches for it proved fruitless – no-one had seen it, which could only mean that it was pilfered by one of the other guests. Shame, but I shall not dwell on the boring process of cancelling my cards etc – save to recommend AmEx to all of you, and to let you know that HSBC would take the best part of two weeks to get replacement cards to me, even though I was the one paying for the FedEx and asked for them ASAP. AmEx cleverly bypassed the problem by being a truly international firm, who just printed new cards for me in Tokyo the next business morning – I now forever have illegible Japanese characters on my cards for ever, which I assume say “Best before” and other such anodyne things – though it may well be “retarded gaijin who can't even look after a wallet”.
The more pressing problem of not having a wallet was the lack of access to food and other such basics. It quickly dawned on me that I have absolutely no legal means of payment for Stuff until I get back to Tokyo – and that I would thus have to try and hit the golden mean between leaving Kyoto immediately and seeing nothing, or staying for two days as planned and not eating during all of that time and seeing everything I'd planned. I opted for one day.
Kyoto is the old capital of Japan (actually, it's AN old capital of Japan, Nara being the other, yet older, one), but this fact is very confusing to one who has just arrived there: it is phenomenally, staggeringly and filthily ugly, in a way that only 1970s concrete – both painted and raw – can manage to be. Every shade in the greige/brown palette fights with every other, dank greys and diphtheria-browns attacking from one side of the road, to be rebuffed by dusty consumption-pink and dried-on-egg-yellow. It is all futile, since all are ultimately defeated by a peculiarly unattractive lichen grey-green. It is not a welcoming sight.
In the middle of all of this are various temples and palaces, fight9ing for attention – some more successfully than others. Yet, as is often the case, the ones that manage to get one's attention are the rather duller specimens; the true treasures need to be found in the backstreets, behind grocers and tiny tea-rooms, in the middle of blocks that have, over centuries, been built up around them.
As son as I arrived in Kyoto, it started snowing and did not stop again until after I left. When I woke up in the early morning, everyhting was covered by a fragile blanket (shroud, perhaps, given the concrete) of white and I rushed out to capture it all on film, dimly aware that I must also make the most of my time, before hunger strikes.
The pretty bits of Kyoto are really VERY pretty; in my experience, they tended to be concentrated on the east side, with rival temples and other sites meandering gently up a series of hills, allowing the penurious early morning visitor to sneak past the gate-keeper and enjoy unparalelled views of the city while standing among hillside graves, many of them looking to be long-forgotten. The other side of Kyoto – that of the old artisans of all kinds, making beautiful brooms, tea-cakes and rice-paper, of elaborate kaiseki cuisine served by agreeable maidens – was sadly denied yours truly because of the peculiar state of his financial affairs.
Partway through the day, I did find some money - ¥1000 – in a jeans pocket. This is equivalent roughly to five of Her Majesty's pounds sterling and was enough to pay for a McDonald's meal (I tried to make even this travesty a cultural experience by ordering the exotic “seafood burger”. It was horrific.) and to allow me access to view the just-coming-into-view plum blossoms at the Kitoman Teigu monastery – the site of a whole festival dedicated to the flower, which I had meant to attend on the Monday, but would now not be able to. I was served there some powdered green tea (which, as a genre – and with almost unbounded respect for Japanese culture and customs – I must declare to be singulalrly the most misguided drink conceived by any man or beast, anywehre – especially givebn the fact that the unpowder4d variety is most agreeable) and a slightly mediocre sweet, which is a shame, since I find very few Japanese sweets to be anything short of delicious. The blossoms were great – though I suspect they would be greater still in a week's time, when more of them would be out. Still, the juxtaposition of snow and blossom was most pleasing.
Just before leaving Kyoto, it occurred to me that I might be able to either pay for my rooms with a credit card (both dad and Ed had offered to lend money in that way), thus getting a “refund” of the cash I had already paid; however, sadly, the establishment where I was staying could not accept credit cards that were not present. Mock-outraged, I managed to at least convince them to repay me the money I had paid for the second night which I would not now be using. Most of this money was promptly spent on some lovely incense, procured from the shop that used to supply the Imperial court (the people of Kyoto are even more reverential about the equivalent of Royal Warrants than are the British).
Monday was spent reprinting my AmEx cards and making sure that they worked – having been denied the pleasure of spending for twenty-four hours, I needed numerous confirmations of my regained ability, to the joy of local sellers of bags and t-shirts (and, doubtless, to the eventual consternation of my bank manager, Keith). I also kept my appointment at the ominous sounding “Sin Den”, which I had booked weeks before Ed told me that it was THE place for Westerners to cut their hair; given the reputation for quantitative improvements in fun levels that blonds are said to enjoy, the name boded well for my (first ever) bleach-job. The results were at the higher end of my expectations – though it seemed (seems?) like much less of a difference to me than it did to others (Ed was at the very least polite enough to suggest it suited me during drinks at the Hyatt that evening – which were a lovely way to finish my Tokyo stay, with the whole nighttime city spread out before us). I left the next morning, a shameless and complete Edophile.
That night, Ed took me and another friend to a rather exciting Italian place, which was really italian-as-done-in-Tokyo, which is a somewhat different thing – traditional fish and meats would be pared with Japanese vegetables, nipponite influences and arranged in a typically unitalian, careful way. From here, we proceeded to explore the local bars and, later, a club – which I can mostly remember as being Rihanna-and-gap-year-student-filled and sweaty.
Kyoto was next – I had bought my Japan Rail pass before arriving (I fancied that I might also detour to Nara and/ or Koya-san and the 7 day pass was entirely worthwhile for the Kyoto trip alone), and had already booked my rather basic ryokan-style room. In retrospect, leaving Tokyo for the weekend and going to Kyoto was probably not a fantastic idea – sounds like I missed a fun Saturday night – but then losing your wallet within half an hour of arriving in a city whose language you don't speak isn't that clever either, and that didn't stop me.
Having found the place where I live (I have, consistently, proved unable to navigate Japanese maps, partly because they look weird, partly because the address system is a non-Western – and, objectively bizarre – homing-in-on-area-then-neighborhood-then-block craziness and partly – and this is a big part of it – because they rotate all maps displayed so that the top shows what's in front of you, rather than pointing to the North. Two maps on two walls of the same room would thus be 90° out of sync. This is not as objectively bizarre as the addressing system, since it is just a convention that maps aren't rotated in the West, but is still confusing to a Bear of Little Brain like yours truly), I checked in and paid in advance (it was one of those sort places). I then, inexplicably, left my wallet on the counter and proceeded to go upstairs to my room, play on the Internet and so forth. I had just heard from Renee that she had to fly out with work and would not be in Singapore when i went there, so I'd need some accomodation – so I started to book that, when I realised that I was no longer in possession of my wallet. Searches for it proved fruitless – no-one had seen it, which could only mean that it was pilfered by one of the other guests. Shame, but I shall not dwell on the boring process of cancelling my cards etc – save to recommend AmEx to all of you, and to let you know that HSBC would take the best part of two weeks to get replacement cards to me, even though I was the one paying for the FedEx and asked for them ASAP. AmEx cleverly bypassed the problem by being a truly international firm, who just printed new cards for me in Tokyo the next business morning – I now forever have illegible Japanese characters on my cards for ever, which I assume say “Best before” and other such anodyne things – though it may well be “retarded gaijin who can't even look after a wallet”.
The more pressing problem of not having a wallet was the lack of access to food and other such basics. It quickly dawned on me that I have absolutely no legal means of payment for Stuff until I get back to Tokyo – and that I would thus have to try and hit the golden mean between leaving Kyoto immediately and seeing nothing, or staying for two days as planned and not eating during all of that time and seeing everything I'd planned. I opted for one day.
Kyoto is the old capital of Japan (actually, it's AN old capital of Japan, Nara being the other, yet older, one), but this fact is very confusing to one who has just arrived there: it is phenomenally, staggeringly and filthily ugly, in a way that only 1970s concrete – both painted and raw – can manage to be. Every shade in the greige/brown palette fights with every other, dank greys and diphtheria-browns attacking from one side of the road, to be rebuffed by dusty consumption-pink and dried-on-egg-yellow. It is all futile, since all are ultimately defeated by a peculiarly unattractive lichen grey-green. It is not a welcoming sight.
In the middle of all of this are various temples and palaces, fight9ing for attention – some more successfully than others. Yet, as is often the case, the ones that manage to get one's attention are the rather duller specimens; the true treasures need to be found in the backstreets, behind grocers and tiny tea-rooms, in the middle of blocks that have, over centuries, been built up around them.
As son as I arrived in Kyoto, it started snowing and did not stop again until after I left. When I woke up in the early morning, everyhting was covered by a fragile blanket (shroud, perhaps, given the concrete) of white and I rushed out to capture it all on film, dimly aware that I must also make the most of my time, before hunger strikes.
The pretty bits of Kyoto are really VERY pretty; in my experience, they tended to be concentrated on the east side, with rival temples and other sites meandering gently up a series of hills, allowing the penurious early morning visitor to sneak past the gate-keeper and enjoy unparalelled views of the city while standing among hillside graves, many of them looking to be long-forgotten. The other side of Kyoto – that of the old artisans of all kinds, making beautiful brooms, tea-cakes and rice-paper, of elaborate kaiseki cuisine served by agreeable maidens – was sadly denied yours truly because of the peculiar state of his financial affairs.
Partway through the day, I did find some money - ¥1000 – in a jeans pocket. This is equivalent roughly to five of Her Majesty's pounds sterling and was enough to pay for a McDonald's meal (I tried to make even this travesty a cultural experience by ordering the exotic “seafood burger”. It was horrific.) and to allow me access to view the just-coming-into-view plum blossoms at the Kitoman Teigu monastery – the site of a whole festival dedicated to the flower, which I had meant to attend on the Monday, but would now not be able to. I was served there some powdered green tea (which, as a genre – and with almost unbounded respect for Japanese culture and customs – I must declare to be singulalrly the most misguided drink conceived by any man or beast, anywehre – especially givebn the fact that the unpowder4d variety is most agreeable) and a slightly mediocre sweet, which is a shame, since I find very few Japanese sweets to be anything short of delicious. The
Just before leaving Kyoto, it occurred to me that I might be able to either pay for my rooms with a credit card (both dad and Ed had offered to lend money in that way), thus getting a “refund” of the cash I had already paid; however, sadly, the establishment where I was staying could not accept credit cards that were not present. Mock-outraged, I managed to at least convince them to repay me the money I had paid for the second night which I would not now be using. Most of this money was promptly spent on some lovely incense, procured from the shop that used to supply the Imperial court (the people of Kyoto are even more reverential about the equivalent of Royal Warrants than are the British).
Monday was spent reprinting my AmEx cards and making sure that they worked – having been denied the pleasure of spending for twenty-four hours, I needed numerous confirmations of my regained ability, to the joy of local sellers of bags and t-shirts (and, doubtless, to the eventual consternation of my bank manager, Keith). I also kept my appointment at the ominous sounding “Sin Den”, which I had booked weeks before Ed told me that it was THE place for Westerners to cut their hair; given the reputation for quantitative improvements in fun levels that blonds are said to enjoy, the name boded well for my (first ever) bleach-job. The results were at the higher end of my expectations – though it seemed (seems?) like much less of a difference to me than it did to others (Ed was at the very least polite enough to suggest it suited me during drinks at the Hyatt that evening – which were a lovely way to finish my Tokyo stay, with the whole nighttime city spread out before us). I left the next morning, a shameless and complete Edophile.
Friday 29 February 2008
The rest of that day and Tsukiji Fish Market
The museum was a little way away, in Ueno, but was quite easy to get to. The collection – a bit like the one on show currently at the Rijks – is a good basic introduction to Japanese art and artifacts, sufficient for someone to be able to tell the difference between make-e enamel and carved lacquer, but not much more detailed than that. Some beautiful Hiroshige woodcuts (though slightly underwhelming Hokusai ones), some great textiles (especially late-Edo, mid 19th Century ones) and bronzes and some fantastic screens.
I then wandered around the back streets of Ueno, trying to get to Asakusa to catch the boat back down south, but kept getting lost; this was not in itself problematic: I had (I thought) nothing I was late for, and it was nice to have look around the non-touristy bits of a Tokyo neighbourhood. My best find was a fantastic shop selling knives and I am – at the time of writing – kicking myself for not having bought any (though I slightly comfort myself with the thought that traveling across 4 continents with high-carbon sushi knives would probably have been both cumbersome and occasionally difficult from a customs point of view. Still...).
I managed to get to Asakusa just in time to get in to have a look around the main temple there, which was oddly underwhelming: huge and outwardly impressive, but without any sense of mystery, wonder or even clear purpose (not in the strict sense – there were people praying and performing religious rituals – but in a slightly esoteric feel-of-the-place sense) – a bit like St Peter's in Rome, in a way.
Undeterred and photo'ed up, I proceeded to the pier to catch the boat back south – only to find out that the last one had sailed for that day. So back to the metro for me – and no river views.
Having spent the day wandering around – and now definitely not needing to be anywhere specific – I decided to try out Adam and Eve, a spa-type joint that regularly makes every list of things to do in Tokyo, from Wallpaper's to Time Out's via Luxe Guide's. This is a typically Japanese affair – separate-gender, spartan-looking and damp-smelling huge baths of water are surrounded by low showers (roughly at waist level) and little stools: one strips off, rinses off the little stool and then showers sitting down, washing from the feet up, then plunges in the hot (or cold, if that way inclined) pools, goes to the sauna and – and this is really the point – gets scrubbed down by ferocious-looking stern Korean Grannies. The KGs are armed with loofah-mitts and set to work on you as you lie there, spending half an hour seeing how much (mostly) dead skin they can remove from every part of your body. Nominally, one wears oversized green cotton boxers for this part, but the KGs go where they need to go and generally completely ignore these – this is not a place for the modest or bashful. Every time a cycle of scrubbing is completed – toe to head on your back, on each side, on your front – and you think it might be over, you get doused in hot water and she starts again, certain that there is a flake of dead skin somewhere that she has not sought out as yet. In many ways, getting flayed would be quicker – but eventually, when it IS over, it does feel great.
The next morning was, I figured, the best time to do the Tsukiji Fish Market – officially the biggest in Asia, which makes this blogger wonder how it is not thus the biggest in the world. Any readers who know or suspect which one might be bigger, please let me know – New York? Billingsgate is nothing next to this, so don't bother with that one...
As with all retail markets, it starts and finishes early and requires the amateur to set off early and to dodge the gruff people for whom this is more of a living and less of a photo-op – but, still being somewhat jetlagged, the 4am start was actually surprisingly easy. The gruff-dodging was somewhat more difficult and presented the greatest sartorial challenge of the trip so far: what does one wear to a fish market on a freezing winter's morning? All of the guides suggested wellies and cast-offs that one doesn't mind getting wet and smelling of fish. Yours truly was, however, somewhat limited by the clothes that he actually had with him (and owned – am not sure I have wellies anywhere, let alone in Tokyo).
In the event, I was certainly the only person there in a designer floor-length black wool/ gold brocade coat (it's the only one I have with me, and going without one wasn't an option in February) – though, to my infinite delight, I did spot a woman in what was either a gold velour D&G tracksuit or (and this is what I secretly believe, because it makes me happier), possibly, a cat suit. i like to think that she was going for some sort of hunter/prey cat(suit)/fish thing, as a comment on the predatory and base evolutionary natures of our continued reliance on feeding off other living beings, but she could have just been mad. Or maybe that was all SHE had brought to Asia with her, and we're kind of in the same boat.
The most famous event at Tsukiji is the daily tuna auction that takes place just before 6am: buyers spend the hour or two prior to this walking up and down rows of huge, glistening open-mouthed tuna-giants, inspecting, prodding, opening stomach cavities with huge grappling hooks and generally sizing them up. The auction for the numbered fish is then conducted silently, using an antiquated system of hand signals that is most similar to the one horse-racing pundits use – completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated, clear as day to those taking part. Sadly, tourists are no longer allowed to see this, as too many were crowding in and disrupting the genuine working of the trades – but I did get some photos of the inspection rituals beforehand.
I then wandered up and down the seemingly endless rows of seafood, presented here in all it's guises like an aquatic Boschian tableau – creatures alive and dead, mouths agape, tentacles sprawled and teeth bared, creatures frozen and fresh, young and old, creatures from all of Earth's recent evolutionary periods, from the ancient to the recently evolved – all laid out to be bought in prodigious quantities, boxed, carted, driven away and to get to the punters in time for dinner.
Now, the way to a man's stomach is through a delectable cornucopia of piscine fauna, so thoughts quickly turned to sushi (while not an obvious 6am breakfast choice, I have no designated times for seafood and, as some will attest, will happily go through a dozen oysters at 5am). Mercifully – and rather obviously, really, there were a number of sushi restaurants nearby. Coming, as they did, 18 hours after three-star sushi – and 36 hours after two-star blowfish – I was worried that there would be a lot to live up to; had Mizutani spoiled me for life, dooming me to never being satisifed with anything short of his mastery? No, obviously – in the same way as Le Gavroche doesn't stop you appreciating a great steak in your prix fixe menu in Paris. And the comparison is not a bad one – the sushi was obviously very fresh, but the rice, the sizes, the wasabi, the soy were all... fine. No more than that – very enjoyable, great, worth going to – and worth going to again – but very much an everyday-sushi experience.
Friday 22 February 2008
Sushi Mizutani
Yesterday morning, I had to be careful, as I had also booked a three Michelin star place for lunch (if I don't do it here, then where?) and wanted to avoid taking up room with other stuff – as well as avoiding any other flavours. So I headed into Ginza, both to find the restaurant in good time (it is the antithesis of the Parisian three-star restaurant: Taillevent is probably as difficult as any to find in Paris, being downstairs, but even that is clearly signposted and visible; Sushi Mizutani had a tiny sign in Japanese and was located off a dimly-lit tiny basement in an otherwise-unremarkable office block. You'd have to be really determined and really looking). Once I had found what I thought might be the place, I headed over to Ito-ya, a stationery shop not far from where I was going to eat, passing pretty much every designer shop that one can possibly imagine along the way (every unpreposessing and quiet-looking backstreet seems to be teeming with Etros and Loro Pianas, Valntino fighting for space with Tiffany to be seen). Ito-ya does all the things that WH Smith's does (though, obviously, more stylishly and replacing Bic with Montegrappa), but the main reason for going was Ito-ya 3, their shop in a back alleyway selling handmade papers, calligraphy brushes, wrapping paper etc. It was a stationery-fetishist's paradise, and I spent two hours browsing, demanding that their finest washi papers are produced for my perusal and spending, ultimately, half as much on one beautiful sheet as I would spend on the lunch that was to come. As I emerged into the sunshine, laden with my newly found goodies, I was as happy as a boy could possibly be.
Then it turned out that Sushi Mizutani had lost my reservation. Imagine the scene; the restaurant seats ten people around a counter, behind which Mizutani-san hand cuts and prepares the sushi, brushing each one with shoyu (I think?) before placing it before the person. Sushi is served one at a time, with the master deftly making sure that no-one has to wait too long and that everyone has had everything that is one the “menu” that day (there is no menu – while one could, theoretically, ask for specific items, no-one does and all diners literally entrust (omakase) the master with their lunch, happy to be served by him what he will). Into this scene of trendy eaters and bepearled genteel ladies who lunch, a (lone, there were no others) gaijin boy bursts in, all excited and carrying bags of paper, speaking barely three words of Japanese. The room, hardly the size of my bedroom in London, follows the animated conversation between me (who genuinely DID reserve, months ago – and who realises that if I don't get lunch now, I won't have another chance either here or in Jiro (which was the other possibility, and where Mizutani-san used to work), since both are booked up months in advance). I cannot help but feel that it was all very unJapanese on my part, and I should probably have bowed out rather than attempting to argue my case, but I'm very glad I didn't. Soon, Mizutani-san himself intervened and told me to sit down – he was pretty sure there would be enough rice (the main worry) and the distraction was clearly not helping the other diners. A patron who had helpfully translated for me (and who, as it turns out, eats there regularly), indicated a free stool next to him (one of only two free places).
The sushi (and it was all sushi, no sashimi) was exquisite, the Platonic ideal of what sushi should be like. The rice was perfect, the amount of wasabi just right, the fish fresh (except the ten-day-aged tuna, which is bought after having been caught by just one fisherman (ie not by a trawler) and quickly cut to drain the blood (a process known, I am told, as ikejime), before being stored on ice. It is aged by Mizutani himself, who judges exactly when it is ready. Before he even starts the careful aging process, tuna fish cost around US$60,000 – 100,000 each). The order in which it was served was carefully thought out, with flavours of one piece seemingly complementing and gently merging with the next. The toro, the tuna belly, was I-want-to-burst-into-tears-of-joy good – it was possibly as close to gastronomic perfection as one could get, rivaling the Bresse chicken at the George V experience a few years ago.
After most of the diners had left, Mizutani-san became more talkative, as it was just me and my translating benefactor left still there – he pointed out that my long coat (embroidered with two gold cockerels or phoenixes fighting) was rather like a tattoo in style (my co-diner pointed out to me: “He does have rather yakuza tastes. I think it's all the sushi knives” - tattoos are still heavily associated with gangs and gangsters in Japan). Mizutani then got me to translate a dedication that Robuchon had left for him in a Michelin guide (seemingly assuming that my speaking English would make me a dab hand at French as well – though, to be fair, I had more trouble with the handwriting than the meaning) before saying that he has only just been to London last year (“Good city. Bad fish.” was the translation I got). I then got a cheeky photo with him and left to go on to the Tokyo National Museum.
Tokyo Day 2
The next day, I retraced some of my steps in daylight, confirming again that prices for designer goods are ridiculous (100% more than London, by my estimation, in some cases) and spending ages in Omote-sando Hills, the recently (two years ago) opened Ando-designed shopping mall, which cleverly takes after Wright's Guggenheim in following a spiral from top to bottom, meaning that you're more or less forced to go past all of the shops. I bought a lot of things I don't really need, but such is the nature of the beast.
I also headed to the Meiji shrine, just to the east of there – it is probably the most important shrine in Tokyo (albeit not the oldest, by some margin) and is positioned in a lovely park, which was looking very beautiful in the cold winter sunshine. There's also the old Imperial garden there, with a pond with huge koi carp, an Iris garden etc. All very lovely – photos, again, to follow.
After that, I grabbed lunch in Maisen, the tonkatsu pork place that is quite small and tends to have queues round the block for people to get lunch or an afternoon snack. It was, as with everything, delicious and I'm tempted to go back there as I type this.
I headed home in the afternoon – again, for a little sleep and to get ready for dinner, which I'd booked ages in advance. Usukifugu Yamadaya (in the photo) is one of Tokyo's two best (according to Michelin, at least) fugu restaurants – that's blowfish, to the Western world. I had read how long it takes to fully master the art of processing and preparing the lethally-poisonous-if-not-done-right fugu and had seen glowing reviews of Yamadaya on Chowhound and other foodie sites, so was curious to try it. The fact that it had just been awarded two Michelin stars, in spite of only having opened a year previously, was also a recommendation of sorts.
The dinner was great, as expected: Ed and I decided to go for one of the menus, which was described fairly vaguely by our (delightful and sweetly coy) waitress when we chose it, but was explained in stunning detail once the dishes arrived. After a couple of small courses of little bits of pork and chicken as starters, fugu began arriving – as sashimi (served with chives and monkfish liver and dipped in ponzu), as tempura, fugu semen sacs on sushi and, finally, in a broth that was prepared on a hotplate at the table – even the fins were used in hot, smoky-fish-smelling sake. It was very unusual to have an entire meal based around one ingredient, but it was the perfect time to do it (because of breeding patterns, fugu is best in winter) – and the perfect place, with typically Japanese footwear-off for patrons, attentive service and a subtly-yet-beautifully decorated private room.
The taste of the fugu was subtle, as much to do with texture as it was with taste in the Western sense (though I think I'm not being unfair when I say that a lot of Japanese cuisine is self-consciously about texture, so this is not a surprise). The way it is served added to the taste – which was not very “fishy” (except when smoked in the sake) and quite subtle. After a while, one could feel a very-barely-perceptible tingling in the mouth, which was pleasant and added to the layers of taste (this is, actually, one of the effects of tetradotoxin, the poison inside the fish and, if it develops further, is the first indicator that a potentially lethal dose has been ingested. There are currently no known antidotes, with the victim being paralysed-but-conscious as their organs shut down; the main treatment is a lot of fluids to try and speed up the liver and kidney function in processing the toxin and expelling it from the body).
Brussels and Tokyo Day 1
Tried to write this earlier in the week, but Blogspot and I had unresolved issues about uploading pictures, so I battled with it for a bit and then totally gave up. Still haven't quite worked out how to do this, so will have to do the blog separately and the pictures to accompany it will follow in due course.
So – it's Friday morning here in Tokyo – 7.02 am to be precise. I've just got back from the fish market and, since nothing and no-one else is alive at this time, climbed back into bed with the laptop. In the last seven days, I have packed all of my possessions in Amsterdam, left and gone to Brussels, had a great 18 hours there, gone to London to see my parents and, briefly, my mate Dan and arrived in Tokyo. I have now been here for three days, slowly getting over the jet lag and exploring the city.
Brussels was fun – I have always had unremittingly bleak reviews of it, with descriptions that placed it somewhere between a pointless waste of bricks and mortar and purgatory: not exciting enough to be really bad (Milton Keynes it ain't), but certainly a long way away from “good”. Overall, I must say that I disagree – it is certainly a lovely place to spend a day or two. I went to a rather fun place called (unpromisingly) “Belga Queen” for dinner on Friday night – a great oyster bar with an unfussy but well-matched wine list (Alsatian Pinot Gris is where it was at that night) and huge platters of all sorts of marine wildlife that looked like something faintly Boschian. Met up with a friend for a drink subsequently but, all in all, a comparatively early night. The next (bitterly cold) morning was spent walking around town admiring the sights and passing the time in opulent chocolate shops. All very civillised – and just in time for the Eurostar to London.
Continuing the gastronomic theme, has a great night at the Joel Robuchon place next to the Ivy, which I still hadn't been to. Most of the meal was good, except the big hunk of milk-fed veal that I had as my main, which was absolutely superb and entirely worth going there (and possibly to London, depending on where you're coming from) for.
Sunday was mostly packing stuff (thanks Dan) and then Monday was the flight to Tokyo. Now, I know that this is hardly news, but I am always amazed by how awkward and difficult BAA try to make your life whenever you try to use one of their grey, decrepit airports: it is really an art, of sorts. Sullen men and women in fading uniforms the colour of boredom usher you through various hoops, each of which tries to repeat on the previous one as much as possible and each of which is – of course – absolutely paramount to world and state security (this isn't the place to discuss – yet again – the continued replacement of “living” with “security” that has been the hallmark of 21st century government policy, but, suffice it to say, I am still not happy about it). The shops, carpets and walls look more and more like JFK at the low-point of its existence in the 90s.
ANYway – once that was all out of the way, I was safely cantilevered into my seat on Virgin – the flight was fine, in that I managed to sleep through a lot of it. A side-note to Virgin though – including bento boxes as one of the menu choices: good. Making the contents inedible: bad.
The first thing that I found interesting about Tokyo was the petrol/ liquid carrying trucks on the motorway – I wish I had a picture: they are very VERY shiny silver metal, with no branding. They are a thing of beauty – spotlessly clean quicksilver concave cylinders, reflecting a chunky, happy reality back at the passers by. Joyful.
I am staying with my friend Ed in Tokyo, who lives (though I didn't realise this when he first kindly offered to put me up) in the very centre of things, about 5 minutes stroll from Omote-sando Dori and thus very close to Shibuya and Harajuku, among others. Quite apart from that, his house is a thing of Ando Tadao designed beauty, the sort of effortless tranquil human-centred simplicity that Ando is famous for. Most of the next two days would be spent in trying to find something that would quite match that one building – and while Tokyo managed to do it cumulatively, it is still hard to think of any one thing that won me over quite so simply and persuasively.
Although I had got some sleep on the plane, I landed at what was 10am here and 1am in London; I was thus fine for the first few hours, but turned progressively more vegetative as the day wore on; really, I had to have a little nap and didn't get out and exploring until late afternoon. That evening was spent looking at the beautiful/ bizarre/ awe-inspiring buildings on Omote-sando (few were more than two out of three): the Tod'ses, Louis Vuittons, Diors and Pradas of this world have taken to commissioning ever-more-elaborate boutiques to line that street, and photos of a few of them will appear when I get my act together. I also ended up in Shibuya for a bit, with a bit of uber-kitch Takeshita street thrown in for good measure. Dinner was a little local chicken place, which was absolutely perfect and exactly what was needed.
Wednesday 20 February 2008
Friday 8 February 2008
One week until I leave Amsterdam
So - leave Amsterdam in exactly a week - then a night in Brussels, two nights in London and off to Tokyo on the 18th of February.
Check back after that for details of all of my exciting adventures.
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