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.
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