Dispatch from Hong Kong - Toots and Tatas

I'm having one of those days where I feel like I'm in another dimension. I'm in Hong Kong and I just returned from a hike on Victoria Peak. It is a smotheringly hot and humid day. I'm in my hotel in Kowloon wringing out my clothes and resting, still shaking my head at my day. 

Let's start at the beginning. Before heading up to Victoria's Peak, I wandered around Hong Kong without any plan. 

I was in a park in the financial district getting my bearings when I noticed that the park was filled with Asian women sitting together in two's or groups chatting and eating. Some had picnics set out on the grass. There were no men. The ladies were talking in a very animated way. They all looked so happy. As I heard them speaking, I recognized the language. They were not speaking Mandarin; they were speaking Tagalog. They must be Filipino. The park must be their meeting point on their day off. 

I sat for awhile watching them interact. Their happiness was infectious. Of course, Filipinas being Filipinas, if I had said hello to any of them, I would have been showered with delicious food. But I resisted the temptation to interrupt their time together and moved on. Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!

Anyhoo, from there I ended up in the botanical garden at the base of Victoria Peak. I saw no one else while I was there. I had the run of the place, so I flitted around. That's when the day started to get weird.

In the garden, there is a forest of bamboo that is taller than I have ever seen. I stood in the middle of it. As the wind blew, the trees swayed and made a vibrating sound. It was entrancing. Depending on who is asking, I may admit that I channeled the "Matrix" movie and did some slow-motion martial arts moves before moving on. 

The garden also has a zoo. I found myself in front of the orangutan environment - a huge caged area with many nooks and crannies. A sign gave information about the resident male and female. It noted that they rarely breed. 

I could see one enormous orangutan high in the cage laying on it's back. But I couldn't find the other. I noticed that the huge one was slowly rocking back and forth. I strained to see what it was doing and realized that I was not looking at one gigantic orangutan but rather two. One was on top of the other. And I was witnessing the event that the sign said is so rare. They were doing the nasty. 






I looked around to see if anyone else was near. No one. I felt like a voyeur but I was fascinated. Before I could make a call about whether to avert my gaze, the one that I think was the male got off (...the other one...), sluggishly moved to the side, and sat down. If he had a cigarette, I think he would have smoked it. The other one, the female I think, just lay there on her back looking around. She appeared to be thinking, "Is that it?". 

I guess we humans really are related to the apes.

I realized that nothing else in the zoo and gardens could top that spectacle so I left and took the tram up to Victoria Peak. I decided to trek around the path that crowns the mountain for a 360 degree view of Hong Kong and the South China Sea, uncertain of how long it would take. 

Like at the gardens, there was hardly anyone else around as I circled the peak. At one point, as I sat looking out over the sea, an elderly man came jogging by. And when I say elderly, I mean ancient. He was decked out in a blue track suit with a matching head band. He looked like a stick figure. As he passed me, I heard this noise - a popping noise in rapid succession. He was farting. And it didn't stop - it was like machine gun fire as he approached and passed. Off he went along the path, the sharp shots fading away along with him. It must be his propulsion system.

As I continued along, clutching my towel to mop the sweat, I saw a big stick ahead on the path. As I got closer, I realized that it was not a stick; it was a big, ominous-looking snake. I froze. But the snake was not moving either. It was a stand off. I just stood there for awhile. At this point, about two-thirds of the way around the peak, I didn't want to turn back, so I steeled myself. I broke into a trot and ran around the snake, unwittingly making the strangest muffled, squeaking noise through my pursed lips. As I passed the snake, I realized that it was dead. Maybe it succumbed to the old guy's farts. Crisis averted. Onward and upward. 

I finished the trek and boarded the tram for the ride down, my mind awash with visions of a farting blue stick figure and a nasty dead snake. My thoughts were broken by a young man who sat in front of me. I couldn't help but notice that he had this enormous mole on his cheek. From the mole grew this intense patch of black hairs, each at least an inch long. It looked like a paint brush. As we descended the peak, I was transfixed by this appendage on his cheek.  

When we arrived at the bottom, I shook off the whole mole thing, got off the tram, navigated my way through Hong Kong, took the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbor, and started walking to my hotel. It was rush hour and the traffic was insane. 

As I crossed a busy intersection, a guy on a motorcycle came out of nowhere and wiped out in the intersection. It seemed to happen in slow motion, his motorbike skidding along on it's side as he slid along behind it. Another very Matrix-y scene. 

When this happened, people all around - on foot, in cars, and on trams - stopped in their tracks to watch. It was like someone hit the pause button on the scene. 

After a moment, the slider picked himself up, righted his motorbike, and continued on. Then everyone else started moving again, as though nothing happened. 

I couldn't get to my hotel fast enough. This day had been beyond weird.

So now I'm in my hotel room shaking off the day and writing this. My room is on an upper floor of the hotel - a "modest" one teasingly close to the lavish Peninsula Hotel. The seat at the desk faces the window. 

I'd like to say that I am looking out at the Hong Kong skyline and wax poetic about it's beauty. But I am not. I am looking at a gi-normous billboard on the building across the street. The advert is for Sisley and it's a pic of a woman cupping her chest. Her boobs are directly at my eye level. They fill the window. I think I'll call the left one "Hong" and the right one "Kong" and call it a night.

Dispatch from Aix-En-Provence, France - Who Cez'?

Yesterday, I arrived in Aix-En-Provence by train from Paris. On the way, I first realized that I was in Provence when the train stopped between Marseilles and Aix. I looked up from my reading to see a grimy little train station but all around it and the tracks were vibrant, red, wild poppies. 

In Aix, I am staying at a fantastic boutique hotel, Hotel Cezanne, near the train station. The name should have tipped me off. Aix is all about it's most famous son, the painter Cezanne. As I explore the city, I realize that you can't swing an empty pastis bottle without hitting something named after the artist, favored by the artist, or savored by the artist - Cezanne's home, Cezanne's studio, Cezanne's street, Cezanne's grave, Cezanne's favorite restaurant, Cezanne's bar. Cez', Cez', Cez'. I even saw a t-shirt that said, "Cezanne is my Homeboy". This is all ironic given that for much of his life, Aix's bourgeoisie ridiculed Cezanne and his art. 

Anyhoo, Aix is a beautiful city and an easy one to navigate on foot. Many of the buildings have tile roofs and ochre-colored walls. The buildings contrast brilliantly against the deep cobalt-blue sky. Parts of the city seem to jump from a Cezanne painting. 

Earlier today, after exploring Aix, I decided to head east and hike the route named after...3 guesses and the first 2 don't count...Cezanne. You can drive it, bike it, or walk it and see the countryside that Cezanne so loved and painted. I decided to walk it like Cezanne did. A guide book that I read said it is a "lovely stroll". What a crock. It is lovely indeed, but it is not a stroll. It is a trek for the adventurous and unflappable.

The sidewalks, however thin in town, disappear and the road is narrow. You have to cross back and forth on the road to pick the side with the widest shoulder while cars, trucks, and motorbikes whiz by. It is not some country road. It is the D17 highway. And there are a lot of hills.

But if you make the trek, your determination is rewarded. The further you go out of town, the more breathtaking the views (in part, because you are out of breath from hiking).

A few times during my trek outbound, I thought I should turn back. But then the traffic started lightening, and I began seeing picturesque fields, trees, hills, and streams. In my beloved late afternoon light, these scenes were so stunning that they seemed unreal. The sheer beauty energized me to forge on. 

At one point, I wandered off the road and up a path. After awhile, it opened onto a hilly field of wild flowers and cypress trees, behind which was a tile-roofed mas (farmhouse) tucked amid a forest of trees, and Mont St. Victoire in the background, with that blue, blue Provencal sky framing everything. I just stood there for awhile stunned by the beauty and the sensory assault. A light breeze was delivering the smell-o-vision of the flowers, grasses, and trees. I could even smell the sunshine. I felt this unbridled sense of freedom. I could not believe I was experiencing this. I'm not too proud to admit that I teared up a little and, inappropriately, felt the urge to bust into "The hills are alive...".


There is a bus that you can take back to Aix if you only want to make the trek one way. But I decided to walk back and, as is often the case, the return trip seemed much shorter. I was rewarded by seeing a picturesque olive grove that I missed on the way out, while I was running the gauntlet. My only close encounter on the inbound was with a "femme rotund" on a scooter who was buzzing along the side of the road and almost clipped me with one of her saddlebags (at least I think it was a saddlebag...).

Now I'm back in my cozy hotel room enjoying a glass of local rose wine while I process my day. Though the day started with me exploring beautiful Aix, the image of that field and the trees in the country with Mont St. Victoire in the background is what is stuck in my mind. At the top of the mountain, I could make out the stone walls of Les Baux. 

I remember being in Provence years ago with my folks. We stayed in a beautiful hotel in the country near Les Baux and explored the countryside by car taking day trips into towns. I remember standing on the stone walls of Les Baux at the top of Mont St. Victoire, with a mistral-like wind blowing, looking down on the very valley and fields that I was standing in today. 

I realize that, while the many towns and cities of Provence are beautiful, my Provence is the countryside. It is truly unique and entirely unforgettable.

Dispatch from Edinburgh, Scotland - Gardyloo!

It's a beautiful day in Edinburgh and I'm in Princes Street Gardens enjoying the sunshine. I'm sitting higher up on the hill than I usually do, but more on that later.

I've been to Edinburgh a few times and each time I visit, I'm left with the impression that the city deserves more credit than it receives for being a great European city. Edinburgh is a fine city in a beautiful country. And the Scottish people are fantastic (well, except for the surly kid at the front desk of my hotel, but maybe he's an exchange student).

My first visit years ago was a quintessential Scottish experience. I arrived at Edinburgh Airport but before exploring the capital, I picked up a car for a go at driving on the left side of the road to see the country. I got a few stink eyes at roundabouts for not looking the right (left) way, but otherwise both the car and I came out unscathed. 

www.dalhousiecastle.co.uk

I ripped around the Scottish countryside for a couple of days with Dalhousie Castle as my base. The castle was so beautiful and I lived like royalty. The restaurant was in the dungeon and I had breakfast there each morning. The servers had these deliciously endearing accents and no matter what I ordered, they'd ask if I wanted it with "rrrrunny honey".

On one of my outings, I went to Glenkinchie Distillery. I was the only one visiting at that time so I had an extended private tour with an amiable guide. He was soft spoken but so engaging and we got on well. He showed me the huge wort kettles where the makings of whiskey were stewing. He lifted the lid on one and told me to take a smell. I leaned forward slightly and took a quick sniff. He then grabbed the back of my neck and shoved my head into the cauldron, saying, "No, take a good snort!". At the end of the tour, he and I had some samples of whiskey and he became much more animated. Don't we all.


After a couple of days in the country, I headed into Edinburgh and checked into a stately hotel in New Town (which always strikes me as a misnomer since the buildings are so old but I guess it's all relative). That first night the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night. After I stood on the bed for a couple of minutes slapping an imaginary switch on the wall in a sleepwalking attempt to turn off the alarm, I came to and evacuated. In the courtyard, I was greeted by a gaggle of bleary-eyed guests that looked like characters from an Agatha Christie novel, including an Inspector Poirot in a dressing gown with a chin guard and sock garters. What a hoot.


I also recall experiencing pub culture during that visit. I was in a pub midday resting and regrouping. A middle-aged lady in gingham and lace with a purse in the crook of her arm and a hat secured with a multitude of hairpins came in, sat near me, and ordered a beer. The barkeep asked if she wanted a half or full pint. With a twinkle in her eye, she replied, "Oh, a pint if you will so you don't have to come back again so quick". Too funny.

Anyhoo, I digress. On this visit, I'm wandering the city with a comfortable familiarity that comes from repeat visits.

Yesterday, I went to the waterfront and toured the Royal Yacht Britannia. That was a thrill because it is so iconic to me. I remember seeing it years ago during a royal tour. I was struck by how intimate and informal much of the stately yacht is, and how personal to the Queen it remains. Politics aside, it made me sad that she no longer has it. It must have been a refuge from state life.


This morning, I kept the royal theme going by returning to the Palace of Holyroodhouse for a tour. I love roaming around the ruins of the old castle and gardens with Arthur's Seat in the background. During my first visit many years ago, I remember seeing Queen Mary's bed chamber. I recall some story about her valet, who the queen was rumored to be having an affair with, being killed by her jealous husband. I remember seeing a red splotch on the wood floor that was said to be the blood spot from where he died. On this visit, I couldn't find it. Maybe the floor was finally cleaned. Or maybe I dreamt the whole thing after a whiskey tasting.

Speaking of which, last night, after a couple of whiskies, I decided to wander Edinburgh's graveyards that are said to be so haunted. It was creepy but I didn't see or hear anything, except when I turned the corner of a tomb and came face-to-face with a guy doing the same thing. We both yelped and then laughed. I also recall standing in front of Holyroodhouse around midnight with my face pressed against the cool wrought iron fence calling out for the ghost of Queen Mary, so there probably is CCTV footage of that being reviewed by Scotland Yard as we speak. 

Now I'm in the park after taking a tour of underground Edinburgh at the oddly named Real Mary King's Close (Is there a Fake Mary King's Close?). Under Old Town is a warren of preserved streets and buildings from Edinburgh during the 17th century. It was built over for the construction of the Royal Exchange.



You can take guided tours of several underground closes (alleys) and see the buildings and streets as they were hundreds of years ago. The place is a hot spot for paranormal investigators. 

The guide on my tour was an older Scotsman. He was a real character and charmed the international group as he took us around. He showed us a room where the ghost of a child is said to reside. There was a collection of dolls and toys that people left for the ghost, and a couple of Asian women in our group added to it with some Hello Kitty stuff. These same two women had been hiding behind me every time we turned a dark corner on the tour and made a squeaking sound at the slightest noise. No wonder they brought presents for the ghost.

The guide talked about the horrors of the plague and the unsanitary conditions of urban life back then. The higher up you lived, the better off you were because the streets were fetid with waste. With his thick Scottish burr, he told us that people would yell "Gardyloo!" and then chuck the contents of their chamber pot out the window and down to the street below. You did not want to be walking by when that happened (or after, for that matter). The waste streamed down the streets and collected in a nasty, disease-ridden pool that is now Princes Street Gardens where I am sitting. Ew.

Maybe tonight I'll hang out my hotel window, yell "Gardyloo!", and see if anyone on the street below jumps out of the way. Fun.

Dispatch from Boston, MA, USA - Boston Strong, Indeed

Boston Strong, indeed. What a fine city.

Over the years, I've been to Boston countless times for business and pleasure. But I have not been back for some time. Now I'm here with friends, playing tourist and rediscovering the city.


Boston has so much to offer: it's a walkable city in the heart of New England; it has a maritime culture from it's beautiful situation on the Atlantic coast; it is ripe with history given it's role as a central character in the founding of America and all; it has beautiful green spaces, distinct architecture, and a great food and entertainment scene; it has diverse neighborhoods representing different economic groups and ethnicities; and it is saturated with leading universities and hospitals and the educated people those places attract.

So I've been tootling like a tourist around Bean Town the last couple of days. I took trolley and harbor boat tours. I went to the North End to test whether Mike's or Modern is the better bakery (I have a view but I best keep it to myself). I wandered around Cambridge to check out MIT and Harvard (By the by, years ago I spent a great deal of time at MIT, but I can hardly recognize the campus and all that is around it now with all the new construction.). I wandered around Beacon Hill and along Charles Street (If you are there, check out Twentieth Century Limited at 73 Charles - a vintage store owned and operated by a great character named Paul Turnberg.). I strolled through Boston Common and the Public Garden. I walked through Back Bay taking time to pass by my old haunt - the elegant Eliot Hotel. I went to Chinatown (Oh, I discovered a great restaurant for seafood there - well actually, from the signs in the window, Zagat discovered it before I did, but I stumbled on it while walking around. East Ocean City on Beach Street. They serve the freshest seafood cooked how you like at awesomely reasonable prices. The staff are a bit brusque but that's OK, I'm not looking for new friends.). 

Now I'm walking the Freedom Trail around downtown. I lap this stuff up. I'm a history lover and a political junkie. I follow politics like others follow pro sports. So all this political history is just my thing.

As I walk the trail, I'm wondering what all these icons of American history were really like back in their day. With the passage of time, history - especially national history - tends to venerate central public figures and put them up on a pedestal (in Boston that's literally true with so many of these dudes on statues everywhere you look). We hear of the bold actions and grand speeches of these founding fathers. But was there the partisanship and personal attacks back then like we see now? Could something of the magnitude of the Declaration of Independence be chiseled out by today's politicians?


These days, we are witnesses to schoolyard antics in Washington that are so bad, if they did happen at a school, the culprits would end up with detentions if not suspensions. But Congress doesn't even have a "time out" corner. Maybe it needs one...and a few dunce caps.

Part of the problem is the 24-hour news cycle and coverage of politicians' every (mis)step. Arguably our information age is a good check against power but it also de-mystifies our leaders and the political process. We see the sausage being made and that's not always a good thing.

I'm reminded of the 2008 U.S. presidential election. During the campaign, I was in Washington at Reagan National Airport and the gift stores had heaps of political paraphernalia for sale. By this time, Barack Obama had won against Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination and John McCain was the Republican candidate. 

Here it was the heat of the campaign to elect the "leader of the free world", and the shops were chock-a-block full of the gaudiest merchandise you can imagine. Take for example bags of chocolates called "Democratic Chocolate Crap" and the Republican equivalent to mock each side's platforms. It was all so base. I expected to see a carnival barker out front. 

Then I saw the worst of the worst - a Hillary Clinton nutcracker. Secretary Clinton was depicted as a doll in a pant suit with her legs apart and a nutcracker between them. To use it, you squeezed the doll's legs to crack a nut. The package touted that it would "Crush the hardest nuts" and stated "What did you expect, a Teddy Bear?".


Really? For the first time in U.S. history, a woman had just been in contention to be a party's candidate for president and the national capital's airport was selling her image as a nutcracker? Who made this stuff and who bought it?

As I sat in the terminal lamenting this state of affairs, a blow horn on a cell phone sat near me. He was sporting a Lucky Charms ball cap and chuckling into his phone telling the unfortunate soul on the other end that he had just found the best gifts for everyone. I looked down and saw a bag full of the Hillary Clinton nutcrackers. Good grief.



But for now, I can forget all the current political "sausage" and lose myself in the great American political history that Boston offers up. I'm reading part of the Declaration of Independence from a plaque, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness". That's good stuff.



Thanks Boston, for reminding us of the good stuff.  Boston Strong, indeed!