Dispatch from Italy - Che Bella! Come Pazzi!

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I remember my first trip to Italy way back in the day. My first stop was Rome. After taking in some of the beauty of the Eternal City's architecture and iconic ancient ruins, I began to focus on the Romans themselves. I was struck by how elegant many of the older Roman ladies were - coiffed hair, make up, smart clothes, good shoes, and tasteful jewelry. They looked their age but had not traded in style for a pixie cut and a track suit. I couldn't get enough of watching these ladies go about life on the streets of Rome.

On this trip to Italy, many years after that first one, it seems that I am seeing more of Italy's female characters - senoras that, how shall I say, appear to have less class and more crass, less Sophia Loren and more Sophia Petrillo, less grand and more bland, less style and more denial, less...well, you know what I mean.

I am writing this while sitting on the rocks at the beach in Capri's main harbor (I hope no senora is reading over my shoulder, or I will end up minced and made into meatballs).

Anyhoo, there is this woman in front of me. She is alone. When I first noticed her, she was sprawled out on the rocks scarfing down a humongous panini. Now she is knee high in the water looking for rocks or shells. She is, how you say in Italian, grande and she is not shy about letting it all hang out of her bathing suit. Each time she bends over in front of me, her legs and behind look like a light bulb. Yikes.

Earlier in the week, I was at the airport in Genoa before sunrise. These two ladies rolled in sporting huge shades even though it was still dark. They were announcing their arrival like someone cared. They were in outfits that they must have put together in the dark with their shades on. In their unfiltered world, they probably thought they were working it. But the whole thing was not working - they looked like Ab Fab's Eddie and Patsy after a bender. One of them had a wig on that was so high, she must have had to check it as over-sized luggage. 

And as I was watching these two train wrecks, I noticed another old woman wandering around the terminal talking to everyone in Italian, whether or not they were listening (and whether or not they spoke Italian).

The day before on a boat from Portofino, some drunk senora was doing the same thing, telling everyone that she was from "Roma!" as she beat her chest Celine-Dion-style. And speaking of Celine, another old bird was on the boat doing her best Titanic-movie impersonation, bending over the bow with her arms outstretched. Now to put this in perspective, this was a slow-moving, open boat with maybe 20 seats. Someone should have shoved her overboard and been done with it.

So while this lady in the water in front of me is a big can of kooky, she is not even a contender for biggest kook of my trip. But wait, there is a development. From stage left, another woman has come onto the scene. She also is alone. In high heels, she is pulling her rollerboard across the rocks while holding a big can of beer in her free hand. She has this huge mass of frizzy brown hair that looks like she just emerged from an explosion (or maybe she was hanging her head out the window of the hydrofoil on the way over like a dog from a car). Now she is setting up shop to the left of the other bird and she is stripping down to a tiny, white bikini that serves no real purpose. It doesn't truss her in any way, shape, or form. She makes the other bird look like she's wearing a burka.

Now she is applying dark-brown bronzing cream in big scoops on her pale white rolls and face. The clumps look like mud...or even worse. She is attempting to work the clumps in but she has a lot of real estate to cover so only the areas around where she applied a scoop get coverage leaving streaky, brown blotches on her white skin. She looks like a Guernsey. And she has forgotten about the clump on her back so that is just stuck there. It looks like she fell asleep on the "good night" chocolates left on the pillow at her hotel. 

Now she has her beer back in one hand, a ciggy in the other, and she is wobbling around the rocks. Oh dear, now she's bending over too - another light bulb - I've had enough of that for one day, thank you. 

Now she is back at her base camp, and she is sprawled on her back on the rocks with her arms stretched out over her head and her legs wide open, feet toward me. More frizzy brown hair. Good grief.

Italy, I know you have beautiful people - some of the world's most beautiful. You have an elegant, romantic, and lovely country, with people to match. I'll never forget those stylish women in Rome so many years ago. But why am I not encountering them on this trip? What is up?

As I avert my gaze from the "beachings", I see people enjoying the sun at tables outside a nearby restaurant. Most are chatting away but I see one older woman on her own, sitting quietly. She is impeccably groomed from her tailored outfit to her well-coiffed snow-white hair. She is clutching her handbag and looking straight ahead as if lost in thought. She has the look and eyes of someone who has seen so much through a long life but has carried herself with poise and grace throughout. She's it! She's the type of Italian woman I so admired in Rome so many years ago!

Ah, thank you Italy! You have delivered! After a big bunch of batty, you've given me a grain of grace. I was starting to doubt you but my faith is restored. Che bella!

I turn back to my view of the old birds in bikinis on the beach. Oh dear. Come pazzi!

Dispatch from Capri, Italy - I Can See Tomorrow From Here

Capri is so beautiful, it should have its own soundtrack - something operatic with a lot of timpani drums. The music should begin as you approach the island, build to a thunderous crescendo while you are there, and then soften to maybe one plaintive violin when you are departing. 

www.capri.net

OK, that's a little overly dramatic. But the way the island juts out of the water and clutches for the sky. The craggy rock cliffs set against the blue sea. Lemons the size of grapefruits hanging from the trees. Beautiful smells to match the jaw-dropping views. Elegant hotels tucked into the sides of the hills. Quaint churches. It's all so elegant.


But I'll tell you one thing that is not elegant on Capri: me when I am there. It's not like I don't try. I pack smart clothes and stroll the streets. I try to look effortless when I am sitting at a restaurant. But I also want to see every inch of this glorious place and I'm on a budget. So I am not being squired around in a motorized cart that was arranged by my chi-chi hotel. I'm hoofing it - up the 924 Phoenician Steps to Anacapri like in my previous post or exploring the side streets and lanes in the town.

www.comunedianacapri.it

Today I'm high on the island in Anacapri. I dodge the tourist-heavy main streets and end up in a pleasantly quiet old part of town. There I stumble into the Chiesa Monumentale di San Michele - a pretty little church with a most extraordinary draw. The floor is made entirely of tiles depicting the biblical story of Adam and Eve. You have to navigate around the perimeter of the church on these thin raised scaffold boards that protect the tiles from tourist traffic. 

Ahead of me is a group of sturdy German men, under whose feet the scaffold boards groan and creak. They tip-toe along trying to lighten their loads, and they have their arms outstretched like they are tight-rope walkers. I'm thinking that the boards are going to give way at any time and we are going to fall onto the delicate tiles in a shower of toothpicks. But we make it. They seem more relieved than I.

Back out in Anacapri, I am thinking about calling it an afternoon when I see this big wheel turning in a roundhouse. I go over to check it out. I discover that it is some sort of chair lift that appears to take a scenic trip further up the mountain. So on a whim, I go in and buy a ticket. 

Before I know it, I pop back outside through a door. This guy grabs my arm and places me over a faded red dot painted on the concrete platform. Before I can process what is happening, a chair bangs into the back of my knees and I fall into it. The chair rocks back, the guy flips a flimsy aluminum bar down over my lap, and I am off, launching off the platform and looking at a huge drop down. 

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Now, as a non-skier, I have never been on a chair lift and this one is not sturdy like the Germans back at the church. It appears to be made of flimsy aluminum and looks like it needs some TLC. My chair is attached to the cable above by this thin aluminum bar and my chair lurches each time it crosses one of the metal towers that stretch way down to the ground and support the whole contraption. I can see a lot of rust and I can hear a lot of creaking. Good grief. What have I done. This contraption is going to fall apart. It has been exposed for God knows how long to sun and salty sea air. It looks like it was built during Mussolini's time.

Keith Haring

I picture a haughty Italian coroner signing off on my death certificate with a flourish citing the cause as "Death by Misadventure", next to a photo of my body splatted against the rocks looking like a Keith Haring drawing.

So I freak out and go into a full-on panic attack. I mean this thing does not look state of the art. It looks like some dodgy carnival ride and I am easily 50 feet above the rocky ground heading for the top of a mountain. I clutch the bar but my hands are sweating so badly that they keep slipping off. I get dizzy and think I am going to fall out of this chairway to hell. 

tripadvisor.com

I look up and see that the ride seems to go on forever. That doesn't help. And it is one way - there is no turning back and no stop button. I alternate taking one hand off the bar to wipe off the sweat and replacing it with a death grip by the other. And I begin talking myself through it out loud, quoting positive affirmations that don't really make sense. 

To avoid looking ahead, or God forbid down, I try to focus on the chair ahead of me, but my attention is diverted to the chairs coming down the other side. 

I burst out laughing. What I see looks to be an Asian seniors' tour looking as funny as I no doubt do, dangling in these swing-like chairs. Coming toward me is a smiling, elderly Asian woman, holding an umbrella over her head with one hand to shield the sun and taking pictures with the other hand. Here she is hands-free enjoying the ride and I am clutching the pole of my chair like I am about to fall off the edge of the earth. 

en.wikipedia.com

The Asian seniors inspire me to get a grip and I start to enjoy the ride. It is exhilerating. I am gliding high over people's houses and gardens, including one garden that is festooned with a fully-dressed mannequin and all sorts of shell creations, as well as a bird's nest with fake birds and a fish pond with fake fish in it. Hundreds of hours of work but crazy as all get out. I wonder how many tourists he's had to scoop out of his yard?

When I reach the top, and I mean the top, a guy flips up the bar, dumps me out of the chair, and pushes me off to the right to avoid getting clothes-lined by the chair behind me.


Now I am literally at the top of the island. There is nothing but blue sky above and wind swirling around me. The view takes my breath away. It is panoramic - the Med, the island, the iconic Faraglioni rocks jutting out of the water, the harbor, Mount Vesuvius off on the mainland. I am so high, I can see tomorrow from here.

There are Roman ruins scattered around the mountain top and at the edge of a cliff, I look straight down to a beach far, far below. Yachts that are anchored look like small white dots against the blue sea. Seagulls are gliding in the wind far below me. I feel like I am flying - like I am looking out of an airplane but without the filter of the plane and window.

tripadvisor.com

After many pictures, I head back to the lift. I am placed on another faded red dot, a chair cuts me off at the knees, and I am off, though this time the guy doesn't flip down the bar. I guess he thinks by now I've got it figured out. 

The ride down is actually scarier than the ride up, because you are on top of the world looking down so you have a keen sense of how high up you are (and how far you can fall). But just at the onslaught of another panic attack, I see another group of seniors, this time Americans, ahead of me. They are laughing, turning in their chairs to take pictures of each other, and thoroughly enjoying the experience. So I do too. 

Sometimes you just have to stop over-thinking things, sit back, and enjoy the ride. 

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Dispatch from Everywhere - What a Trip!

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Those of you who have been reading this blog since the beginning know that I tend to trip and fall at inopportune times. My first post was about me falling down the stairs at the Beverly Hills Hotel in front of the singer 50 Cent. My last post spoke about me tripping in front of a crowd on the chichi streets of St. Tropez. In others, I've referenced occasions when I unceremoniously tripped, flipped, or dipped in public. If you detect a trend, you are a smart cookie. After all, I do have a scar on my forehead from running into a "Danger" sign. But more on that later.

So in celebration of my gaffes, and for a laugh at my expense, I share with you some chestnuts of me acting inelegantly in some of the world's most elegant places.

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Picture it. Paris on a sunny, summer Sunday. I am walking up the Champs d'Elysee. Everybody is out enjoying the beautiful weekend weather: the cafes lining the sidewalks are packed. I'm sporting what I think is a jaunty look based on some impulse purchases I made at the Hugo Boss shop behind the Louvre. All I need to complete the look is a fashionable dog. 

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As I pass a particularly crowded cafe, I don't notice that a cobblestone is missing in the walk ahead of me. My foot lands perfectly in the void and I lurch forward, yelp, and come perilously close to taking out a table, two ladies, and their tarte tatin. There are some gasps from the crowd. I'm flummoxed, my traveling companion is mortified, and my dignity is nowhere to be seen. I point dramatically to the missing cobblestone and mumble in French-ese about the travesty of the sidewalk's state of repair. I say things like "Mon Dieu!" and "unaccep-TAH-ble!", which do nothing to repair my image and only prolong the train wreck. People start to avert their gaze. Oh dear.

Then there was that time in Portugal. 

I was attending a conference in Lisbon and tacked on some R&R after it. I was staying at the Lisbon Four Seasons and booked a weekend at the seaside resort town of Estoril, just outside of town. The hotel arranged a car for me - an elegant Mercedes sedan with a driver that looked like Roger Moore. I felt very fancy. Here's how it went down, literally.

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As the car approaches my hotel in Estoril, I note that there is a restaurant in front with a large outdoor seating area. I am arriving at midday and the restaurant is packed. As we pull up, people look as Roger exits the car, and comes around to open my door. 

As the door opens, I put on my shades, straighten my back, try to look indifferent, and put out my foot to exit. I am making quite an entrance. So far so good. Except that unbeknownst to me, my other foot is tangled in the strap of my computer bag. As I step out, the strap catches my ankle, and I pitch out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Yep, a full-on drop and roll. Again, gasps from the crowd (Europeans can be so dramatic). Roger quickly bends over to pick me up. My sunglasses are askew on my face, my clothes are dirty, and once again my dignity is MIA. Roger tries to dust me off. I act like it didn't happen and walk up to the hotel like I am on a catwalk. But out of the corner of my eye, I see two ladies sitting at a nearby table - they are laughing so hard, they are in tears. 

Oh, and then there was the time at that film premiere in Toronto. Well that wasn't so much a fall down as a fall up but it's a good one. 

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For many years, I attended the Toronto International Film Festival each September. Over ten days I would go to premieres each night at the beautiful Roy Thomson Hall. As a pass holder, I would file in behind the press on the red carpet. I had great views of all the celebrities as they worked the carpet and talked to the press. 

So this one year, after successive evenings of premieres, I get to know one of the ushers. She kindly hooks me up and gets me into the VIP seating for the premiere of Cate Blanchett's film, Veronica Guerin. The film is based on a true story about an Irish journalist who took on drug lords and was assassinated. 

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I am feeling very A-list where I am sitting but soon I forget that and become engrossed in the film. The acoustics at Roy Thomson Hall are fantastic and the film is being projected on a huge screen. 

During one suspenseful scene, a bad guy appears out of nowhere. The audience gasps and starts a bit, but my reaction is, how do I put it, a little more extreme. You see, I full-out scream, throw my arms up into the air, and jump up out of my seat like I am doing the wave. 

There I am smack in the middle of the orchestra of this magnificent venue, the only one standing (just in case any of the thousands around me are not certain who was responsible for the incident). I sit back down as people titter around me. I am too embarrassed to look over at Cate Blanchett but I doubt she is taking acting notes about my performance.

Then there was the time in Brussels, Belgium. Let me set the scene. 

I am attending a black-tie dinner at the Palace of Justice, a striking 19th century building set high in the city. For the gala, the steps leading up to the building are lined with fires set in urns. It is a windy night. The whole thing is very dramatic. 

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I feel fabulous. But as I bounce up the steps in my tux, I trip and fall to my hands and knees. I quickly pick myself up and keep going, brushing off and neatening my face and hair as I go, telling myself it is dark and probably no one noticed. 

When I get inside, I look down and see that my hands are dirty. I guess there was soot on the steps from the fires. I take a couple of napkins, wipe my hands and carry on. I grab a glass of champagne and enter the reception. I don't know anyone but I'm feeling good in my tux and the venue is gorgeous. I'm feeling like a double-nought spy - an international man of mystery. Then, after some time milling around and smiling at people, I catch my reflection in a mirror. I have streaks of soot across my face from when I tried to straighten up after falling. Good grief. I'm no man of mystery. I look like a chimney sweep.

Oh, and the scar on my head from running into a danger sign? Well, let's keep that one for another day. I think I've said quite enough.

Dispatch from Saint-Tropez, France - Do You Know The Way To Saint-Tropez?

What to say about Saint-Tropez? I've read that the jet set has moved on to other places, tarnishing the town's "it" status. But when I look around, there is no shortage of money, money, money: gargantuan yachts with uniformed staff catering to people sitting high on decks as if on a stage putting on a show; expensive cars, detailed like they are in a museum; exclusive boutiques with door men like at a nightclub; and flamboyant people flaunting their fabulosity, seemingly trying to out-do one another in the brightness of their expensive clothes. The consumption is conspicuous, indeed. And the people watching is highly entertaining, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it.

If you don't have a mega-yacht or a helicopter (or both), or even a simple rental car, Saint-Tropez isn't that easy to get to. I took a train from Marseilles to St. Raphael. From there I boarded a bus to Saint-Tropez. The coach bus was comfortable enough as it careened along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. But when it arrived at the terminal in Saint-Tropez and spit me and my luggage out onto a confusing maze of streets, I definitely felt like the help and not a jet setter.

I trundled around town looking for my hotel (roller board suitcases should have a shock-absorber option for cobblestones). My hotel is centrally located in the Vieux Port along the Promenade so I thought it would be easy to find. But even though Saint-Tropez is a small town, the streets are windy and confusing. Just when you think you've got it figured out, you get lost once again. Even so, because it is so small, eventually you end up where you want to be. 

As I emerged onto the main square of the Promenade, not looking my freshest, a military band was playing. I don't know why but let's say it was to welcome me. 

My response was an inopportune trip in front of the crowd watching the band. Blessedly, I recovered before it was a full-on drop-and-roll situation but it was a most inelegant introduction. Why do I always do that? In Portugal, I emerged from a car in front of a bustling cafe and poured onto the street because the strap from my bag was wrapped around my leg. In Paris, I was peacocking along the Champs d-Elysee one bright summer afternoon and tripped over a missing cobblestone. And there is always the "yelp" that accompanies the stumble, just in case anyone isn't paying attention. But I'll save all of that for another post.


My hotel is a quaint boutique property that is like the town of Saint-Tropez - a maze of winding hallways and rooms. I've got a tiny but quiet room at the back. I look out onto red-tiled rooftops, palm trees, and cafes. Perfect.


After decompressing, I toodled around town. Saint-Tropez is beautiful. It can fade into the background behind the flash and gaudiness of the people occupying it. But when you focus on the set and not the cast, you see an exquisite town set on a hillside sloping down to the old port and the azur water of the Mediterranean Sea. The buildings are painted in sun-washed pastel colors and roofed in red tiles. And Saint-Tropez, like so many Riviera towns, is a great place to relax - there are not the must-see museums and sights of large cities. Saint-Tropez is all about the charming town and the beautiful beaches that surround it, to be enjoyed at a relaxed pace.

Against this setting, the behemoth yachts in the port, the flashy cars, and the gaudy people look like interlopers.


After exploring the town and noshing on a great dinner, I am now in my hotel room enjoying a glass of Provencal rose. Earlier, a light late-day rain was falling and when the sun poked out for a minute, a full-arc rainbow appeared. Then it morphed into two rainbows (no, really...and it was only one glass of wine). Now, it is late evening and I am perched on the window ledge of my room (not to worry - there are layers of awnings and palm trees below me to cushion a fall). I can smell the foods of the Med from the bistros below - garlic and onions and grilled seafood and meats. The stars are out and the breeze is brisk. I feel like I am in Van Gogh's "Starry Nights". It is all good. 

It is good to know the way to Saint-Tropez (even if your only yacht floats in your bath tub back home).

Dispatch from Miami, Florida - Glidin' in the Glades

I have spent a lot of time experiencing South Florida over the years and I've had some great adventures along the way. But I've never had that ubiquitous South Florida tourist experience - an air boat ride in the Everglades. Today, as my great aunt used to say, "God willing and weather permitting" that will change.

I'm headed out Tamiami Trail to the site of one of the many companies that offer air boat rides. 

Miami is a sprawling city but as you drive west, urban and suburban development abruptly end and you find yourself in the Everglades. No wonder there are seemingly daily news reports about alligators in swimming pools, school yards, and the kitchen's of people's homes. South Florida is built right up to - and in some cases over - the Everglades. We and the alligators and all the other Everglades critters share the same 'hood.

With all the alligator encounters I've had, I should be used to these creatures. But as we know from past posts, I am not. They scare me. They look at me like they know I'm afraid of them. 

When I see homes set against a canal or a pond in South Florida, I shudder to think of living there. Every time I'd go to the yard to call out for Fluffy the cat (or Junior the kid, for that matter) and not get an immediate response, I'd think the worst.

After you hit the Everglades along Tamiami Trail, buildings are few and far between. Just about all that dots the highway are the tourist places offering an Everglades experience. 

The air boat place I'm headed to is set on the side of the busy road smack in the middle of the Everglades. The place is nice enough, with all the accoutrements of a good tourist attraction - a somewhat cheesy gift shop and a greasy spoon restaurant with fried everything listed on a Coke board. I love it. But in this case, the offerings include gator tots. As if the air boating over their heads doesn't tick off the alligators enough, I'm sure the smell of their brethren being deep fried will.

In the parking lot and everywhere else you wander, there are signs telling you to not bother wild alligators. The signs have an animated picture of an open alligator mouth and a human arm with the fingers separated from the hand. Point taken.

I always get a kick out of signs like these. To me they are some desperate attempt to cheat Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest. They're like the directions painted on London streets at sidewalks telling people to look to the left or right before crossing. How many tourists not used to traffic driving on the left side of London roads got smacked by a London cab or double-decker bus before the authorities said, "We'd better paint warnings on the streets"?. In this case, how many gator-taunting tourists were disunited from a limb before the powers-at-be said, "We'd better put up a sign"?.

When I check in, I am corralled along docks to an area with a variety of tour-ready air boats. When boarding the boat, I am given a pair of bright orange foam ear plugs and told that I must wear them because the boats are noisy. Immediately, I imagine going out on the tour and seeing another boat flipped over with big bite marks on its hull and no sign of anyone - just a bunch of these orange ear plugs floating in the water.

The tour itself is a great experience. Once underway, I finally understand the reason for the air boats. They can glide on top of the shallowest of water because they have no props beneath. It's all about the air power. In places, we are in open water but in others, we seem to skim over the grassy land of the Everglades. 




The area is vast and no buildings are in sight. You have a frontier feeling as you zip around this beautiful place.

By the by, I think KIm Jong-un is on the boat in front of me. Come to think of it, maybe it's not him because I can't see Dennis Rodman. Judge for yourself. Anyhoo, at least his head is blocking the wind.

Of course, the guide slows the boat at different spots to see alligators. At one spot, a gator comes swimming by as if on cue, like some Orlando theme park attraction. But in the relative safety of the boat, the gator is not what strikes me. It's what the guide says. 

We are next to this small outcrop of trees - a crude little island. The guide says that this is called a "hammock" and that Native Americans inhabited small islands like this back in the day.

They escaped forced relocation by government and came here to be left alone. Alone indeed. I can't imagine how desolate it must have been, especially when it was dark, the area was teeming with wildlife, and mosquitoes were the size of birds. Wow.

After the ride, we are invited to roam the park and see a live alligator interaction show. The guy who does the show is engaging but as he handles the alligators, big and small, and tells us how safe it is to handle them if it's done properly, I can't help but notice this bandage on his face and wonder what happened. 

After the show, I continue to explore through a park area with varieties of gators and crocs in pens. They even have the human-eating Nile crocodile that recently has been found in the wilds of South Florida. Lovely. Oh yea, this one's got my number.

As I'm bravely staring this beast down through chain link fencing, I hear an air boat approaching and look up. The air boat is coming in from a tour, just like mine did, and is passing by the grassy area where I am standing. 

With a thump in my stomach, I realize that the area where I am standing is open to the water where the tours go and where the wild alligators are. Without putting too fine a point on it, I am looking at these exotic human-eating specimens penned behind fencing but I am standing in the open Everglades with all the human-eating creatures that call it home. Sure enough, just as my pea brain takes all this in, I see a big alligator taking a stroll on the grass next to the incoming air boat - and he is not behind any fence! Dagnabbit!



As if that isn't enough, to guild the sheer-fear lily, I reel around to avert the threat. As I am turning, I look up and catch sight of a palm tree full of big birds. I squint to see them against the backdrop of the sunlight and realize that it is a flock of vultures, perched right above me. What are they waiting for? Everglades tourist road kill to snack on? I'm so out of here. I'd rather face the crazy wild people of Miami than the crazy wildlife of the Everglades.

Dispatch from Hong Kong - Hong vs. Kong

Hong Kong is a city of contradictions: futuristic skyscrapers next to shabby buildings; high speed yachts sharing Victoria Harbor with traditional Chinese fishing boats; five-star gourmet cuisine alongside street food vendors; haute couture fashion houses on the same block as dollar stores selling cheap wares.


Next to my hotel, a skyscraper is under construction. The modern building reaches for the sky but the scaffolding cladding it is crudely made entirely from bamboo lashed together and covered in green plastic netting.

And yet all these contradictions create an eclectic mix that makes Hong Kong entirely unique.


The pace of Hong Kong is fast. There are more than 7 million people here and they tend to get around with haste, just like the big bucks being spent on luxury goods and the billions of dollars flying around the financial market.

And then there is that skyline, so beautifully highlighted by the city's harbor. On the hotel- and tourist-heavy Kowloon side, the harbor-front boardwalks do double duty as an open air stadium to view the nightly light spectacle of the Hong Kong skyline. Even that moves fast.

Yesterday, as I was wandering the streets of Hong Kong, I was struck by how much of the British influence remains - from the street and building names to the high tea ritual at all the swanky hotels.

With it's own money, government, and culture, as well as so much that remains British, the "Special Administration Region" of Hong Kong is an anomaly within China. But that is probably smart. The SAR allows China to have capitalism and all things western without compromising the communist state - the best of both worlds.

To experience Hong Kong's greatest contradiction, you need only take a short walk west of that world class skyline. Within a few blocks, you leave the Hong Kong you know and enter a traditional Chinese community. I explored it this morning.

The streets are lined with small independent shops selling all sorts of adventurous stuff - exotic foods, herbs, live animals. I saw one shop that sold live snakes to cure all sorts of ails. Apparently people pay to have the gall bladder taken out of a live snake and eat it raw in the belief that doing so ensures long life (not, it goes without saying, for the snake). While I was standing there, a guy came out of the shop holding an empty snake basket and scanned the sidewalk like he lost something. I left pretty quickly.

On this hot summer day, the sidewalks in front of these shops are lined with all sorts of things drying on plastic or in baskets in the hot sun - veggies, mushrooms, fish, sea slugs, lizards, and even seahorses. I guess the drying intensifies the flavor, but with all the traffic, it must also add a note of exhaust.


In an attempt to escape the heat, I ducked into the central market. Wow, that place was intense. People and food were flying around everywhere - chickens being slaughtered, boiled, and plucked; pigs being portioned; seafood being cleaned on the floor; vegetables being bundled and tossed onto tables. I saw one guy in chef's whites walking out with a slaughtered pig over his shoulder. The pig was not packaged in any way - just bound at the hind legs with twine. It bobbed up and down like it was dancing as the chef walked away. I guess pork is on the menu tonight.

After a butcher fired up his hose to clean his stall just as I passed, and showered me with specks of all the nasty protein bits he was cleaning, I decided that the blazing heat and sun outside were not that bad after all. 

I headed up another street that had many shops selling what looked like colorful toys. But these weren't toy stores. It turns out they were funeral stores selling plastic and cardboard replicas of everything and anything you can imagine. Apparently people buy these and burn them at the funeral or bury them with the deceased for use in the afterlife. 

And when I say they sell everything you can imagine, I am not kidding. I saw utensils, books, musical instruments, sporting goods, designer handbags, make up, bundles of money, food, booze, ciggies, flat screen tv's, cars, headphones, laptop computers, cell phones (talk about roaming charges) and dolls that were dressed like servants (I guess it's hard to get good help in the afterlife), all made from plastic or cardboard.

But what I couldn't find in any of the stores, no matter how hard I looked, was what I would want buried with me more than anything else - a return ticket.