Postmark Hong Kong

Reflections on our Indian Summer

2008-03-08T03:45:00.011+08:00

I know we’re back, and I know that what once made us special (tall white people) has been replaced by house sitting duty, shoveling snow, and “puppy patrol”. There is no longer a reason to even read this stuff because we can be reached by phone now, and you could just ask us. I know all this, but I still feel a need to complete the story of this magical year we had living in Hong Kong – and prolong its existence in my mind. I think every expat reaches a point where you either become permanent, or you return home, and for us that point was probably another year away. Being back has had its challenges especially given our decision to move to Boston from Washington DC, but I think we both feel lucky to have even had a year overseas, and are looking forward to new adventures closer to home. So with that I would like to provide a brief exposure to the as yet undocumented trips to India, Cambodia, and New Zealand.

Carpooling

Local passersby

India for Idiots

In approaching a task as great as planning a trip to India the real challenge is trying to decide how rough you want to make it. Nothing will be smooth, it’s a just a matter of your tolerance for chaos. We tend to like being masters of our own destiny which means we walk that line between heated toilet seats, and heat. We steer clear of the “Palace on Wheels” train excursions, or the tried and true Abercrombie and Kent trips, but on the other hand we try to leave frame packs, and rolls of toilet paper at home. With India this middle road approach meant that we would try a few cities less traveled to by tourists, maybe stay in a locally owned Havelli (Indian B&B), hit the street vending scene, but also treat ourselves to some well deserved Chicken Makhanwala by the pool.

The worst part about India is that EVERYONE is working an angle on you. From the time you step off the plane, and stand waiting beneath diseased fluorescent tube lighting watching bags being thrown onto a carousel that probably was salvaged from a now updated airport halfway around the world, you feel their stares. Just people everywhere standing around staring at you. Everywhere! All on the same team. You feel them sizing you up, the entire team: baggage handlers, taxi drivers, armed guards, customs officials. All working together, passing you from one player to the next trying to get in your pocket. It took us 25 minutes to get a taxi. Not because there was a long cab line, or we got lost, or just had to walk a great distance. No. It was because it took 25 minutes to find out HOW to get a taxi. No one would give us a straight answer. The first cabbie we got walked too far into the parking lot for our liking. The airport guard pointed us to another cab stand, but none of those cabbies would use a meter. The third cabbie wouldn’t take us because we had already said “no” to one of his teammates. And around, and around it goes. Welcome to India.

When Heather first said she wanted to ride camels I thought it might be a bad idea. My riding experience consisted of riding a broken pack horse in the Grand Canyon, and Heather riding her Great Pyrenees around the living room. We’re not “natural riders.” But she won me over with the old “when else in our lives will we have the chance to ride a camel?” argument. She had me there. And so it was that we found ourselves being driven through the desert outside the city of Jaisselmer at 7:30 AM in the back of a windowless Tata truck at breakneck speed. Our guidebook described Jaisselmer as, “almost entirely a sandy waste, forming a part of the great Indian Thar desert”. These less than flattering words do wonders in terms of keeping away tourists, but leave out its charms – namely the small city feel, carved sandstone buildings, and camel safari’s which was what had drawn us to so remote a locale. The city sits 60 miles from the border with Pakistan, and houses a large air force base on its outskirts for this very reason. The Indians hate the Pakistani’s – currently because of the disputed ownership of Kashmir, but historically for a number of reasons. As we raced through the desert I could see fighter jets darting overhead on their morning show of patriotic bravado. Or were they chasing us? Our driver was yelling something over his shoulder about breakfast; but maybe he was cursing the infidels, and we were really on a one way track for the holy land a couple of dunes beyond the horizon. Damn the camels.

The truth was breakfast was on my mind. We had been staying at a beautiful Havelli in the Jaisselmer Fort which dominates the center of the city. This is truly a unique opportunity that I could not see happening anywhere else in the world but a place as disorganized as India. The Jaisselmer Fort (called a fort, but really a castle amongst a working village with a 30 foot defensive wall) is still occupied, and functions as it has for hundreds of years. If this were in Europe it would be a museum; here you can be part of the exhibit. Our Havelli was a sandstone house perched above the wall in one corner of the fort that provided a breathtaking view overlooking the city and the desert beyond. Each night we would have cocktails on the roof deck at sunset as the haunting call to prayer echoed out of the cities mosques. Each morning we would enjoy breakfast in the same spot before the day time sun had risen. I savored those early moments when the city had yet to rise, and we would sip coffee figuring out how we could open a business in this strange and magical place. It was September, and being the desert, it was cool at night, but day time temps were well into the 90’s. The afternoon we left for the safari we had to skip lunch, and breakfast had been the last meal I had eaten. Damn the camels.

Our camel guides were a local farmer and his son who could not have been more than 9, but rode a camel like Willie Shoemaker. We met them at the end of a dirt road in a desert village where we mounted our beasts, and set off into the inferno. In this area the desert consisted of low lying thicket, and sand. The idea of this safari was to ride a few miles out to where the landscape became pure sand dunes, make camp, spend the night, and ride back. It sounded manageable, but not five minutes into sitting in that postage stamp size saddle atop that horned hump, and my crotch was numb. Where were those fighter jets when you needed them? I wonder if with enhanced laser guided technology a pilot could shoot a missile at the camel killing it, and spare me? We’d have to research that one further when we got back. Though I have to admit, aside from my fear of self inflicted sterilization, I was having a lot of fun.

It was a scene that should have been a Salvador Dali poster; just two cots sitting in the sand in the middle of nowhere. Sleep tight. The view of the stars overhead made the uneasiness associated with sleeping completely out in the open worth it. We woke at sunrise the next day as the desert winds began to pick up, and drop its sandy passengers in our mouths, ears, and hair. The dung beetles were busy eating their breakfast. Neither of us was too excited to put our stiff backs on top of those humps again, but there was only one way out, and that’s the way we came in. Damn the camels.

Our next stop was in Jodphur, and after an entertaining a nine hour drive with our semi-trustworthy driver Raj, we arrived at the Umaid Bahwan Palace. Again, in my opinion, this is an opportunity one could only experience in India. The current Raj of Jodphur (that’s a Prince to you and me) converted his palace to one half hotel, while the other half continues to serve as his majesty’s primary residence when he’s not off visiting Oxford, his alma matter. The hotel arrangement – compliments of the Taj Hotel Group - is a nice way to offload the financial burdens of owning so massive a home while retaining some measure of dignity. Any other country, and no doubt the government would continue to subsidize the Prince’s lifestyle, or it would be turned into a museum. But in India it is a place where anyone who pays the price to stay here (a bargain by western standards) can sip cocktails on his majesty’s steps while taking in the sunset. Heather wanted me to mention that this hotel is where Elizabeth Hurley married her Indian husband. Clearly we were in the right place. The money spent on the detail, and the craftsmanship that went into creating this mecca, could never be justified for a newly built hotel. The structure was awesome, ornate, and rich, but done in a way that did not seem pretentious. An atrium over the entryway soared to 120 feet, an indoor pool, interior courtyards, elegant dining rooms, and an oak paneled smoking lounge with the heads of large game mounted on the walls was what we passed on our way to our bedroom each evening. Think the White House done in the style of the India High Plains. The hardest part about staying at this place is that you do not want to leave.

Our soft spot for the night

Tip of the nip/Tip of the Taj

Crazy Train

I always find it easier to write about the extreme parts of a trip be they good or bad. It just makes better narrative. I assure you my intention is not to come off as Indiana Jones with Heather as my Bond girl (yes it is) as we navigate these remote portions of the world. If you do indeed find all experiences to date a self indulgent fantasy ride, my apologies, but please spare this next experience any negative judgment. It’s the real India.

We did finally have to leave the Umaid Bahwan palace. And with misty eyes, Heather bid our personal concierge Swaroop a VERY well received farewell hug. I stood nearby pale as a birch tree from throwing up all day (culprit yet to be determined – probably something planted by said personal concierge). Reading the look in Swaroop’s eyes as he turned to face me, I could tell he was less enthused about receiving similar hugs from me, and more enthused about a 100 rupee note. What was one more damned hand out? I was already bleeding bills all over this razed land.

It was about 6:30 in the evening when our driver dropped us off in front of the Jodphur train station. I’m not sure where to begin. I guess I’d like to start by thanking my parents for letting me attend so many music concerts when I was younger, and thus preparing me for times like this. The last time I had seen a mob so chaotic as this was fighting my way to a floor seat at an ACDC concert in Worcester Mass after the band had already lit into “Thunderstruck”. Unlike then there was no one puking on my shoes, but we did have to watch where we stepped because there were rats running around everywhere. Groups of people clustered in the shadows, waiting for trains outside the building, and inside on the concrete floor of the terminal. Many were banging drums, or playing stringed instruments, the likes of which I have never before seen. The smell of marijuana permeated the air, and the ruby red stain of betel nut spit was everywhere. I could have been in Limestone Maine at a Phish concert. A thousand long haired hippies dancing on my lawn, but no sign of George Harrison (sorry Susan). We were stunned. No one at the hotel had mentioned the absolute hell we were in for, and our driver had made a point of getting away from this thunder dome as fast as he could. In the corner of the terminal was a ticket office that had a thicker gauge chicken-wire fence enclosing two Indian men. I suppose a more accurate description is that the fence was keeping out the throngs of screaming Indians trying to get tickets, or determine when their trains were leaving. There was no line, no decorum, or sense of order. This was raw humanity.

I left Heather with our bags and a newly purchased 40 pound carpet about 20 yards off, and gathered my nerve to enter the fray. I suppose it would be like entering the pit of the New York Stock Exchange on a mission to buy, and no clue how to do it. Luckily size is something I can count on my side, and so I started throwing elbows, and pushed my way to the front of the line. I slammed my itinerary against the wire, and yelled above the din to the man, “this train, what track?!!!” He cast me a look and said, “that train, delayed 6 hours.” I hadn’t felt so deflated since the time I rear-ended a BMW doing 7 mph on Wisconsin Avenue in the rain. Our train was originally scheduled to leave at 7:30 PM, this meant our new departure would be 1:30 AM. I was exhausted and nauseous, Heather was scared, and we were stuck. Fighting off touts and taxi drivers like flies, we tried to make a plan. Heather identified a beer hall in our guide book that was advertised as a good holdover spot for those stranded at the train station. Gives a little insight to the reliability of the train service when nearby businesses cater to the lost tourist. Nevertheless it was just the remedy. Heather sat and read while I tried to sleep myself towards a settled stomach. Neither of us was too successful, but the six hours passed a lot more pleasurably than it would have back at the thunder dome. When we finally boarded our train at 1:45 AM, not even the large water bugs (read: small roaches) climbing around our bunk, or our Taliban looking neighbors could scare us out of a decent nights sleep.

View of Jodhpur's Fort from Umaid Bhawan Palace

The achitectural majesty of Jaislamer's sandstone structures

The Magical Mahal

I did want to briefly mention our last stop in India which was at the Taj Mahal. After hearing so much about it, I was expecting a let down. We stayed at the Oberoi which sits a 10 minute walk from the front gates of the Taj, and was a beautiful hotel though not in the same league as the Umaid Bahwan. One felt like a palace, the other like a hotel built to look like a palace. The Taj Mahal complex is vast, and consists of a lot more than just the angelic white mausoleum you see on the all the postcards. When I first walked around the corner, and caught a glimpse of the structure I was truly transfixed, but not necessarily blown away. However, the image continued to draw me in, and after spending two hours walking the grounds – the only area in the city kept clear of beggars and scam artists – I didn’t want to leave. Partly because I didn’t know if I would ever have another chance to see it again, but more I think because I just didn’t feel like I was done looking at it. Each angle offered a new fascination, and appreciation of labor and skill that had gone into creating such a structure. The Taj was my favorite of the three wonders we saw this past year (Great Wall, Ankor Wat, Taj).

India is not for everyone. For those that like an adventure, and have a tolerance for improvisation, it offers a deep cultural return. You can also pay to sidestep the rougher edges, and still experience the beauty of the Taj, take in some markets, and eat some local food. But I think you miss out on the personal interaction which we found meaningful, as well as seeing first hand the crushing poverty and ugliness of what makes this country so colorful.

Swaroop's turban tying work

Two Players; One Trophy

2007-10-31T20:28:00.000+08:00

Will and I innocently entered the singles tennis tournament this past weekend at the Ladies Recreational Club, our local tennis haunt in Hong Kong. The tournament started with Will as the club favorite, which is a tough burden to carry. He was the number one seed and featured as the poster boy (literally) for a new evening singles tennis league - an action shot of him from a previous event was proudly displayed on a flyer promoting the league that was liberally handed out during the tournament.

My entry on the other hand, was shrouded in absolutely no fanfare whatsoever - though my hopes were high as I left the apartment at 8:00 am on Saturday to play three consecutive matches against three rather shabby players. I lost them all and thus my exit from the tournament presented itself much like my entry - with little notice at all.

Naturally, my losses were well made up for by Will's wins. Will played a match on Saturday - and walked away with an easy win. Sunday brought a tougher schedule and tougher opponents. The day began at 9:00am with a harder than expected game against an unknown Japanese fellow who though much shorter than 'Stilts' held strong and fought for every point. It proved to be a good warm up and Will walked away with an 8-4 victory (sets worked best to 8).

Two matches and two victories later Will was a sweaty mess with a tough line-up ahead. Positioned once again on center court with an even bigger crowd Will took on another Japanese player, Ryo, a regular hitting partner and Hong Kong ranked tennis guru. Ryo, though fast on the draw, wasn't much of a challenge for Will's service game and aggressive net play. He took home the win again at 8-3. The semi-final win against Ryo put Will into the final match for club champ against another American expat and new club member - Ethan.

Ethan, seven years Will's junior, had age, an ivy league degree and little else on our boy, especially in terms of charm and sportsmanship. A huge crowd gathered to watch the final match - with people rooting for their favorites (mostly Will) and cheering loudly at every hard won point. Will took Ethan down 6-4 in the first set and everyone said he was poised to win. But the tables turned unexpectedly and unfavourably for Team Willis and Ethan took the second set 6-2. The format was two sets to be followed by a 10 point tie breaker and it was obvious to everyone that Will was weak and weary.

The crowd was in an uproar - it was like watching Borg and McEnroe, Federer and Nadal or Venus and Serena. I sat on edge, biting my nails as Ethan forged ahead with an 8-5 lead. Will looked like he had given up hope. I saw money exchanged in the crowd and realized that not only were people betting on my husband but that perhaps the odds had changed. Then Will broke Ethan's serve and evened things out to 8-8. My stomach was still in knots, I felt on the edge of tears - all for a fake gold trophy and the honor of holding the the club championship title for a year - a year we wouldn't be here, and a title Will wouldn't be able to defend. Will lost the next serve taking it to 8-9 - giving Ethan match point. I wanted to sink into my chair. The crowd hung on to every second and silence filled the arena. The quiet was broken by shouts - "Come on Will" (there were a few"Go Ethans" too) as rowdy fans lifted the spirits and energy of the players. Will tossed the ball into the air for the serve - it landed inside the service box and the return went into the net. Phew. It was neck in neck and continued that way for a few points until it was 11-10 Will, and ball was in his court, literally and he nailed an ace at Ethan's face, as the crowd cheered wildly. It was his point, giving him the victory, the title of club champ - and all the glory that comes along with it - which in a small tennis obsessed club in Hong Kong, is quite a lot.

I had to work my way through a thick crowd of fans to give the champ his congratulatory kiss as all the members fawned over the new-found tennis hot-shot. "Fabulous tennis." "The best game ever." "The way the game should be played." "A new level of tennis." I even heard Clive, a true tennis fanatic say, "This is the best game of tennis I've seen in years, it's like watching Wimbledon." This coming from the guy who made his wife stay at the Bali Hilton on their one year anniversary so he could see a woman's pro-am tournament - that's how much he likes his tennis. For a tall guy who aspired to be a famous tennis player and his dotting wife, it was a day of glory. And none of it was eclipsed by the Red Sox world series victory. Not for me anyway - I'm still being congratulated on my husband's victory!

So to answer your question, who won the men's singles tennis tournament? The guy on the poster, that's who. Final score 6-4, 2-6, 12-10. Wow!

Will with his friends and opponents, Ethan and Mic Foo, before the final match

Neverland

2007-08-25T18:44:00.000+08:00

Maserati's, Ferrari's, yachts, personal helicopters, the highest per capita rate of Rolls Royce's, that's Hong Kong, a place with lots of big boys with big toys. If living in Hong Kong is my version of Never Neverland then that makes Will Peter Pan. And 'Peter' took a trip to Saigon about a month ago. It's unlikely that my story telling capabilities will do justice to the events that unravelled during the course of our three day visit to the epicenter of Vietnam's War with America but I'll go on. For the history buffs, war veterans and baby boomers who give this entry a read, please forgive my glossed-over summary of the war. Here goes:

Saigon served as the base of the American forces during the Vietnam war and as a result suffered many casualties. Thus the city contains numerous memorials including a very graphic and powerful war museum as well as the Cu Chi Tunnels, which much like the German concentration camps, have been turned into tourist sites. Tourists can visit the Cu Chi Tunnels at one of two places - Ben Dihn (B1 for ease) which is in as-is condition since the war and Ben Duco (B2) - which has been restored. Both sites allow guests to walk/crawl through the tunnels and fire AK-47's, among other weapons that the 'evil American enemy' used to unsuccessfully take down the will and hearts of the Viet Cong. B2 also allows visitors the option of dressing as Guerrillas while touring the site. Choosing which site to visit was a bit confusing. The were both approximately 1 hour from downtown Saigon, and while the hotel could arrange a car to take us to B2, our guide book mentioned it was a bit like an 'amusement park' and not as authentic a section. Personally, I didn't care either way, I just wanted to check the box and see the site. Will on the other hand, agonized over the decision. Partly because he wanted to pay fair tribute to Dudley's efforts in 'Nam and partially because he can nit-pick over the smallest decision to his hearts content. Several times he mentioned that he 'really didn't' want to go to B2, 'it sounded lame and he wasn't into dressing up in guerrilla gear.' Fine, neither was I - and I didn't really care to shoot a semi-automatic weapon either. We talked about it in Hong Kong, then on our flight, then at breakfast on Saturday, again Saturday afternoon and after we had finally arranged for a trip to B1 (the more legit site) and once more on Sunday morning before we departed. The constant harping on the guerrilla gear had me wondering what was going through his mind but I figured he couldn't be making that mistake. No. Will wasn't thinking that tourists were dressing up as King Kong and running around a powerful war memorial that recognizes the death of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, civilians, women and children, fearlessly beating their hairy costumed chests, in 90 degree heat. That confusion was impossible. So I let it go....until he mentioned it one more time and I had to ask if he was thinking visitors were dressed in GORILLA COSTUMES as opposed to GUERRILLA WARFARE GEAR and by the stunned look on his face, I knew the answer...

(photo courtesy of BJ Scarritt)

The Last Stop was Vietnam

2007-08-13T23:10:00.000+08:00

Waiting in line is never fun. Space Mountain during Spring Break. Mid-Vail Quad during MLK’s Birthday weekend. The White House tour with two impatient cousins under the age of 10. Tough lines all, but none of these compare to the Sunday wait to visit the Communist Crypt of “Uncle Ho”, the Father of Vietnamese freedom himself, Ho Chi Minh.

How long was this line you ask? The easiest way to answer this question would be to say it took us an hour and half, and we were moving the entire time. Two miles is my honest belief, though Heather claims without our mental faculties fully available, on account of the 97 degree heat, we’ll truly never know. No cameras were allowed near the grounds so we can’t even resort to photographic evidence. What is clear is that the line started in one part of the city, and then proceeded at the direction of sporadically placed military officials through parking lots, backyards, marching grounds, and metal detectors. At one point our section was almost taken out by a tour bus backing up, but no one seemed to notice. After that much time in the sun, your mind convinces you that what you’re doing is an important use of the precious hours left in Hanoi, and nothing can deny your forward progress. The group ahead of us spoke French, and by the end of our wait I was fluent. I grew a beard, and Heather went through 3 pairs of flip flops. It was long I tell you. The worst part is, and the greatest irony of all, the Vietnamese have zero understanding of the concept of a line. It’s like some carry over affect of Communism where everyone is viewed as one equal mass, and to order things would be too capitalistic. I can’t emphasize enough how infuriated I started to become as local after local would leave their place, walk 50 feet ahead, and then drift back into line grinning the entire time. Hey it’s their country, and we inflicted massive damage to them over a 10 year conflict, so I could rationalize it as penance. But payback really is a bitch.

The bigger question was why were we actually doing this, and to this I have no acceptable answer. After an hour and a half of miserable queu, we had 10 seconds to walk by the crypt. Apparently for some, it is a very powerful experience, whereby they are overcome with spiritual awakening upon viewing the great father. Ho Chi Minh did rally the Vietnamese people to evict the colonial occupiers, so he is worthy of reverence on the one hand. But we were operating on a much lower plane, and really were just curious how they kept his hair from falling out after 38 years. Truthfully, seeing the preserved body of a dead man made me sort of sick to my stomach. I still can’t eat soft fruit without thinking of Ho's waxy exterior.

Did I mention that we were in Hanoi before we got sidetracked on the million man march? Hanoi was the second leg of our Vietnam excursion which was done over two weekends in July with Saigon being the first stop two weekends prior. As there so often is amongst the traveling set, of which I now humbly consider myself a member, fierce debate surrounds the “best” places to visit in particular countries. One such debate commonly thrown around is whether Saigon or Hanoi is the preferable stop in Vietnam. Obviously the best answer is to see them both, but if pressed we came away with Hanoi as our clear favorite. Saigon is the commercial hub, and birthplace of the new emerging Vietnam much in the way Mumbai is for India. These are exciting places to visit, but my feeling is that the city is often times racing to keep up with the people. More sprawl, construction, and general growing pains. Where a place like Hanoi is more secure in its history, and therefore provides a clearer sense of place; its evolving, but at a much more orderly pace. We really enjoyed the French Colonial vibe with its teeming café culture, art galleries, and open green spaces. The food we found to be inferior to Saigon overall, and there was not as much “war history”, but this was a nice break after Saigon where we got a lot of that (tunnels of Cu Chi, American War Museum). The Sofitel Metropole (not to be confused with the other Sofitel in town), where unfortunately we could not book a room, is one of the more charming hotels I have ever set foot in. It’s a real colonial hold over, and has that classic feel where one half expects to see Humphrey Bogart in the corner hanging over the piano asking Sam to "play it again". Little bit nicer than our Hotel where Heather had to ask Ho Jr. to take the morning buffet eggs and "heat it again," but we had a great location in the quainter part of town so we made it work. The people in Vietnam also bear mention as they were exceptionally warm and friendly especially given what they have been through in the past 75 years. It is an interesting demographic where women occupy an almost equal role in business as men, and 60% of the population is under the age of 30.

Saigon

Art industry

French Colonial Architecture

Down time with a wax soldier at the Cu Chi Tunnels

Scooter Scary

Hanoi

Hoan Keim Lake

Lunch, dinner ... or both

A Total Bust

2007-08-10T10:45:00.000+08:00

Those of you worried that we'd been blown away to Mainland China need not fret any longer. We're still here, staring down the face of a lame level 3 typhoon. Much like back home, the media here is all hype delivering a lot of talk about would be weather and little actual stormage. A level 3 typhoon is basically your average rainy day with perhaps a spot or two of flash flooding in the low lying areas next to the harbour. It's pretty basic and pretty boring. Will dutifully crept off to work this morning (I could see the disappointment on his face) leaving me alone in the shoebox to type in the bliss of a peace and quiet that is augmented only by the soothing sound of falling raindrops. The meteorologist in me will be rather disappointed if I'm not able to report on a real typhoon for you before the year is out.

mushrooms at market

the ubiquitous corner store

Typhoon Threat Level 1

2007-08-08T13:41:00.000+08:00

I walked into my building lobby this afternoon, amidst sunny skies and sweltering heat, to find a Typhoon Warning Level 1 prominently displayed on a board in front of the elevator. Since Wan Dick's cleaning crew does such a thorough job scrubbing down every nook and cranny of this shiny new building on a daily basis I figured one of the cleaners had temporarily relocated the sign in front of the 'lift' while windexing its usual home and decided to investigate further by calling my ever-knowledgeable husband who is surrounded by even more knowledgeable people at the office. To my dismay Will confirmed that indeed a severe typhoon warning is in effect - with an excepted Warning Level of 8 to mount by tomorrow - that's 8 on a scale of 1 t0 10. To the transplanted Westerner this does not bear much significance except that anything above 7 means no one goes to work. Aside from a few bouts of severe stomach upset due to questionable cuisine, Asia hasn't thrown me anything I can't handle - torrential rain and gale force winds: check (Hurricane Gloria anyone?); back breaking sweat and nausea inducing humidity: not unlike DC. So looking Mother Nature in the eye and waiting to see what she brings, what's my real fear? I wonder what the Albatross and I will do while stuck inside our 800 square foot apartment for eight plus hours with a chess board and no t.v. We'll see what ensues.

Severe Tropical Storm PABUK

at 11:00 HKT 08 August 2007

(22.3 N, 117.9 E)

In Hong Kong

2007-07-25T16:27:00.000+08:00

Some of you might be wondering if we do anything at all in Hong Kong since most of our blog entries focus on travel. It wasn't until my friend Adam Brucker (www.adambrucker.com for a good read on life in Boulder) referred to this as a 'travel blog' that we realized how we've strayed from our original intent to chronicle life in Hong Kong.

So, some local goings-on:

The 10th Anniversary Handover fireworks celebration, as seen from the Mid-Levels.

Playing (and placing 2nd) in a highly competitive, social tennis tournament.

Out with friends from the office.

Enjoying a Junk ride - a standard summertime outing which includes a handful of people, an old boat and loads of food and drink.

Jumping off the Junk

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto

2007-07-13T12:06:00.000+08:00

Before I get started I wanted to issue an apology to my Mother In Law Susan who violated existing FAA, SAR, and other assorted International Laws to smuggle four sleeves of her famous chocolate chip cookies for our (primarily mine) eating enjoyment during their recent visit chronicled in an earlier blog. I neglected to mention this selfless act of bravery until she was safely out of the Country for fear it could have landed her in jail. The cookies are long gone, but the memory of their savory goodness will live on forever, thank you Susan!!

As I sit in my 12th story apartment perch looking out upon the Hong Kong din with its inferno charged 95% humidified air, enveloping the soon to be displaced hunchback shopkeeper, the parked Porsche of the expatriate investment banker, and all souls in between with equally ferocious abandon, I have only one thought: Domo Arigato. You see prior to the weekend of June 16th the only placement in my lexicon for this phrase would be the brilliant 1983 Styx concept album “Kilroy Was Here” which features the hit single “Domo Arigoto Mr. Roboto”. But after 24 years not only has the mystery as to its translation been solved, but the journey which brought us to Japan for this bit of enlightenment, resulted in one of the most wonderful four days we’ve been lucky enough to have enjoyed while living in Hong Kong. One compelling enough to leave me wishing I was there this very moment.

My knowledge, heretofore, of this proud island nation had been limited to movies such as the underrated Michael Keaton smoothing over the cultural divide in Gung Ho, Bill Murray being lost in the cultural divide in Lost In Translation, and Dasuike Matsuzaka bridging the cultural divide as he leads the Red Sox to the 2007 World Series (I can’t deny it, I got a good feeling). Domo Arigato, or a formalized “thank you”, is just the first glimpse the outsider has of this divide with its ritualized social interaction towards outsiders. This treatment hardly has an alienating affect however, in fact it’s quite the opposite, you are made to feel like a guest of honor. Indeed after spending only a small amount of time there it became clear that Japanese are the cream of the crop in this part of the world. They are the only ones who both understand, and can afford, to preserve their cultural past while aggressively pursuing the future. The two blend with mutual celebration and respect as can be seen in the dichotomy of Tokyo and Kyoto, and Akasaka and Rappongi. Confused? It’s ok, just trying to flex a little Japanese knowledge on you. Although admittedly our trip merely scratched the surface, and I by no means left feeling like I understood the place, we both saw enough to decide we liked it and left vowing to return.

Tokyo and Kyoto - Nine Good Things to Know:

1. Narita International Airport is 50 miles from Tokyo. This would be like landing in Worcester if you were staying in Boston = rather large nuisance.

2. Ryokan: a traditional Japanese bed and breakfast style dwelling. You are cheating yourself if you don’t stay in one while visiting Kyoto. A trip highlight, though not for the sticker shy. We got to enjoy a traditional 11 course Japanese meal called Kaisecki which is a lot of fish and local veggies, don kimono’s, and sleep on floor mats. Bonsai!!!

3. Cabbies wear white gloves in cars with white linen seat covers. One could probably eat sushi off the back seat, I say go for it. You will need to bring directions written in Japanese with you as Jeevsi-san won’t speak the mother tongue.

4. The only ATM’s that will accept your filthy Western ATM card is Citibank. But unlike its adoptive step cousin the Philippines, Japan does understand the concept of a credit card.

5. If at all possible, try to travel with a blond girl, they’re catnip to the average Japanese male, and make getting directions a lot easier.

6. The street signs in Tokyo do not have names, and many of the hotel lobbies can be located halfway up a building. So don’t get frustrated if it takes you 25 minutes to find your hotel after being dropped off at it. It took us 30.

7. We thought the Japanese gardens were cooler than the temples and none better than Kyoto which was the only major city not bombed during the war

8. Japan is full of fun little technical superiorities that are basically useless, but have great "wow" appeal. No where is this more apparent than in the bathroom where almost all the toilets we encountered be they public, or private came with a panel that controlled a heated seat, and two different bidet settings for male or female (didn't really get this). The other feature we came across was a mirror which didn't fog over when you took a shower. Totally useless, but totally cool.

9. The trash truck crews are something to behold. They are a model of team work, committment, and hustle matched perhaps only by the Fenway grounds crew during the seventh inning stretch. It points to a larger social phenomenon in Japan where people take pride in whatever they do, and go unjudged. I could be naive here, but it seemed real to me, and I only wish people back in the States understood better the working class hero.

A clear day and rare view of Mt. Fuji -- if you squint you can see the white peak to the right of the tower.

A quaint side street in Asakusa

The bullet train, in action

The unrivaled Japanese garden

Kimono's and Kaisecki cuisine in Kyoto

Thailand - June 10, 2007

2007-06-20T15:41:00.000+08:00

It's hard to believe an entire year has passed since Will and I wed last June. To commemorate the 365 days we've endured as a married couple, we packed our bags and headed to Thailand for a magical weekend on the beach. Our four days were spent soaking up the sun, enjoying the surf, and largely reminiscing about our wedding...we recalled some of Father Flynn's outrageous behavior, how we lucked out with the weather, the moves we bootlegged from Drew Lachey on Dancing with the Stars for our first dance, the lovely toasts given by family members, all the non-stop action on the dance floor and how we wished the night had never ended. Despite not being able to live forever under that enchanting tent on the Hill-Stead lawn, the past year has been beyond expectation.

For those of you considering a honeymoon or vacation in Thailand all I can say is book as soon as humanly possible. The Thai's are some of the most hospitable people I've ever encountered - kind, sincere and friendly, they are perhaps Asia's greatest hosts. If you enjoy beautiful stretches of wide sandy beach, warm clear ocean water and coconut green curry then you're in for a real treat. Unfortunately our pictures don't tell the full story. This is a rare instance where the images I saw before going and those I took while there do little justice in translating the full serenity and beauty of the area.

June 10, 2006

June 10, 2007

Our First House Guests

2007-05-26T11:58:00.000+08:00

Heather and I live in an 800 square feet apartment. As a point of reference as to what this means, a tennis court is about 2,400 square feet. So it’s safe to say our place is about the size of two service boxes. While playing tennis for the University of Richmond I was known as the “albatross” for my ability while at the net to reach across both service boxes with my outstretched racket to snare passing shots. Why is this relevant? Well because for 14 days in May we welcomed another albatross, my father in law John, along with my mother in law Susan to our home. That’s a lot of bird for our little nest. I’m not going to lie, sometimes it’s a lot of bird just having Heather around. Was I concerned we might have the makings of a Hollywood romantic comedy where the new husband alienates his in-laws by making outrageous comments about the effectiveness of George Bush’s foreign policy, only to win them back by letting them sleep in his bed? Let’s roll the tape to find out…

Let the record show that before we arrived we received exactly 11 requests from friends and family to serves as hosts while in Hong Kong. After four months we had begun to wonder whether we were ever going to need the additional set of hand towels Heather bought the fourth day we were here. When John and Susan walked through the front door I felt like my own parents were arriving; it was exciting to see some familiar faces again. We had a busy two weeks expertly lain out by Heather, and we were all eager to catch up, and experience taking some sites in together.

So it was that after letting Susan and John catch up on their jet lag for two days…..we got back on a jet to Beijing. While on the Dragon Air flight there we all discovered that though John and I are the same height, he in fact has longer legs. His knees were in his chin, mine were only in my chest. God bless “chicken class”, but hey, at least the sodas were free. On the drive from the airport to the hotel it became clear that Beijing is on a major public relations blitz to get ready for the Olympics’. Road signs are being changed to add spelling using Roman lettering (called pin-ying), trees are being planted at a staggering level, spitting in public is now banned, and everywhere you see cranes building new roads, train tracks, and office buildings. The new Olympic stadium is one of the most impressive structures I’ve ever seen. I personally liked Beijing much more than I thought I would. It’s sprawling, but is organized around a well thought out system of roads with decent zoning. It’s an interesting blend of Chinese and communist flavors with first rate food and accommodations. There are colorful markets where the vendors seem to have as much fun bargaining as you do. Who doesn’t love being called an “evil man” for insisting on $3 instead of $4 for a silk tie? Perhaps the greatest moment however, occurred in the Forbidden City when a group of Asian tourists asked John if they could be photographed with him – guess it was the long legs. Acting like he’d been there many times before, John happily acquiesced. Just as I thought I was going to be left out of the fun, I was approached by a young Asian family. In a confusing and awkward and humbling moment, the father handed me their daughter who wasn’t really that small. I felt like I was saving a refugee from the Tsunami, and I’m not sure who was more confused, me or the kid. Pantomiming that he wanted to pose with me while I was holding his daughter, and his wife video taped the entire affair, I realized my 15 seconds was ticking. Unfortunately Heather did not manage to get a picture of the episode, but when our guide told us they wanted our pictures only because they thought our noses were “big and funny looking” I didn’t mind as much. No one said fame was easy.

After blitzing through the Forbidden City, ancient Hutong neighborhoods, Great Wall, Summer Palace, Silk Market, Pearl Market, and Kentucky Fried Chicken we were ready for the “rural and pastoral” retreat of Yangshou. Located in Southwestern China due North of Vietnam, Yangshou delivered as far as its scenic beauty, but fell short on its cultural charm. After two days there we had the impression that Western standards of the tourism industry have not left the big cities in China yet. Perhaps unfair to use Western style tourism as the standard of excellence, but I’m sorry to say that, though I can’t speak to how accommodating the Chinese were before Communism, they are absolutely clueless today. Don’t go to China looking for Cape Cod or the Catskills, for when it comes to providing an undisturbed, authentic, quality experience they simply don’t “get it”. Heather saved the experience by getting us moved from the decrepit hotel where our travel agent Maybelle (we should have known never to trust a Chinese travel agent named Maybelle) had originally booked us to a place where we were reasonably sure rodents weren’t living under our beds. We actually ended up having an enjoyable time, despite the accommodations, as we lounged poolside, took a bamboo raft ride down the river, and watched John buy half the art in the hotel gift shop – for which he got a great deal, it should be noted.

On the way back to the airport we spent the day in Guilin which was notable for the rate with which the government was making efforts to transform it from an agricultural village to a tourist hub. The scale and depth with which workers were going at these civic projects is not possible in a democratic state. Taxpayers simply would not stand for it. We watched as a four lane road – seemingly to nowhere – was being built. The road had sidewalks for bicycles on either side that had to be 15 feet wide which were being laid with beautiful granite slabs mined from the nearby hills. The damn sidewalk was nicer than any patio I’d ever eaten burgers on, and the road was in the middle of nowhere. Our guide explained to us that the government was going to be “encouraging” people to move to this now empty part of town. The country’s increasing wealth is quickly transforming former agricultural and industrial centers into tourist hubs, but until they figure out what tourism means, I would stick to the major cities in China.

Of course the beauty in visiting a place off the beaten path over here is that when you get back to Hong Kong, it REALLY feels like home. So our first night back we all piled into a booth at Aqua, a trendy spot overlooking the Hong Kong skyline that specializes in Italian food. No better way to cap off John and Susan’s stay, and though we don’t always see eye to eye on our politics, this was one trip that had a Hollywood ending.

I love my Mom and Dad; I don't love mainland China

2007-05-22T20:53:00.000+08:00

Everyplace I’ve been this year has had at least one redeeming quality, that is until I visited China. Okay, so maybe that’s an understatement (most places have had tons of great qualities) and an overstatement (China wasn’t totally miserable)…but not by much. My parents deserve lots of credit, for this particular adventure was their vacation. They endured the very long flight to Asia to make sure Will was taking proper care of me, and after stopping in Detroit and Tokyo, landed in Hong Kong. My Dad wanted to see China, and who could blame him, it’s full of a fascinating history and lore. His hit list included Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City, Summer Palace and Great Wall – a worthy who’s who of the country’s cultural monuments all in and around Beijing. Then I enter picture, along with my travel planning skills (you recall the Philippines blog entry) and you get the second part of our trip, two and a half days in Yangshou, a ‘picturesque’ town on the Li River in the southern Guangxi Province. Oops.

There were parts of our trip that were wonderful – and most of them centered on Beijing which captivated all of us. I got to see one of the seven wonders of the modern world, with my parents no less. We lucked out with beautiful weather - sunny, clear days which afforded great views in what can be a typically harsh and polluted environment (word has it that they are cracking down on factory emissions in preparation for the 2008 Olympics.) I was able to practice my Mandarin. We involuntarily visited a government run store and learned how silk was made, which was surprisingly interesting. And not all the food was terrible. One restaurant we visited had delicious Sichuan fare. Our chicken dish was so tasty (and spicy) that we could only assume the great flavor came from all the chicken parts that were used in its making including the head (beak included) and feet which were included in the serving dish.

Yangshou was stunning; a panorama of lush karst hills sprinkled among rice paddies and dotted with mist and clouds. It’s the classic Chinese painting in real life and a setting that has inspired artists for centuries. Its position on the Li and Yulong Rivers adds an additional element of natural beauty as well as a plethora of water oriented activities including river cruises, tubing and raft rides. The town is a playground for activity and sporting enthusiasts who enjoy the area for not only its scenery but also its great biking, hiking, rock climbing and water sports.

Vendors, downtown Yangshou

Rafting along the Yulong River

So what didn’t I like about China, as the above sounds pretty good. Well here is a brief list: the billions of people (it didn’t help that we visited over a holiday week and the crowds were horrific); the MSG – think of syrupy, hot pink sweet and sour pork; a lack of sophisticated tourist infrastructure outside of the major cities and no concept of customer service or what is necessary when being a host to international travellers.

What I realized in the end was that I was glad I made it to China; it piqued my interest in Chinese history while simultaneously squelching what can often be an unrelenting desire for extended travel in a place I’ve just visited. The trip was a great bonding experience with my husband and parents and though John and Susan were a bit squeamish about Yangshou when we first arrived, they agreed that the magnificent limestone hills were worth the visit. The final conclusion being that Beijing is a beautiful city resplendent in culture and history, and I'd like to go back, while Yangshou possesses unequivocal natural beauty … and it’s okay to visit a place once and leave with no desire to ever return.

Big Red

Big John among a pack of locals who requested to have their picture taken with the white giant (note the peace sign, very popular.)

Tiled roofs, The Forbidden City

Mao

Snapshot Laos

2007-04-24T17:23:00.000+08:00

While we continue to twiddle our thumbs and tap the key board trying to finish our interesting and thoughful commentaries on Laos, I thought I'd throw up some images we captured during our trip to this beautiful country a few weeks back.

Wat Po That Luang - The National Symbol

The Patuxay - Laos' version of the Arch de Triomphe,
which was built using U.S. cement meant for an airport

Their description of the Patuxay - evidence of a country in need of a tourism board

Settha Palace Hotel, Vientiane

'Tuk'ing a snooze

Our bike group in Luang Prabang.
Note background which shows active slash & burning of farm land

Beautiful waterfall/Swimming hole providing much needed relief after several hours of biking

More trouble on the dirt roads where Will's muscle's come in handy and I man the camera

Fragipani trees in front of a temple, Luang Prabang

The mighty Mekong

A ride on Nelly during the first day of rain in six months...fun or not fun

Laos

2007-04-21T17:19:00.000+08:00

Heather and I have just made a firm commitment to update this space on a more regular basis. We're disgusted with ourselves, and are self loathing for letting things slip for a month. I thought this year was going to be different, and was so confident I even asked for a diary for Christmas. It's collecting dust next to my chemistry set. To complete my mental mugging, I turned off the computer this morning with the Red Sox losing 6-3 to the Yankees, and they came to back to win it 7-6 while I was grinding my teeth at the tailor. Enough!! On with the update.

Who knew the Chinese loved their Christian holiday's? Not us. But it turns out they do, to the tune of three days off. Piggyback that with a weekend, throw in a couple paid leave days, and your talking about seeing a new country, maybe two. Heather always takes the lead when it comes to travel planning, and she got WAY out of the box on this one. I was thinking maybe some R&R on the beaches of Ko Samui. Heather was thinking about taking up arms against the oppressive dictatorship of the Khmer Rouge; we met somewhere in the middle: Laos.

When I first told my Chinese co-workers that I was going to Laos, they literally had never heard of the country. I hope their ignorance persists because it will continue to be their loss, and the gain of those willing to take a chance on a small little forgotten place located in the backwater of the mighty Mekong River between China, Vietnam, and Thailand. Laos has historically been the whipping child of any country (France, China, Thailand) wanting to take advantage of its abundant natural resources and diminutive population. More recently shielded from the outside world through the curtain of communism (see Heather's blog for her fiery commentary on this subject - suffice to say the CIA is probably watching me this very second), the country did manage to reap the benefit of foreign occupation as seen in its appreciation for urban planning and good food, compliments of the French.

Heather and I started the trip in the capital of Vientiane which has been to some degree influenced by the French capital of ol' Paris. Specifically they have their own version of the Arc de Triumph, and the Champs Elysee. It also has many grand mansions - now serving as guest houses, and wonderful brick sidewalks. Before you go digging out your passport, beret, and one way to ticket to Laos, keep in mind this is a third world country. As such, one needs to have that "3rd world" filter through which to view this place in order to appreciate its more subtle charms. You will see an occasional open sewer, some people living in "shacks", but look more closely and you'll see street vendors selling baguette and pate sandwiches, shaded cafes selling the peerless Laotian ice coffee, and everywhere smiling faces ready with an easy "Sabadee."

Heather and I stayed at the former residence of the Prince of Laos which has now been converted to a 27 room hotel. His loss, our gain. Though I was disappointed with the orange juice at the inclusive breakfast buffet which was inexcusably orange Tang, the pool and friendly staff made up for it. We especially like the security guard who saluted us when we walked out of the hotel in the morning. We hired a "tuk tuk" driver for about $10 a day who drove us around to the various sites in, and around town. With temps consistently in the upper 90's driving in the rear of this motorcycle powered go-cart, one felt as if staring into a 20 MPH hair dryer. We sweat the whole day through, and sill managed to stay charged up about being there. Highlights included the wood burning stove powered sauna at a local monastery (you read that correctly), and the multitude of temples, which unlike Thailand, are virtually tourist free. You got the sense that you were discovering a hidden gem, yet it was discovered enough such that basic tourist amenities (nice accommodations, good food, ATM's, etc. ) were in place. The tourist contingency generally was the backpacker set, or older adventurer's from France, Australia, and Germany. I don't think we saw one American which, for whatever reason, always makes you feel like you're doing something right. Apparently there is a lot of Chinese and Thai money looking to invest in the area, and one can only hope Laos is smart about retaining what makes it special, but based upon their history, don't' count on it.

Our second stop was in the UNESCO World Heritage town of Luang Prabang. We liked Vientiane, but we really hit our stride when we arrived in LP. Located a 45 minutes turbo prop (read: white knuckle) flight due north. Like Vientiane, LP is located on the Mekong, but unlike the larger capital to the South, the temps in the LP were usually in the 80's which was a very welcome relief. The town is a rare example of one that has retained all its old world charm while adapting to present day need. This is not Colonial Williamsburg as much as it is Annapolis, MD., a feat virtually unheard of in Southeast Asia where anything historical is torn down. There is a very strong Buddhist presence in this town of 26,000 which has more than 30 temples each accompanied by a monastery and 20 or so monks. The monks presence made the experience more authentic for me. This wasn't just a historic place preserved for tourists, it is being protected as an important part of Laotian culture that is actively practiced as the 6:00 AM bells every morning reminded us. While there you enjoy the mixture of this element of Asia with the finer points of European culture as seen in the fine French food. Its free money when your having a 3 course tasting menu with a bottle of wine for $40 total.

This was one of those vacations where we definitely divided the vacation between relaxation and activity. I think we were happy about this decision most of the time. Heather signed us up for a three day bike excursion which entailed about 60 miles in and around LP, and was a great way to see the countryside from a non-tourist perspective. We also kayaked down a tributary of the Mekong which again offered a behind the scenes view of farming, brick making, and fishing. Finally, the elephant ride in the rain which although we cut short due to the raw weather, was a real thrill. We were glad we came, and sad we couldn't stay longer.

The Pespi Challenge

2007-03-19T22:07:00.000+08:00

Arrival:

Before travelling to India I got an e-mail from a friend who has been working in a city on India's East Coast called Chennai. He related an experience in which he was having lunch at an outdoor seating area, when a monkey raced down out of a tree, stole his water bottle and drank it not twenty feet from where he sat in stunned, thirsty silence. "Wouldn't happen in Boston," he succinctly concluded. Wouldn't indeed. But as I would soon learn during my first visit to this colorful land, these types of experience are what make it special, or terrible, depending on your appetite for chaos.

I arrived in Mumbai (the former Bombay) around 1:00 AM. As we glided over the last bit of the city before the perimeter of the airport, I was struck by the lack of any gridded streets or street lighting, and in its place the blackness of hobbled dwellings slapped down in any space big enough to fit a tin roof and a sleeping mat. All international flights into this city arrive and depart in the middle of the night to mitigate the city's atrocious traffic predicament. I hate flying, but the thought of exiting this tubular colony of civility into this unknown city, had me wanting to stow myself in the overhead luggage area. Maybe if I offered to pump gas into the wing, or unload baggage they would allow me onto the return flight to Bangkok. I wanted to hug the pilot on the way out, maybe give him a letter to take to my wife back home. So pathetic, when will I ever become a man. I had to pull myself together. I was there for the next week to attend meetings related to mechanical, electrical, and plumbing (MEP) issues on two projects; one in Mumbai, and the other in Chennai (the former Madras). The Indian's were screwing things up badly, and the projects were over budget and behind schedule. I was there to straighten things out. Good thing I liked LEGO's as a youth, maybe I could try and use a LEGO analogy to try and show these guys how to fix things. One thing for sure, I sure as hell knew nothing about MEP stuff. "Noth-ing." (Robert DeNiro voice from Goodfella's) Thankfully, accompanying me would be Ellis, Merrill Lynch's go-to man on such issues for the past 14 years, a Brit who handled their office build outs from London to Tokyo and all points in between. Ellis knows more about the layout and design of Merrill Lynch offices than anybody in the entire organization. An affable, portly man, with a fondness for cricket and ale, I had heretofore never met a man who could talk more than I was capable of listening, but this week I was to meet my match. To paint a running dialogue of the week would be impossible. The experience was more a mosaic of disjointed impressions which leaves me frankly unclear as to my opinions of this place.

Breakfast:

The phone was ringing, and it was not light out. Half asleep I placed the receiver to my ear, only to be barraged with the jolly, unmistakable cockney accent of Ellis. I knew it was him because we speak on the phone almost every day. Me in Hong Kong, he in whatever city of the week he happens to find himself needed. I'd never met him in person though, and part of me felt like this was a first date of sorts, which I was a feeling I didn't want to deal with on top of every other adjustment I was making. Ellis had just arrived (it was 4:00 AM), and was telling me to meet him downstairs for breakfast in the morning at 8:30. "The Indians are never ready before 10:00 so we'll have time to catch, up. I'll be wearing a yellow shirt. Cheers mate." I dozed back to sleep with visions of yellow tailed fairies dancing in my head.

Ellis met me the next morning, and instantly I felt at ease. He is a wonderful guy, who is knowledgeable, and more importantly, was patient and interested in my questions. He briefed me on the issues with the project, how we should tackle them, and how to manage the local team. The caste system is still very much a part of the Indian life, and this creates a huge challenge for effective project management. You can ask a project manager five times to do something, and even though you are authorized to give this direction without anyone else's input, and it is the correct thing to do, and to not do it will delay the project, the project manager will not move until his senior manager tells him to proceed. The mindset of the people I dealt with is completely brainwashed to take direction not from their professional superior, but their social superior. No one wants to make a decision for themselves. My opinion is that this will change as you have a rising middle class which will soon have more money than many of the upper caste people, and therefore demand the same kind of respect. But I digress, back to my day.

The Commute:

As a background, Mumbai was built on a series of seven islands that were filled in over time to create one contiguous land mass. It is the financial and cultural capital of India, attracting Indian farmers, and multinational companies with equal abandon. Everyone is trying to get a piece of a country on the rise. For a place hailed as holding the hopes of so many, I found Mumbai to be a sprawling dump. There is no other way to put it. It has been explained to me that typical urbanism adopts a balance where infrastructure is put in place, people move there, more infrastructure is built, and so it goes. Mumbai has no money because the tax system is ignored, and what is left is lost to corruption. So they have basically told the world, move here first - for a fee, and then we'll build it. U.S companies either need to form partnerships with local companies, or pay $40 million to do business in India. Thus you have a city that is getting rich, but is still years behind its population size. As a result, you see things like major city roads with no painted lanes. What you have are 7-10 cars, bikes, motorcycles, trucks, carts, donkey's and people trying to fit into the same 60 feet wide piece of asphalt. Sometimes it works, most of the time it doesn't. My hotel was approximately 8 miles from the office, and the commute each day took roughly one hour. Deductive mathematics tells me we averaged 8 miles an hour. To go from "downtown" to the office parks on the outskirts of town takes three hours. If I ever hear another American complain about traffic again I'm going to smother their face in curry. What these rides to and from the hotel offered me however, was a running dialogue more fascinating than anything you could possible make up. In one commute I witnessed a motorcycle accident, a child defecating on the side of the street, our driver being charged a 100 Rupees by a constable for an "illegal lane change", welding shops next to "medicine shops", and still occupied houses that had literally been cut in half to allow for new roads - laundry being hung across their halved openings.

I would be remiss to recount these details and not mention that the people I dealt with were some of the most welcoming, curious, and appreciative people I have had the pleasure to work with. That's not to say they are without fault, but generally speaking I found them much more pleasant to deal with than the Asians. A gross politically incorrect assessment, but there you go. They have much better language skills, and the biggest benefit of this is that they have a sense of humor. They aim to please, and you get the sense that they are sincerely thankful for the attention the western world is bestowing upon them. One of my favorite quirks that they have is that they literally cannot say "no". Likely another holdover from the caste mindset. You will be made to understand that the answer is no, but it will never be said. Instead they wobble their heads in a mixture of a nod and shake like a bobble head doll, "Yes, yes, it is not a problem, we will be delivering the space on June 10th." "But Nadim you just told me the diesel generator's are not arriving until June 15th." "Yes, yes, it is not a problem." And on it would go. But you have to love them for it.

Jerry S.

The one thing that I've learned British people like more than drinking beer, is drinking with beer with other British people. So naturally when Ellis' friend Jerry invited us out for dinner and "a few beers" there was no going back to the hotel to "check my e-mail". Whatever hopes I had of a savory meal, and an early exit to my bedside tv remote were dashed when Ellis referred to Jerry as a "squirrely bastard who could hold his own so well you'd swear he had hollow legs." As we pulled up in our Hotel car, there standing in the hot humid Mumbai night was Jerry wearing a European cut suit, with a fat knot in his tie. His grey, thinning hair was slicked back with oil, and as we sat down at our table I noticed on his right hand was a gold pinkie ring. All I could do was hope I had remembered to pack Tylenol.

Ellis had told me during the day that Jerry used to own a couple nightclubs in one of the seedier parts of Hong Kong that catered to horny sailors, and business exec's. He fit right in. He also did quite well, and through some of his richer clientele started branching out into contract work for private homes. This eventually led to more corporate customers, and interior office build outs. Jerry is a valuable man to have around because he gets things done on time, and on budget. The problem is to accomplish this, he cuts corners, and screws people. Not unusual in the contracting world, and Merrill Lynch doesn't likely care as long as he delivers what he promises. Unfortunately other people do, and Jerry left Hong Kong for Mumbai. Depending who you ask, he was either thrown out, or left to pursue better business opportunities in Mumbai. My take is it is somewhere in between, and though he is indeed a squirrely old bastard, there is a part of Jerry you have to respect. He gets it done.

Jerry had chosen an Italian restaurant in the "Greenwhich Village" of Mumbai where a lot of the Bollywood stars live. It was really quite good food, but the reference to Manhattan made me laugh. The neighborhood stank of garbage. As we chatted, I realized there was another side to Jerry which was less evident on the surface. He had a good singing voice. Or at least that is what he was telling me at dinner. He claimed he sang at Royal Albert Hall as part of an international choir festival. I ordered another beer, this was starting to get interesting. Thing was, I didn't need to because Jerry was ordering them every time the waiter walked by. It was getting late, and I was in way over my head with these two Brit's just playing a mental game of beer chicken. Who would bow out first. It struck me that Ellis had been right, Jerry couldn't have stood more than 5'-9'', but the little guy was stowing 'em away in those legs. He hadn't even gone to the bathroom, and I just melted half the block of ice they kept in the urinals. Just when I thought I might mercifully be allowed to fall asleep in my soup, Jerry casually mentioned it was time for a night cap. Ellis, the guy who had set up our 10:00 AM meeting the next morning, happily accepted.

I couldn't figure out what was going on at the dive Jerry took us to. There was no music playing, but a DJ booth, people standing around expectantly staring at a projector screen in the corner. Suddenly through my boozy haze I recognized the opening line of "Have I told you lately that I love you", but it was NOT Rod Steward, or any other professional voice for that matter. To add to my confusion everyone in the bar was cheering and staring in my direction. Starting to feel a little uncomfortable I looked over at Ellis who was smiling looking at Jerry. This was getting really weird. But then I realized it was Jerry holding a cordless microphone and who was the source of the sonic butchering to which we were all being subjected. It was time for bed.

Final Thoughts:

One thing that I think is lost in all the hype over India and China has been that they both have been in this place before. The gatekeepers to lands perceived by the Western world to offer great riches. Two hundred years ago it was natural resources we were after, and we used opium to numb them into giving it up. Today its the potential spending power of the rising middle classes we're after, but its not yet clear how we're going to do it or if it will even work at all. It is really a "Coke or Pepsi" debate over which country holds a brighter future. The answer won't be clear for some time to come, and in the end I think is irrelevant because there is so much potential in both.

Philippines Fast Facts

2007-03-11T20:17:00.000+08:00

Following are a few facts we picked up during our trip that seemed worthy of sharing:

The Philippines is the world's largest producer of coconuts
The island nation has twice the amount of coastline as the U.S.
The country has the highest English literacy rate of any Asian nation
Manila's population is 11 million and 1 out of every 8 people in the country lives in the capital city

Philly Part II

2007-03-05T22:30:00.000+08:00

I suppose the natural thing to do would be to pick Heather's narrative up where she left off so that is what I'll do, but before that let me just add a little color to her great recap of the first couple days.

1. The ridiculousness of the Jeepney ride cannot be overstated. It is a very Lonely Planet indeed for the man or woman who decides to ride in one of these Filipino Hellcrafts. Probably second only to the Jeep Sedan (once proudly owned by John Scarritt) as the worst automotive innovation since headlight wipers. I literally was sprawled between a metal bar and a bag of rice in the far rear of this "bus" with a mean looking Filipino woman (who was occupying 2 of the 8 seats towards the front) looking back every ten minutes to make sure I wasn't sorting through her things. Despite my love of dried food stuffs, I resisted. Meantime, Heather was being devoured by the thoughts and stares of four teenage Filipino's who clearly had spent too much time on a lonely planet. For the record, I would have come to her rescue if my legs weren't asleep, and my mind numb from heat stroke. So in short, kudos to Heather and I for taking this very unrecommended mode of transport. Word to the wise, splurge and spend the 4 hours in a $50 chauffeured air conditioned mini-van.

2. On Saturday Heather and I took a 5 mile hike down a dirt road out of Port Barton. We were given rough verbal directions on how to reach a spectacular waterfall up in the foothills of the rain forest. Meandering this working countryside the road turned to a path, and brought us out onto open vistas overlooking rice paddies, and then ducked back under the rich cover of jungle. Occasionally we passed by local farmers walking their oxen into or out of the paddies. A couple times we came to a fork in the path, and follow intuition (mostly Heather's), or rough recall of the directions. Always feeling a little unsure if we were heading in the right direction, but enjoying the thrill of making our own vacation. After following a small river upstream for a time we emerged through a mossy thicket out into a pool of water that lay at the base of a 40 foot waterfall. We took a seat on some rocks overlooking the scene and chatted for a while before heading back. That's what I call homemade Mac and Cheese.

3. The number one rule on a vacation, in my opinion, is that you never think about money, and you never mention money, period. You just to use it. I will never go to a place again without checking to see if they accept plastic. Hey, maybe we were naive, but I'm sticking with the opinion that Lonely Planet let us down by not mentioning the simple fact that nowhere on this island except the capital city can you A) get money and B) use a credit card. Said city was a four hour Jeepney ride. Not supposed to think about it. Not supposed to mention it. And there I am wearing a pair of goofy ass American swim trunks, a pair of goofier ass brown American Croc's trying to sell a bottle of sun tan lotion BACK to a woman who probably bought her family food for a week with money I spent buying the same bottle the day before. Just so I can get $12 for a boat back to a "money machine". You just don't know how low a man can go....

On with the adventure. The whole time we were planning this trip Heather kept going on and on about the "subterranean river", and how much Fanny had loved it during her trip. I was intrigued, but then again, Fanny likes Dahka, so my guard was up. As we left the pre-dawn calm of Port Barton part of me was wondering whether we were making a mistake. The nervous traveller in me was saying; "We just settled our bill for $80, and now have 3580 pesos. The boat ride is 3000 pesos (but did he mean a piece or for two of us?), and entry into the river is 400 pesos, we've been told a Jeepney ride (which I swore I would never ride in again) back to Peurto was going to be 100 pesos each. Meaning if were lucky, and were successful in bargaining the driver down, we would be dropped at a bus depot 5 miles outside of town with no money. That's if we were lucky".

Snap - I'm back in the boat ride, and Heather is asking me if I'm excited for the river, "Yeah babe, can't wait. (to myself: "I wish we never came on this trip"). But this anxiety melted away as we enjoyed one of the most placid and scenic boat rides of my life. The views were breathtaking, and I couldn't get over how calm the water was. We were later told that this part of Philippines has a very shallow coastline, and is known for its calm waters. Thus even though were in open ocean we were passing fisherman pulling their nets into canoes. After about 3 hours we arrived on the beach that serves as the exit point for the river. I could tell right away this was going to be special. We were the first boat to arrive which meant we would enjoy our own personal tour of the cave. We were loaded into a canoe with a guide and a car battery powering our spotlight which I manned while our guide paddled. It really was as spectacular as young Steph described. We rode back into the mountain for about 4 miles. At times the cave ceiling was right overhead, and at its highest point it vaulted 180 feet over our heads. As we re-emerged back into daylight, we knew we had made a great decision in coming to this spot. After paying our boatman (much to my relief it was in fact 3000 pesos or about $60), and enjoying a swim on a long stretch of deserted beach, we made our way into the town of Sebang to procure a ride back to civilization. My mood turned dark as I thought of the punishment we were about to absorb in the back of the Filipino Hellcraft.

Accepting our fate like lambs being led to slaughter, we found positions on two facing benches in the back of the bus. We waited as they loaded fish, pineapples, and other things that shouldn't be packed next to unwashed feet all around us. After 20 minutes of this, and while two local fisherman were planning my untimely demise leaving Heather to themselves, I snapped. I ran out and got us a place on a mini-van, air conditioned, and willing to drive us directly to an ATM. Perfect. And then the rain came. Rain drops on the roof of the bungalow at the Four Seasons? Sounds romantic, sign me up!! Sheets of rain on the town of Sebang? Ah, that turns the only road out into tapioca sludge. The end result was a 4 hour ride instead of 2 hour ride, having to get out and push on one occasion, and finally being assisted by a large Caterpillar grading machine which was already in the area fixing the road.

We spent our last two nights in Peurto Princessa at a fairly nice hotel, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. We did some island hopping on an organized tour which allowed us to swim and snorkel to our hearts content. Not our style, but it worked out well. It was a nice contrast to our first three days (which we also loved, but were more work), and I think rounded out the trip nicely. Each night we ate out, and I particularly liked riding in the motor-scooter taxis that rule the streets there. Just complimented how different the whole atmosphere was. We had memorable chats while having some San Miguel's under the warm Filipino night. The food was bad for the most part, but we tried it all, and have no regrets.

I'll close with one memorable moment. As Heather mentioned, the only US chain we saw the entire trip was a Dunkin Donuts which was in the center of Peurto. After returning from Sebang we were in dire need of something familiar, anything familiar. If they had sold Beanie Babies there I would have bought ten and snuggled with them all night. We were lonely. So D&D had to happen. Anticipation was huge for ice coffee's and glazed munchkins. Undoubtedly, we would share sips, and fondly recall the munchkins we ate at our wedding. Life would be good again. Practically pushing one another out of the way to make it through the front door we landed in front of the donut embankment ready to order. "Wow, lots of pink and orange on these munchkins and its not even Halloween" "What is Papaya glaze?" "What is an ice coffee freeze?" "This lady definitely doesn't speak much English." Sensing defeat, Heather ordered a dozen of the more benign looking cake balls for us, and I went for a small coffee which I didn't even want. As we took our seats with deflated drops, and cast each other that familiar look that said "hey, at least we're not in a Jeepney" I noticed over the store sound system the first few bars to the famous rock ballad "Stairway to Heaven" were tinkling out. How, who, or why this song was playing in this venue, in this Country, I have no idea. But that's the Philippines for you. Mesmerizingly beautiful one moment, rough around the edges the next. Populated by a wonderfully dispositioned people, mostly English speaking, who believe that "all that glitters is gold".

(Center of town, Sabang)

(Rain and mud spells more ill-fated times for the Jeepney)

('Tapioca Pudding')

(Amazing snorkeling)

(Island hopping in Honda Bay)

(A quiet moment - standing in front of the entrance to the sub-river)

(Looking out of the entrance of the subterranean river)

(Rice paddie on hike through the jungle)

(Sublime beach in Sabang)

(Life is good: Dunkin' Dizzies)

Philly Part I

2007-02-27T20:57:00.000+08:00

The Jeepney

If you like standard out of the box Kraft macaroni and cheese, this blog entry may not be for you much like if prefer to get off the plane and step onto your resort, our most recent vacation to Palawan Island, The Philippines is likely not your idea of a vacation. Like a homemade casserole of Mac and Cheese which takes a lot longer and tastes different, but somehow better, traveling the Philippines was time consuming, hard work, yet in the end entirely rewarding, leaving a good taste in our mouths and the desire for a second helping.

Our journey began with a few suggestions from Fanny who spent over 2 months in the Philippines in ‘02 (“Ahhh Palawan, so beautiful. Eat the dried Mango, it is delicious!”) and a night in Manila which doesn’t really bear mention since our time there was so short except to say that Will was amazed by its size. It is a city of 11 million people, with an impressive skyline reflecting the size of its population. A quick hop, skip and jump over the South China Sea landed us in Puerto Princessa, the capital of Palawan Island, an overgrown town or burgeoning city, depending how you look at it. Nearly busting at the seams it’s a place on the rise; a mixture of dirt and paved roads, motorized bikes and cars, shoeless children and footloose and fancy free roosters roaming the streets, and one Dunkin Donuts shop. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re somewhere as a visitor but probably like you’re from nowhere if you’re a native.

With an airport building nary a coconut hair larger than the plane in which we arrived, we excitedly headed off for the bus station with the Lonely Planet book our trusty guide (Mistake #1) in search of the Jeepney to Port Barton, our intended destination. Rushing to make it in time for the Jeepney’s 11:00am departure we arrived to find no one, except ourselves, in any particular hurry. The bus driver was taking a nap and various others were slowly packing up the vehicle - one…..item…..at……..a…….time…… tying each to the roof with old rope and a chain of knots. An hour later, we departed, stuffed into the back of the Jeepney with two dozen locals and several kilos of hard rice which served as an unforgiving cushion. Perhaps to make up for lost time, or perhaps due to a lack of any limitations on driving speed and the thrill of newly paved roads, we forged ahead at break-neck speed in a 30 year old extended Jeep with no windows and several hundred pounds of cargo stuffed, tied and packed inside. What could be made out of the scenery was breathtaking: sweeping views of a pristine coastline bordered by jungle clad mountains and miles of rice paddies with a thatched cottage or two sprinkled in every now and again. I snapped a picture of a particularly scenic field and a guy sitting across from us snapped a picture of me with his camera phone when he thought I wasn’t looking. “Maybe he thinks we’re famous,” I whispered to Will who gave a snide laugh. “Famous people don’t take these…buses…”

(Packing up the Jeepney)

Despite being cramped in an upright fetal-like position atop a hard sack of rice, his back leaning against a poorly padded metal grate of an open window, Will started to doze off, his head violently bobbing with the bouncing of the Jeepney. My watch informed me we were a good two hours into our journey; it seemed to be going fairly quickly. Then…a thick cloud of smoke, people screaming, lots of scurrying, satchels being tossed over our heads, fellow passengers pushing us out the back door: a busted Jeepney. The thought had entered my head as we raced along Palawan’s only paved road but I didn’t dare say it out loud. Will confessed his mind was reeling with the same thought. It was 2:00 pm and we were stranded alongside a rice paddy, in 95 degree heat, with 20 non-English speaking natives, a surprise considering the Philippines has the highest English literacy rate of any Asian nation. A thick stretch of oil inked the pavement like an artist’s heavy brushstroke on canvas and hot coals dropped from the engine. Smoke billowed from the hood. The bus driver made a phone call and a stream of the passengers headed into an adjacent field seeking shade under a tree. Moments later a motorized bike arrived with a covered sidecar and scooped up the bus driver. His image faded into the horizon. Where was he going and when would he return? Just how long would we be here? Could we call our resort and have them pick us up? Maybe. But we didn’t even know where we were. I tried using my cell phone which my Mom insisted I take along. I couldn’t get it to work. Son of a bitch.

(Scenic rice paddy and man urinating)

(Stranded...Busted Jeepney)

Greenviews

Fast forward several hours and a private van ride later and we arrive at our hotel – Greenviews Resort. Greenviews is a lovely place, though the word ‘resort’ is definitely used liberally by the cranky British owner whose preference for UK imported orange marmalade has him believing he owns a place worthy of being called a resort. Simple and rustic with a feeling similar to camp, Greenviews offers ten cottages set on the far end of a long sandy beach in the tiny village of Port Barton, a town with no electricity or running water. A generator pampered us with lights and home cooked meals from 6-11 pm and made us the envy of town. For $16 USD a night with a side of .30 cent beers, we couldn’t complain. I dare say the accommodations were better than those offered by some electrically clad hotels in the US.

(Greenviews Resort)

Life in Port Barton is slow and easy. The local roosters start their crowing before day break and ensured we were up and at ‘em far earlier than usual. My book was my best friend, second to Willy of course, who even acquiesced to a game of Scrabble one night after realizing there wasn’t much else to do. Local activities included island hopping on the sandy beaches of the area’s numerous untouched islands (supposedly a steal for those of you looking to pick up some real estate); hiking in the jungle; and watching butterflies (get in line, butterfly enthusiasts are abound in Palawan and the Greenviews proprietor informed us he is the only white man alive who knows what trees to plant in order to breed these beautiful creatures.)

The fairy tale ended abruptly when Will casually enquired about credit card payment. We retrieved our wallets and realized our time had come. Our freedom to enjoy this beautiful place was shriveling up before our eyes thanks to our culturally induced reliance on plastic rectangles and in hindsight the mistake of withdrawing far too little cash at the ATM in Manila (Mistake #2 for which I damned the Lonely Planet and Will damned me.) A run through our small stockpile of cash sent us back into ‘town’ to resell the only expensive item we purchased the whole trip – an 8oz container of Coppertone 24 (Mistake #3) which cost the equivalent of $12 USD. We could have dined like kings or drank ourselves silly on this sum but instead it was to be smeared all over our bodies in advance of inevitable sun damage. The woman who had given us a friendly grin when we made the purchase a day earlier shook her head defiantly and refused to take back the lotion. Humiliated, we returned to the resort, checked out of our cottage and chartered a boat south for what was to be another great adventure.

More to come. . .

(Above: Beach, Port Barton)

(Below: 'Excuse me, you sell sunblock?)

(Below: Island Hopping)

(Miles of untouched, pristine beaches)

(Typical boat - a cross between a canoe and a sea plane)

(5:45 am departure from Port Barton via boat)

(Views during boat ride south to Sabang and the subterranean river)

Shek O

2007-02-12T14:52:00.000+08:00

The highlight of this past weekend was a Pigeon dining excursion with some locals on the nearby island of Lamma. Fortunately for you, we forgot our camera and are thus unable to share images of the crispy fried pigies which were served up split in two, in half-dozen stacks, on a platter garnished with nothing other than their severed little heads. The three year old daughter of a fellow diner took to shoving the pigeon heads onto her chop stick, prancing the marionette around like a barbie with which she would engage in simple conversation before suddenly and unexpectedly biting off the head for a good, crunchy snack. Mmmmm.

After Lamma, a trip back to Hong Kong's Southside to check out Shek O beach.

Shek O, translating to Rocky Bay, is the nicest seaside retreat we've found to date offering Hong Kongers a wide sandy stretch on the Southside and relatively unpolluted waters.

A cool 20 degrees (celcius that is) had us bundled up. Brrrr.

Feeling a bit under the weather, Will kept horizontal.

Sign pointing to a local store in Shek O - not sure if Mr. Lee's parents had really good or really poor command of the English language...

An unlikely pair - this canine couple, a chihuahua and great dane, dined at the table next to ours in one of Shek O' s bohemian eateries.

A construction crew dismantling bamboo scaffolding.

Pork

2007-02-05T21:26:00.000+08:00

I make no claim to be a bonafide globe trotting ex-pat, but I've done a few things, and seen a few places outside the U.S. If someone asked me what, if any, similarities I could describe between say Peru, Spain, Greece, and Hong Kong, I would say, "simple", they all love pork. It has always seemed to me that we as Americans are somehow trying to distance ourselves from the "other white meat" while everyone else embraces it. You hear about the Chicago stockyards like they were the 9th level of Dante's Inferno, and how we are all in a better place now that we're eating organic Arugula, and leaving the evil days of pork consumption to the Joads (I know Ma, pig is making a big comeback, but still). The contrast is striking when you go to a place like Segovia, Spain where the Suckling Pig is a centerpiece of their marketing campaign; the reason you want to go there!! Or Hong Kong, where if you've been brainwashed into thinking that all the chicken have bird flu, you eat pig.

Well, Heather and I decided to embrace this phenomenon, and to see what all the fuss was about. Hitching a ride on the MTR (HK parlance for the subway) we "crossed the bay" into Mong Kok section of Kowloon. This is somewhat akin to New Yorkers crossing over in Jersey, or DC folks venturing into Northern Virginia. Kowloon is Hong Kong, but generally speaking less affluent, and has definitely more local flavor....especially in their food. Mong Kok is one of the most densely populated places on earth, home of electronic knock-offs, and a 10 ft statue of Bruce Lee. You go there for bargains, and to experience it once. You don't go there to eat. And that is why we knew it was here that we had to come to test our epicurean fortunes. Many of the eating venues here tend to be open air markets along the sidewalk - known as dai pai dongs. Generally they consist of a table of raw ingredients surrounding a cauldron of hot oil being cooked over an open gas flame.

Not wanting to waste time, or perhaps just trying to get the whole thing over with, we sidled up to the first one we came across. Immediately Heather became gun shy, and backed out. I can't say this surprised me, or even that I could blame her. The ordering process alone was enough to scare any Gweillo off. But then again, I'm not just ANY Gweillo am I? I came here to eat, and I was hungry. Re-focused, I pushed my way to the front through the hesitant oglers (even the locals were scared), and started pointing at a couple of things. No response, so I broke out the fail proof Chinese translator, otherwise known as my wallet, and instantly had two old crusty women trying to sell me meatballs. Not so fast. My rule was I was going to try something new, and even though I'm quite certain whatever meat was in those balls likely came from a being I heretofore had never considered edible, I wanted to go deeper. With a shaking finger betraying me with fear, I pointed at something that was being cut up in the corner by some lady whose face was obscured by the steam from the oil cauldron. It looked like sausage, but its contents I did NOT recognize. Just to be safe I ordered some octopus as well. You know its going to be a long day when octopus is your "safe" bet. To my utter horror she dropped both into the oil. Not only could this meal potentially be really bad, it now was going to be really unhealthy. Arugula never sounded sound so good. She handed the oily, stinking mess to me on two long toothpicks stuck in a brown paper bag. I thought for a second she was going to stab me with it. If I had known what was to come next, I would have wished it. Within seconds the oil was seeping through the bag so I had to be quick. I ate the octopus first, and it was pretty good. Maybe I was going to emerge unscathed after all, just another notch in my palette. My spirits brightened, and through the steam I remember making out a smile from behind the cauldron. That smiling witch, with her toothless smile of deceit. What happened next is still a mystery to me. We have photographic proof that I retained consciousness, and remained standing, but I really don't recall. I vaguely remember feeling like I was in the "Great Ape House" at the National Zoo in Washington DC., and that I had to get out because the smell of day old dung and animal dander was making me gag. Then suddenly emerging back into the daytime din of Kowloon, I realized that this was no nightmare, but the sensation being created by what was in my mouth. So simply, if you ask me how it tasted, it tasted like the Great Ape House at the National Zoo. It was the most vile morsel of any kind to ever cross the threshold of my oral cavity. I later learned it was pig intestine, but that doesn't sound bad enough. That witch was cooking up a batch of pure hell, and even gave me her pitchfork to eat it on. I have not come close to touching Chinese food since this incident, but am hoping for a full recovery by weeks end. More on this later.

Innocently excited

Street-fried pig intestines

The taste of day-old zoo

A moderately crowded sidewalk in Mong Kok, Kowloon

The Quiet Side

2007-02-02T18:20:00.000+08:00

In a previous post, Will mentioned the striking contradiction between Hong Kong island's two sides: the frenetic city abuzz with millions of people, and the quiet Southside, a resplendent composition of green hills, unspoilt park reserves and tiny towns. Adding to the undeveloped magic is a system of well laid hiking trails that crisscross much of the island. With a hiking guide strapped around Will’s neck, we set off for one of the islands most difficult and acclaimed trails which afforded a much needed escape from the madness of the city and breathtaking views as captured in the pics below. You'll note the hazy effect which is, in fact, haze - the unfortunate ring that always sits around Hong Kong's collar.

View of the city

One island, two sides: To the right, Hong Kong City and to the left, the quieter, serene Southside.Looking out over one of Hong Kong's reservoirs (and wondering if the water is safe to drink...) Will steps aside to admire the breathtaking vista and let through another hiker. As if walking the trail isn't enough, this crazy fellow felt the need to carry along his bicycle.
From whence we came. And more to go - an intimidating climb up to the top of Twin Peak

Almost there...the view of Stanley Beach, one of the Southside's 'small towns.'
Our prize: a relaxing post-hike afternoon in Stanley!

108 Hollywood Road, Hong Kong

2007-02-01T18:14:00.000+08:00

We moved into our apartment this week and what an upgrade. Originally a three bedroom 850 square foot unit seemed small compared to our comfortably spread out two bedroom in DC. But after spending two weeks in a teeny, tiny hotel room, largely occupied by our luggage, the new apartment is huge! And even though the view isn’t an upgrade (we’re only on the 12th out of 43 floors – see below) the rest of the place is certainly an improvement.

The ‘house hunting’ began in earnest our third day in Hong Kong. As suggested by several people in Will’s office we popped into one of the many residential brokerage houses in our ‘neighborhood,’ avoiding the ever so frequent Century 21 outlets. We’re in Hong Kong – going to Century 21 seemed like going to Starbuck’s – an inauthentic experience (even if I do like being able to get a skim latte sprinkled with a dash of nutmeg, just the way I like it, which is consumed while dotting over the latest US magazine detailing Brit’s new love interest.)

A Hong Kong native and likeable guy by the name of Andrew took us in as clients. He had a decent command of the English language and a seemingly better understanding of the Hong Kong housing market. We visited a number of apartments in the mid-levels (rightfully named as it’s the area half-way up the hill between the business district and The Peak) all of which fit the same description: old, smelly, and dirty…with a redeeming view. But being afraid of heights, Will and I found the views intimidating, and not worthy of increased rent (as evidenced by the pic above.) We were unimpressed and frankly, I was scared at the thought of living in an apartment where I might vomit from the smell of decade infused kimchi every time I opened the fridge. By God, there had to be something better. Something newer. We made a request to look at buildings built in the last decade.

Andrew obliged and pulled together a new list of units. Being Monday I went solo, while Will headed off for his second day of work in order to make more hard earned money for the necessary procurement of expensive leather accessories. While waiting for the broker, one of his colleagues informed me that we were going up to look at units on “Con-doo-wee Woad. Where de aih is moo fresha.” Country Road, it sounded nice – a new apartment, fresh air - I couldn’t wait. A few minutes later we headed off and arrived soon after at Conduit Road (not Country Road), one lousy street up the hill from where we started. I took a deep breath, amidst the bus exhaust and busy stream of taxis that wove by, and the air seemed exactly the same as it had 100 yards below on Robinson Road.

We walked into the first unit. It fit a similar description to the units we had visited on Saturday: old, smelly and dirty…with a great view. By Hong Kong standards it was a spacious 1,100 square feet which explained why it was $7,000 over the max price point we had given Andrew. I poked my head into the rooms, disenchanted with the city’s seeming lack of apartment offerings and noticed a box inside the shower, which I had seen in several other units. I asked Andrew what it was and how it worked. He explained that it was the hot water heater, and you had to turn it on before showering. “Very easy,” he said, so I asked him to show me, thinking ‘very easy’ was the way we did it at home, you turn on the faucet and – *tada* – that water is hot. Andrew set to work. In order to make sure we didn’t get sprayed by the shower, he moved the shower nozzle off its hanger and placed it on the floor of the tub. Quickly flicking a few buttons on the magic box Andrew had the hot water queued up and let it rip. As the water flew out of the spout, which was now lying on the tub floor, it deflected off the tub wall and sprayed all over us. We were doused and he was mortified. “I soooooh eeeg-nor-aunt,” he repeated several times. I still wasn’t sure the weird box worked.

Shaking off the water, we headed down to the building’s ‘Club House’ – a euphemism used to refer to whatever amenities a building may offer. Depending on the size, location and class of the building the Club House can include a gym, pool, steam and sauna, tennis court, function room, etc… for exclusive resident use. Perfect. Though the apartment was tired, I was attracted to the well appointed fitness center and outdoor pool. "Free, right?" I asked rhetorically. He nodded. “Ahh yes. If you no use, it’s free. But, if you use, you pay to pwaaaay.” Hmm. In the U.S. free means you get something for nothing. I realized it had a different meaning in Hong Kong.

By some stroke of luck (no thanks to Andrew), we found our current building, a new development on the western edge of Hong Kong’s SoHo district, SoHo being South of Hollywood, a beautiful street dotted with Chinese antique and curio shops in the heart of a thriving neighborhood filled with an assortment of international professionals and an equal diversification of eateries. As perhaps the newest building in Hong Kong, it’s one of the nicest developments in the city. One can stroll through the lobby any time of day to hear the sound of a grand piano – its key being stroked not by a person but instead by a strange electric box that sets the instrument a thunder. And yes, there is a Club House with a pool, gym, cigar room, i-mac lounge, etc…with the usual ‘Hong Kong Free’ system in place.

Despite all of that, our new apartment is a marvel: three bedrooms, a decently large living room and two balconies, though it does take some adjusting. The rooms are TINY. Small is the de facto standard. We have three bedrooms each barely able to fit more than a double sized bed. The entire building has no heat. None. You’re cold? Too bad. (Will’s taking full advantage of this as I cling to him every night like barnacle, syphoning all his extra body heat.) The apartment has no cabinets. None. You need to store things like food, dishes, clothes? Too bad. Buy something. And, it is super high-tech: the bathroom has a small, built-in flat screen TV perched directly across from the toilet. “You huz-ban, maybe he be in here for an oww-err!” the landlord exclaimed to me when showing the apartment, as if it was a selling point. The list goes on but you get the point. We love it and if nothing else, it gives us an appreciation for the amount of space we’re afforded back home.

That’s all for now; I’ve got to run. Will’s credit card is burning a whole in my pocket and this apartment needs some furnishings...

Collection of Images

2007-01-30T22:49:00.000+08:00

Above: Looking up at the IFC Tower - Hong Kong's tallest building culminating on the *lucky* 88th Floor (number 8 is the luckiest digit in Cantonese meaning Lucky Son of a Bitch or Financial Success)

Below: Will proving to the locals that Gweilo's can jump, during a walk on one of the island's lovely hiking paths (Gweilo = White Ghost, a term from colonial days.)

More later!

Couple Thoughts

2007-01-30T21:10:00.000+08:00

"Chicken Fingers"

Being a stranger in a stranger land you turn inward. In my case that means Heather. Over the past month we have visited wonderful places together, gotten lost together, woken up in hotel rooms with no windows, bargained for kiwi fruit in sign language, you get the idea. This is all wonderful. I love it, I mean what better way to spend your first year of marriage. Call it an extended honeymoon. That is, most of the time. Tonight was a different kind of example of why this is a great way to spend your first year of marriage together. Conflict resolution. We've just moved into our new apartment, and had our first "home meal" the entire trip. Granted there was no cooking involved, that will come in due time, but I bought us a cooked chicken with some side dishes. Heather was supposed to get napkins, but somehow forgot in the midst of chewing out her boss for more money, and shopping with my credit card for more boots. Figure that one out, she makes more money than me, and still I buy everything. Anyway, the one thing Heather did find time to buy was a new bed, OK, mattress, but we're only here for a year so it'll do. Heather is a freak about anything having to do with sleeping. Her pillows need to be fluffy, but still firm enough not to give her a stiff neck. The duvet cover needs to match the pillow cases, and ideally will be folded at the base of the bed over the bed spread which is in turn tucked in tight enough to cut the circulation off most mammalian life. This might not be weird to some people, but for me its weird. I didn't even know what half this stuff was before I started sharing a bed with her....on our wedding night. Anyway, we eat a nice meal of chicken, and naturally with no napkins in sight, and wearing my evening sweats as I often do, I wipe things down on my sweatpants. First bad move. I then finish off the green bean salad and leave the empty container on the counter. Second bad move. Finished, I retire to the new mattress and fluffy duvet to lie down and digest. Three strikes and you out. Heather burst through the bedroom opening, and proceeds to go Queen Latifah on my ass. Through the genuflection, and high pitched cacophony, the beratement over lack of manners, the demeaning commentary on my penchant for nose picking, the the only thing I could make out was, "Your greasy chicken fingers are on MY side of the bed!!!" Till death due us part.......yikes.

"India"

My first assignment for work has been to work as an "embedded" consultant at Merrill Lynch building out Merrill Lynch locations in mainland China (Beijing) and India (Mumbai and Chennai). This is a new experience to me as I have never worked for a client by sitting in their space, using their computers and phones, having an e-mail with their e-mail address, etc. Overall I think it will be a great experience because I don't have much corporate interiors experience, work on a team made up of 5 nationalities, have complete ownership of the project, and get to work in the two of the most important growth markets in the world. In addition the projects all are set to wrap up in the next three months leaving plenty of time for me to experience other things. Now all that said, this is easily the most exasperating work experience I have ever had. Without wanting to stereotype, it has been a total education on the cultural differences between Indians and the Chinese. Allow me to stereotype. Generally speaking both groups have much to learn from American efficiencies in management. There is far too much bureaucracy, fear of making decisions (this may also be a product of Merrill Lynch, but allow me to continue), and determining how to get things done. The difference lies in their attitudes about dealing with authority, ie. ME. The Chinese will listen to what you have to say, and then based upon how that relates to the "system" they have been taught, agree or disagree. If they disagree, they will debate the issue with you, and if convinced of your position move ahead. The Indians are totally different. They will listen to you, and then based upon how it relates to themselves, either agree or disagree. Generally a debate is useless, and you just have to wear them out, or yell at them...literally. Both are about covering their own ass, but Indians do it in a selfish uncompromising way compared to the Chinese. Now that said, I love their curried chicken. No, they are great people, and this is only my first impressions. Truly. Yet, it is also the opinion of everyone in my office. The Indian projects are DREADED assignments, and after sitting through a number of conference calls with a circus-like atmosphere where Ajit the project manager is calling in from a open air market with a freaking chicken squawking into the receiver, and Sonali the architect has a baby crying in the background, I find myself asking, THESE are the people that are supposedly threatening U.S supremacy?! They are unprofessional, disrespectful, seemingly uneducated, impossible to get a hold of. They're a disaster, and have a lot to learn. That said corporate strategists love them so what do I know. Hopefully I can travel there as part of these jobs, and have more to report. But in parting I'll leave you with this: my contact in India is a former military guy by the name Captain Sameer Bhagwat who insists that everyone call him Captain, and whose primary occupation is dealing out bribe money (provided by Merrill Lynch as "regulatory fees" to the local swinging dicks. Does this sound like a place you want to set up your company?

Quick thoughts:

1. No one over here uses UPS or FedEx, its all DHL. As in "Nadim, no worries, you'll have it tomorrow, I'm DHLing it". Could be worth looking into this stock

2. For lack of better programming Heather and I have stooped to watching MTV only its the Asian version so they'll have hip hop acts that will rap in Cantonese. Rappers look like such idiots no matter what they're saying.

3. Filipino's make up the largest ex-pat community here by far; 160,000 versus 80,000 for all other nationalities combined. They are almost exclusively housekeepers, nannies, or interestingly American cover bands. Heather and I took in our first Filipino act in the JW Marriott lounge this past Friday night. Yes, I know, we've come a long way, before you know it we'll be hitting the all you can eat dinner buffet at Howard Johnsons in Kowloon. Anyway, the act wasn't half bad, culminating with a duet with piano accompaniment of Lionel Richie's "Easy".

4. Heather and I (you start to see what I mean don't you) went on our first hike on Hong Kong island this past weekend, and it was magnificent. Look for pictures shortly. The contrast of tropical vegetation, and serenity with a monstrous skyline in the distant background is striking, and can only cause one to wonder how nice a place this island would be if no one ever discovered the calming effects of opium.

All for now, hope everybody is doing well. Love Heather and Will!!

First Impressions

2007-01-23T18:47:00.000+08:00

One thing that has struck me (Will) particularly about Hong Kong is how reality has differed from perception. Prior to our arrival here I was led to believe that A) the place was massive B) everyone was short C) I better enjoy western food before I left because there was a shortage of meat and dairy produce. All three have proven erroneous to a various degree.

Yes, there are a lot of people here, but the community within which one "runs" as an expat (i.e. the international business world) is quite small. There is one neighborhood in which most of these people live and socialize, and only a couple professions in which you can be involved. Indeed, even locals here refer to Hong Kong as a small city, "Only 7 million people yes, quite small yes?", they will machine gun off to you, and then tell you to go to Shanghai to see a real city. To debunk the other two myths in short order: most people are not short, though when they are they REALLY are - my guess is mainland China has more of the stereotypical fascination with westerner's height - at least I hope, I mean I haven't had one damn autograph request, and finally, the food runs the complete gambit - a virtual United Nations of menu options. We ate at a place called Taco Loco the other night if this gives you any idea. On a more shameful note I will also add that in a sugar induced craving I walked into a Krispy Kreme and demanded a particularly warm looking gluttonous orb of sin. It was "quite nice" as my English co-worker might remark.

I'll hold off on more sweeping observations of Hong Kong - pictures speak a thousand words and with a little cooperation from this website we hope to get at least a hundred words worth of pictures up soon - but I will say only at this point that I am struck by the lack of historic appreciation.

Having only been to Europe, I arrived here with only that as a reference point for foreign lands. By that I mean, when I think of an old city, I think of London or Madrid. Or when I think of urban scenic beauty I think of the Acropolis or Hyde Park. Doesn't exist here. The oldest buildings here are dilapidated 1950's residential structures that resemble government built projects in Brooklyn because well, that's exactly what they are. As refugees trying to escape the "glorious revolution" arrived here the government built subsidized housing for them.

Apparently on the mainland its even worse because there they first tore down historic portions of city's and then built up the crap we see today. Mao wanted to take the Nation forward, and felt the first step towards this goal was to destroy the past. The open spaces here are not as disappointing, but because of the steep topography, parks on a grand scale that inspire are not possible. Yes, there are hikes you can take, but we have yet to do one that is reachable without first taking a bus or taxi. Now that said, these two negatives are balanced to a degree by the impressive modern buildings that have sprung up in the last 20 years. This is the city's emphasis, and for that it is truly a modern city. Its pace and "user friendly" atmosphere are enjoyable, but for me personally, I prefer a little history and a little space to unwind. Again, these are just first impressions.

A local 'grocery' store

Doing what they do best - imitation - pictured above, counterfeit Crocs. Alert Ash.

View from our interim accommodations - an impressive skyline.

Though colonized by the Brits, the Americans,too have left a mark contributing to the greater good by sharing our famous donut recipes and marketing tactics.

Peek-a-Boo

2007-01-23T18:07:00.000+08:00

Following is a special culinary write-up for Chris Willis...

Visiting one medieval city 45 miles outside of Madrid wasn't enough, so we saw two. After Toledo we hit the town of Segovia. The highlight of this visit, and of our entire Spanish gastronomic experience altogether, was the peek-a-boo egg sandwich pictured below.

This sandwich, a novelty with its cut-out center proudly displaying an expertly concocted sunny side up egg, was enjoyed on a lazy Sunday afternoon while people watching on an outdoor patio in Segovia's Plaza Mayor. Will was in ecstasy as he proclaimed his Jamon and Toast to be the best egg-sandwich, ever.

First Stop, Madrid

2007-01-15T00:17:00.000+08:00

Jan. 2, 2007 - After being deposited at JFK by Susan and John, and waiting through a several hour delay, we stepped into a large bullet that shot us across the Atlantic, and landed in Madrid. Though a bit groggy, we excitedly explored the city which was a festive European metropolis, ablaze with Christmas spirit and decor. Our menu included the standard tourist fare: The Royal Palace and Gardens - a 2,800 room palace built in the extravagant baroque style and it's equally impressive garden; The Prado Museum - featuring the works of Spanish masters including El Greco, Goya and Velasquez; The Parque del Retiro - a fantastic city park; and the central shopping district. All beautiful and reminding us of the European tradition of grand architecture and city planning.

On January 6 - known in Spain as the Epiphany - we took the highly efficient AVE train to the town of Toledo. Already mentioned was the merry nature of Madrid when we arrived which intensified on the Epiphany - a highly celebrated holiday when the Three Kings deposit gifts and candy in children's shoes. We were lucky enough to travel with a costumed assortment of the Three Kings and their entourage, media cameras included, to Toledo. The train was abuzz with their presence and the station absolutely packed when we arrived. Thousands of screaming children and fans greeted the candy armed troupe. As we walked into town, the Three Kings set off in a motorcade of scooters and convertibles - kindly chucking a healthy handful of hard candies at us as they tooted their horns and sped by. Pictures below include the "Kings", their motorcade and Toledo.

Above: The Parque del Retiro against the backdrop of historic Madrid.

Above: Front Door, The Royal Palace