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An Aerial View of the Bagel
Image by Wootang01
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80’s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.
I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.
I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That’s all for England!
what’s in my pocket?
Image by rafiq s
I’ve been using this blog mainly for posting photo’s which unfortunately hasn’t been much these past few months with all my attention on the letterpress thing. However Faizel Boorany (check his blog faizelboorany.blogspot.com) gave me the idea that I could also use it as a reference of personal history that I don’t mind sharing in public.
With this in mind I thought I’d post what I carry in pockets every day because I’m usually changing gadgets and/or preferences so will be an interesting reference for me later on.
This is what is in my pocket.
iPhone 4 – I previously had a Blackberry Bold but as soon as this baby was available on an MTN contract I jumped ship. Since then I’ve been sorely missing the Blackberry keyboard and it’s robust e-mail functionality. The iPhone can’t really compete with these two features but fortunately everything else is just a treat. There are some amazing apps out there and it makes the iPhone the most productive and fun device I’ve ever used. The cherry on the top has to be it’s awesome camera so I don’t feel the need to lug my SLR around all the time.
Slim wallet – I ditched my bulky old school wallet last year. This slim wallet only has space for two cards, my preference of which is my driver’s license and a credit card. It also an internal pocket accessible from the top in which I’ve put a small piece of cardboard with all my other important details like health insurance, vehicle assistance and any other vital numbers and info. The back has a metal clip to hold all my cash notes and there is no place for coins which I just offload in my cars ashtray holder (the idea is to reduce bulk after all).
Notebook – this is a Moleskine cahier journal that is the perfect size for my pocket. Yes I love the digital world and have enough note taking and to-do list apps on my phone but there is still no killer replacement for a notebook. I can takes notes quicker, doodle when I want and never have to worry about it’s battery going flat.
Pen – my preferred pen is currently a Uni Pin Fine Line pen that uses pigment ink that is waterproof, doesn’t fade and is apparently archive safe. Main reason for this choice is that I find Moleskine paper tends to be on the thin side so other pen’s ink shows through rather bad to the other side. This pen doesn’t and the fine tip makes it a pleasure to sketch and doodle with.
Pocket Knife – Whenever I needed to cut something I always used my trusty Leatherman (just one of my favourite presents of all time). This multi-purpose wonder does the job but it’s also bulky and impractical to carry around. Sometime last year I stumbled upon upon this article at the Art of Manliness and decided to go out hunting for the slimmest knife I could find. This Kershaw knife is so light and thin, especially after removing the pocket clip it came with, that I don’t even feel it in my pocket. I probably find something to use it on everyday, even if it’s sometimes just to cut up a chocolate bar to share with a friend.
Flash drive – It’s not in the photo but I also carry a 8GB flash drive on my car key chain. These little things are indispensable but is getting far less use since I’ve been using Dropbox. If you don’t know about Dropbox it’s simply the best web-hosted file sharing service in the world. You can sign up for free and if you do so via this link I’ll even be rewarded with an additional 2GB space, so thank you.
Well that’s about it.
They must be tourists
Image by Ed Yourdon
Let’s face it: New Yorkers don’t walk around the city wearing a t-shirt that proclaims how much they love where they live. Well, maybe one passionate individual might do so — but not a pink t-shirt, for goodness sake! And here we have two such people, marching along in their t-shirts, at the southwestern corner of Columbus Avenue and 72nd Street…
Thus, they must be tourists — and God bless ’em, I hope they spent oodles of money to help keep our economy afloat…
Note: even though the girls, and this photo, have nothing at all to do with Times Square, the photo was published in a Jul 26, 2009 blog titled "Avoiding Times Square." I guess that’s called "artistic license" … In addition, a cropped version of the photo was published in an Aug 13, 2009 blog titled "Travel Gear Then and Now." And it was published as an illustration in a Sep 2009 Mahalo blog titled "Whatever It Takes T-Shirts," at www-dot-mahalo-dot-com-slash-whatever-it-takes-t-shirts. More recently, it was published in a Nov 13, 2009 blog titled "10 Ways To Spot An American Tourist," as well as a Nov 16, 2009 blog titled "Textildruck mit Städtenamen." And it was published in a Dec 15, 2009 blog titled "How To Shop On A Budget in New York."
Moving into 2010, the photo was published in a Jan 7, 2010 blog titled "Ventajas de no parecer un turista al momento de comprar." And it was published in a Feb 16, 2010 Travel Fitness blog with the same title as the caption that I used on this Flickr page. It was also published in a Mar 10, 2010 blog titled "Travel Packing List Part 2 – Clothing." And it was published in a Mar 29, 2010 Gadling blog titled "How not to be a traveling target." It was also published in an Apr 13, 2010 blog titled "Shopping tips for the budget traveler." It was also published in a June 2, 2010 Daily Forex News blog and a Jun 9, 2010 Forex Trading EA blog, and a Jul 7, 2010 "Latest ‘Forex News’ News blog", with the same title as the caption that I used on this Flickr page. And it was published in a Jun 22, 2010 blog titled "I ♥ NY T-Shirt." It was also published in an Aug 20, 2010 blog titled "17 things travelers need to know this month." And it was published in a Sep 24, 2010 blog titled "ニューヨークのお買物ガイド." It was also published in an Oct 13, 2010 blog titled "Come fare shopping a New York senza spendere un capitale." And it was published in an undated (mid-Nov 2010) blog titled "Forex News – Why Most Traders Use it in the Wrong Way and Lose!" It was also published in a Nov 19, 2010 blog titled "Q&A: Where can I find a foreign exchange?? And it was published in a Nov 24, 2010 blog titled "Forget Black Friday, Can 15 Fashion Addicts Give Up Shopping for a Year?" It was also published in a Dec 4, 2010 blog titled "Global Forex Trading – What is so Appealing About This Forex Opportunity?" And it was published in a Dec 6, 2010 blog titled "What is the best forex robot available and do you recommend?" and a Dec 8, 2010 blog titled Three Very Important Forex Trading Tips for Newbies," as well as a Dec 10, 2010 blog titled "Global Forex Trading – Lesser Known Facts That Can Lead To Your Personal Wealth." It was also published in an undated (mid-Dec 2010) blog titled "Comments on Forex Trading Account Sizes, Lots and Margin Calls."
Moving into 2011, the photo was published in a Jan 10, 2011 issue of The Huffington Post, in a blog titled "7 Countries With The Worst Dressed Tourists (PHOTOS)." It was also published in a Jan 22, 2011 blog titled "Which areas in the USA has most people trading Forex? I can’t find any info on this anywhere!?" It was also published in an undated (early Feb 2011) blog titled "Dreaming Big Pips With a Forex Robot." And it was published in an Apr 9, 2011 blog titled "Touristism NYC 2011." It was also published in a Sep 30, 2011 blog titled "The Brass Sitdown: How To Travel, With Staffer Jane," as well as a Sep 30, 2011 Girls Clothes Images blog, with the same caption and detailed notes that I had written on this Flickr page. It was also published in a Dec 6, 2011 Gawker blog titled "NYC Tourist Pro Tip: Don’t Let Anyone ‘Borrow’ Your Credit Card." And it was published in a Dec 25, 2011 blog titled "Celebrity fashion: Emmy’s best and worst dressed."
Moving into 2012, the photo was published in a Feb 28, 2012 blog titled "Am I at a healthy weight? How can I lose weight? Fitness tips?" It was also published in a Mar 22, 2012 blog titled "When Do You Really Become a New Yorker?" And to was published in a Jun 4, 2012 blog titled "Tourists Are to Thank for Manhattan’s Current Retail Boom." It was also published in an Aug 30, 2012 blog titled "Winning In The Forex Market Requires Excellent Knowledge." And for some mysterious reason, the photo was published in a Sep 12, 2012 blog with the bizarre title of "is there actually any bloody forex trading robots that work on the intercrap!!!?"
Moving into 2014, the photo was published in a Mar 8, 2014 blog titled 22 People Who Are Living The Dreamwww.buzzfeed.com/dray/22-people-who-are-living-the-dream-…" It was also published in an undated (mid-May 2014) blog titled "21 VANLIGA MISSTAG SVENSKA TURISTER GÖR I NEW YORK."
This is part of an evolving photo-project, which will probably continue throughout the summer of 2008, and perhaps beyond: a random collection of "interesting" people in a broad stretch of the Upper West Side of Manhattan — between 72nd Street and 104th Street, especially along Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue.
I don’t like to intrude on people’s privacy, so I normally use a telephoto lens in order to photograph them while they’re still 50-100 feet away from me; but that means I have to continue focusing my attention on the people and activities half a block away, rather than on what’s right in front of me.
I’ve also learned that, in many cases, the opportunities for an interesting picture are very fleeting — literally a matter of a couple of seconds, before the person(s) in question move on, turn away, or stop doing whatever was interesting. So I’ve learned to keep the camera switched on (which contradicts my traditional urge to conserve battery power), and not worry so much about zooming in for a perfectly-framed picture … after all, once the digital image is uploaded to my computer, it’s pretty trivial to crop out the parts unrelated to the main subject.
For the most part, I’ve deliberately avoided photographing bums, drunks, drunks, and crazy people. There are a few of them around, and they would certainly create some dramatic pictures; but they generally don’t want to be photographed, and I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of them. I’m still looking for opportunities to take some "sympathetic" pictures of such people, which might inspire others to reach out and help them. We’ll see how it goes …
The only other thing I’ve noticed, thus far, is that while there are lots of interesting people to photograph, there are far, far, *far* more people who are *not* so interesting. They’re probably fine people, and they might even be more interesting than the ones I’ve photographed … but there was just nothing memorable about them.