The Longest 48 Hours

I don’t think I’ve spent a longer 48 hours worrying and feeling so discomfited. Charles De Gaulle Airport now leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.

The positive of the flight delay was the chance to catch Amsterdam “cyclocity” yet again for a day, now in full rainy weather and several brief moments of dry, sunny spells, it is as pretty (and liberal!) as I remembered.

Did not cover much on foot as I did rather extensively those years ago, but came across several interesting sights:

But with a throat infection and a slight fever, perhaps getting out of the drizzle was the best idea, and thus I made my way to the airport way too early for my own good), thinking of finding a quiet corner to catch a few winks.

It was nearing boarding time when I realised that the flight was yet again delayed another 2 hours because of the foul weather across Europe.

And then it was a blessed/cursed 12 hours on board, and knew I was home when I nearly suffocated in the humid air.

So that’s it, folks, and thank you for following all the way to the end of a rather eventful 14 (+ 1) days.

An accidental Tourist in Amsterdam

Missed the flight back home because of a delay in the Paris airport having something to do with radar failure that caused all planes departing CDG Paris to be delayed by 2 hours.

Incompetent fools.

Called home at 5am to let the parents know with no little amount of shock.

Reached Amsterdam cursing and swearing hard after seeing the word ‘departed’ for my flight status – more infuriatingly so, the KLM/Air France service desk refused any more help other than rebooking the flight back home 24 hours later, stating baldly that it was the fault of the Paris Airport and not theirs. Realised that there were 3 other people (unfortunately French) who also missed the same plane, and like unwiling stragglers who needed to bond quick, we now had to move ‘as a herd’ with the language barrier. Everything had to be on our expenses including transport, hotel bills, and meals - and nearly cash-poor, we wondered what to do for long moments.

The service desk sent us on our way with an excuse for a ‘care package that contained everything but shampoo and soap. At the last moment, we got a measly Eur 10 for airport meals. I wonder how they deal with the constant stream irate passengers (and there were many who missed their flights because of the Paris delay) who insist they ought to do more.

We ended up at a Hotel Barbacan that looked forbidding in the night when we arrived; the creaky stairways and isolated roomsare atmospheric enough to force re-play scenes of zombie/slasher B-grade movies.

The morning dawned bright yet dreary – it is drizzling as I type and I’m about ready to check out with the bulky things in my backpack.

Let us see how the rest of the adventures go for the day. I will see you at home – we all must keep our fingers crossed, and pray, shan’t we?

Paris Revisited

My shoes are worn out and the right sole is nearly gone; surely that means I have walked as much as I should have?

The ticks on my list indicate that all that I think are necessary sights have been ‘covered’; it is naturally the most artificial (not to mention superficial) of lists a visitor of a place can make.

At every turn, there are tourists; nearly everyone gets caught up in everything French. Even the Americans attempt to say Bonjour, Bonsoir and Merci reasonably well before lapsing into the familiar curled r’s.

The city spirals out in a roughly circular fashion, and I walk for a long time, only to get the Eiffel tower back in view again after crossing one of the numerous bridges. The sunny day makes the scene more inviting; I take out my camera, snap, and grunt in frustration that the pictures I take will never resemble the postcards.

The steamier side of Paris materialises in the infamous Montmartre/Place de Clichy area, a street on which I admittedly passed through on purpose after climbing up to gawk at the Sacre-Coeur. At 7pm in the summer, the area is crowded with panting tourists, street performers and immigrants. Prettily known as the painter’s hill of Paris, Montmartre was a buzzing hive artists and other bohemian activity at the turn of the century but has since degenerated into an area for seedier activities – even bohemian living and irrational French sensibilities had to bow low to rising cost.

Today, the only paintbrushes I see belong to painters who work solely for the tourist trade.

I walk halfway across the city from the Latin Quartier to the Bois de Boulogne, crossed several bridges, passed the various neighbourhoods and was accosted in the middle of the road by an middle-aged Parisian who spoke little English and said many things to me in French at the roadside.

He tried to wish me a good time in Paris and offered me to show me around (I declined politely with a bit of alarm), though I suspect that was not all that he actually mouthed in French.

Many times I thank God that the bookshops carry only French books – they prevent me from spending time and a lot of money in them as I had done in London.

Parisian fashion that has been celebrated as haute couture for so long remains alas, inaccessible for the working class. Street fashion however, is now no different from the rest of the fashion that exists circumscribed in Europe; translating runway fashion to streetwear however has resulted in the mass production of cloyness rather than class. I am amazed that women with walking aids, still shop in them nonetheless.

The last full day in Paris is for last minute shopping, and cheese-buying. My limited French becomes embarrassingly obvious when I wish the cashier Bonjour instead of Au Revoir when paying. She looks at me pointedly, and tosses a curt Au Revoir before turning to the next customer in line.

I return with legs like jelly after a rather distasteful time in spent in the Metro, and not long after, a demonstration complete with French flags and some weird costumes happens along the Rue des Carmes where I am staying, and everyone, including me, rushes for the camera.

The photo is taken, and then I turn to an effeminate young man slouched on the side of the street watching the activity with a bemused air.

“Oh…it’s just a show, not for real,” he smirks gaily in a rather high-pitched voice. “They all pretend to hate Sarkozy, and the strike is…well…I don’t know, just not real.”

The crowd that is part of the strike, plays to the media, and shouts even louder as they amble downhill. Loud voices now float up to my window; some passionate argument is taking place outside.

The famous idiosyncrasies to which the world universally responds is of course, probably one of the few shared understandings around, only known as a harrumph with a roll of the eyes that sounds suspiciously like – “Ah, the French”.

Going Au Naturale

My place on the TGV to Nantes is next to a French lady who teaches English to high school students, and we abruptly fall into conversation after I stutter a nervous “Anglais?” while stumbling into the seat.

The 2 hours fly by La Loire en route to Angers St. laud and Nantes; soon enough we arrive in Nantes with a neck ache acquired from the awkward chatting position on the train.

The French lady helpfully translates the conversation that is going around us – a man a few seats in front speaks loudly on his mobile, predicting wrongly that we would arrive early; a woman travels for the first time in great astonishment at her well-behaved terrier; a group of suit-donning executives discuss animatedly the difficulty of ironing shirts.

It is good to know that the French can be as comfortingly nonsensical as mere mortals.

For the longest time, I was under the impression that Nantes was my last stop in France, and Stephanie had been rather vague about where she and her family actually stayed. I have 2 hours in Nantes, and take off for the town centre after hurriedly stuffing my all unnecessaries in the train station lockers.

The Familie Guery meets me at the Gare SNCF in Nantes, but only a family member speaks English. The rest is communicated through primitive gestures and single words that rival the vocabulary of toddlers.

Only half knowing what the actual itinerary was, I sit in the back seat while we race past vineyard after vineyard, and end up for a short while in the Clisson Valley that sits on the edge of the Loire-Atlantique, Vendee and Anjou regions. The medieval village itself is architecturally mimetic of Italian and Britannic styles, and celebrates its 600th anniversary this year; it would have been a stronger tourist magnet if not for its relative inaccessibility.

The Clisson Valley disappears behind us as we take to the road again, this time to their home in a village that is not even found on the map. Under today’s azure sky (read: hot weather), I realise that the French countryside experience is authenticated not by the number of rolling hills and haystacks but by the impassable language barrier.

In the village of Jallais (approximately 45 minutes drive from Nantes, so small that it is unmapped) where virtually no English is spoken, lives the Familie Guery on the narrow Rue du Grand Pre, my hosts for today and tomorrow. The family is at present, experiencing a flurry of activity: Stephanie has taken ill for a while and stays with her parents until she recovers, her sister Sabrina returns tomorrow night for an impromptu 10-day visit, and by the strangest turn of events, I find myself plonked in the midst of an unplanned family reunion.

We get mauled by the uber-excited Rudy (dog) as we step in. Exhibiting rather alarming French traits, Rudy eats cheese and likes to play with bread.

The practicalities make themselves known in no time – I need to do laundry and only then, realise belatedly that I have forgotten to bring extra clothes – the only ones I have are wet ones.

Roger, Stephanie’s father, is both a supporter of Arsenal and Formula One. The cornerstone of the conversation is oddly enough, Thierry Henry and rumours about his move to Barcelona to help fund the new Emirates Stadium.

Her mother, Anne Marie, is constantly at the stove, mostly with the greens harvested from her large garden.

I made a foregone prediction that dinner was going to be beyond words and was filled with belated horror at the amount they piled on my plate, and with even greater horror, I managed to eat them all.

In this order, we had:
1. Bread, Butter with slices of baby radish
2. Cold cuts of ham
3. Salad greens with a dressing mixed with mustard, 8 different oils, several types of vinegars, shallots and garlic.
4. Zuchini Scrambled Eggs

I ask curiously about the salad dressing, to which Roger Guery replies proudly that only the men in the family mix them. He quips that it is a secret blend but immediately takes out an array of oils that I never knew existed and recoils when I suggest supermarket salad dressing.

Is the best way of protecting a secret recipe not to render it as difficult as possible to obtain the ingredients so that one gets intimidated sufficiently to not try one’s hand at it?

The dinner spread was not yet complete. Dessert comprised:
1. Rhubarb Pie
2. Eggless Chocolate Mousse
3. Strawberries and Raspberries in Chantilly

The quasi-farming lifestyle has produced the salad greens, radish, zucchini, rhubarb, and the berries. For the first and hopefully not only time in my life, my taste buds encounter raspberries that are outrageously sweet.

In reply to my rather embarrassed enquiry halfway through the meal if her mother cooked like that much only for guests, Stephanie confirms with amusement that this happens nearly daily. Mealtimes are still hallowed in the countryside. I confess openly that it was the best I’ve eaten in a long time. The compliment is dutifully translated for the chef, and Anne Marie takes a small bow.

We trade stories with quite a bit of difficulty; post-meal times revolve around an incomprehensible barrage of words which I assume to be a recount of Roger and Anne Marie’s recent holiday in the French Riviera, Monaco and the Pyrenees. Ridiculously picture-perfect postcards that are meant solely for the consumption of the tourist gaze nevertheless shake my lingering prejudice that France is much more than poor English communication, croissants, Lancôme, Audrey Tautou and snooty chefs.

Photograph albums are next in line and their intimate nature prompt anecdotes every couple of flips. Some stories behind the photos are hilarious: they contain pictures of various family members posing next to unknown women for reasons that range from lecherous to more lecherous – from taking a photo next to 2 pretty blondes graduating girls, to capturing an unsuspecting woman’s mini-skirt by a public telephone. There is another photo of Roger sitting nonchalantly in the London Tube looking over someone else’s newspaper, pretending to understand English perfectly.

Cloistered in her sister’s room, the quiet that is found here is suddenly unsettling after my jaunt through the large cities. It is the thick silence of the countryside that defers only to the flora and fauna, and cannot be replicated – or so I think, until some stranger’s extraordinarily bad singing outside my bedroom awakens me.

We eat yet again – thankfully breakfast was simple. But the lunch menu was:
1. Fresh greens with rice, tomatoes, kiwi, basil and palm fruit with crusty bread
2. Beetroot and some salad dressing.
3. Chicken in Soya, cream and herbs, with 3 different kinds of mustard sauce to choose from.
4. Baked potatoes, Flat beans and carrots.

Out came the Emmenthal and other soft cheeses after we finished the main course. Last night’s berries with Chantilly and Chocolate Mousse magically reappeared as well.

I learn that the Christmas tradition involves 13 different kinds of dessert.

We say goodbye and goodnight all at once – my train leaves for Paris at 7am the next morning, and the drive to Nantes takes a good hour. Stephanie reminds me for the umpteenth time that there are essential places on the map I have missed this time around.

“You will need to return to France,” she tells me rather seriously.

“Or you just have to visit me,” I quip back cheekily.

Viva la France

I arrived in the touted “City of Lights” in the mid-afternoon heat engulfed by an all-encompassing smog which made it a bit hard to breathe. So goes the secret of the shrouding mist that creates the accidental romantic ideal of Paris – it does make for good photos though.

Just as it is daunting to write about London, it is no less for Paris – what can be said that has not been said in countless novels and other travelogues?

Paris is massive, and sprawling (tourists crawl every available space unfortunately) – it is as though the French Kings competed to build palaces after palaces using the large space. It is easy to caught up in the ornate architecture, only to be stunned into seeing a superkarmet or something else complete modern at its base. Specialty stores – the heavenly bakeries (boulangeries), boucheries, fromageries and all, abound however, as there is still a stratum of traditional Parisians who don’t believe in mass consumerism.

Photos to come soon – watch the space.

A Bizarre Encounter

An old man sitting adjacent to me in the breakfast room suddenly piped a “good morning” – a greeting that I returned rather hesitantly. A few minutes later he turned to me once again, shooting a rather wizened look in my direction.

“Excuse me, may I ask you a question?” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as best as he could through a thick beard, as though fearing I wouldn’t understand a word of English.

I acquiesced once again.

“Is this your first time in London?”

“Yes.”

He nodded his thanks, and turned back to his half-eaten breakfast and me back to nursing my cup of camomile tea. A few minutes elapsed once more before he turned back.

“Are you from England?”

“Where are you from?” He hurriedly continued after I told him, and said that he was working with a group dealing with climate change.

“Could I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Could I ask if climate change is a big thing in Singapore?”

“It slowly is. There’re talks at the governmental level.”

“It slowly is?”

“Yeah.”

You must pardon my curt replies.

“If there were to be some kind of implementation, would it be top-down, or…you know, would it come from the citizens’ level?” He gestured with some brisk horizontal movement as though any citizen-initiated movement was to be either hallowed or disregarded.

“Top-down. It will always be from top-down.” I could not resist that cynical and immediate reply.

“Ah.”

He went back to his drink and I to mine. A few minutes later the all-to-familiar gestured of turning around and back to me happened again.

“Excuse me, could I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“You know the Singapore Airport is world-famous. Do you foresee the government ever closing the airport to improve the climate?”

That was the most bizarre question I’ve ever heard concerning the airport – considering that T3 will soon open.

“That will never happen.”

“Singapore has an airline of its own. Is it profitable?”

“Extremely.”

“That is bad news for all of us then,” He ended his questioning session rather gravely.

What a bizarre way to start the morning.

On a more normal plane, some varied pictures of London here:

For the Arsenal Family Members

Arsenal’s spanking new Emirates stadium greets you as you cross the bridge from the Box Office. It’s more than a stadium really and more of a massive complex, and lies around thee corner of the Arsenal Tube station in Zone 2 of the Piccadilly line.

It is of course, deserted because the EPL has snoozed into the summer break.

Dad: you’d better be reading this – I went all the way there (heh: 3 tube stops away) just to take a picture for you.

London: The Tale of a “Country Bumpkin”

I came, and saw (Les Miserables at West End with John Owen-Jones a.k.a. God) and fell into raptures. Bought the Les Miz ticket at Queen’s Theatre Box Office and got a restricted view but first-row seat, with some of the set reaching past the few rows. Call it a true experience when you get to see the much more than the going-on in the foreground.

I was close enough to claw him into erotic submission each time “God” sang, but decided to restrain myself at the last minute for fear of losing some dignity.

I think the compelling force of the Les Miserables story (besides John Owen Jones who actually made Valjean almost desirable – woohoo!) lies in the thorough exploration of what redemption really constitutes: the fullness of the liberal offering of forgiveness is never realised and can never be embraced when the self still attempts means and ways to unconsciously justify what it perceives as undeserved.

Does it not already sound biblical?

I went back to the hostel thinking about the tiny details I have missed, and how several motifs surrounded the characters so strongly – for Javert, the unfailingly stars strengthen and reflect (pun fully intended) his resolve to capture Valjean – the Javert Leitmotif in the score also weaves itself in the scenes where he draws back to question himself; for Valjean, the silver candlesticks that the priest gave to him reappeared a couple more times as he sought to find his redemption, not knowing he had found it and not quite accepted it long ago. He dies in his adopted daughter’s arms at the end of the show, and believes finally that paradise is his to enter.

I had the lousiest shower of my life no thanks to the little space in the bathroom – thought once more about the hallowed way Valjean kept the candlesticks on his deathbed scene as a stinging reminder of his final crime – no, I suddenly stood corrected – as a sobering reminder of the underserved action of grace and forgiveness that the priest showed to him when he most deserved punishment.

And God suddenly said in the midst all that water and soap – That’s because you never forget the incidents in which you have been shown the fullness of grace.

On a side note, the criteria for playing Marius are simply – look good and be a bit hyper. Singing well may or may not be a pre-requisite.

In any case, the vibrancy of London makes me feel like a country bumpkin but I think in the space of the few hours that I’ve plonked myself – it has all been very agreeable.

The chunnel crossing from Calais was the greatest disappointment of the Eurostar; those who wished to see sharks and other fish will catch naught but the blackness of a tunnel for about 20 minutes or so. The cheap thrill lies really, in the rather short-lived experience of the train’s acceleration up to its full speed of 300km/hr along the Belgian countryside.

A whole new world opens after I emerged from London Waterloo International – a world where everyone speaks English (though some of it can be incomprehensible), where there are grumpy faces and not-quite-up-to-par service, where 3-pin plugs rule, where cars drive on the right side – it is almost like coming home, but to dreary and colder weather.

Is there really anything worth complaining about?

I’ve just blown a ridiculous amount of money to see Les Miserables, Othello, and Equus. The Equus ticket was decided on a whim, but now I have an appointment with a naked Daniel Radcliffe on Wednesday afternoon.

With the crazed speed I suddenly found myself covering many places on foot and iconic sights just passed me by – Trafalgar Square, the Westminster bridge, Parliament, Fish & Chip shops, great supermarkets, Marks & Spencers, Tower of London, Tate Modern, 10 Downing St, the Big Ben, the cute London Cabs, Red Doubledeckers, and Covent Garden (stepping into at least 2 Whittard of Chelsea stores for personal, orgasmic bliss).

And there are the bookshops at Charing Cross – Blackwells, second-books, bargain books – cheap by English standards but not mine! ARGH!

There is just so much to see, and so much to do. 4 days as I have determined, cannot contain London.

Did I mention Marks & Spencers has an immense food hall filled with instant gastronomic goodies, and Waitrose is actually a Supermarket, and that the tea selection in most supermarkets actually suck?

Did I mention that things are so painfully expensive that I find myself paying for so much more than what I’ve brought?

More importantly, did I mention already I’ll see Daniel Radcliffe naked?

The Brouhaha of Brugge

Yet another day trip to Brugge, and as the travel guides promised, that place is overhyped and insanely touristy. I reached there smack in the mid-morning of the weekend, and a bustling market was already in place selling mostly old women’ clothing, lace, hardware and other bric-a-bracs. The lace shops are undoubtedly tourist traps but also hearken back to the era when Brugge was a textile powerhouse, and lace was one of the many materials that merchants dabbled in during its heyday.

I was momentarily outraged that I had to pay for a map, but the soothing nature of the girl in the tourist office helped take the edge off – maybe that is why they hire mild-mannered people for this very reason.

The historic town filled to the brim with people piling onto boats for a ride down the canals. Maybe the midday sun helped the “romantic” atmosphere none. The look of the city has hardly changed since the high middle ages when it gained its charter in the 12th century. The thriving cloth and spice industries and the involvement of the hanseatic merchants did lots to improve its stature among the great European trading centres of its time. While London was in still its infancy, this town thrived and nearly burst at its seams, until its eventual decline when the river Zwijn shifted its course and silted up. By the 16th century, only memories of its former glory remained.

Let’s just say Antwerp surprised me, and Brugge disappointed me. The city was always on the verge of photogenic greatness, but fell short because of some minute detail that looked out of place. What a shallow standard to judge a city. Nonetheless, it is easy to get lost in another time walking past the strange buildings and the haphazard manner of lanes.

Walked around the touristy bit near the Grote Markt, before trying some typical Flemish dishes in De Vlaamsche Pot serving typical Flemish dishes. Their pet bulldogs(one fat, and one small) appeared each time people came to eat, and one head-butted me all too often. Walked around even more, completing a diagonal trek around the historic centre bounded by the canal only to be disappointed by the less magnificent sight of a few straggling windmills.

Decided there and then that the sights were quite enough – I didn’t want to enter any more basilicas/cathedrals that celebrate their acquisition of some part of Christ’s body or the security of some Apostle’s creed or to see some statue that is reportedly the only one in the world. Managed to make it back to the train station in record time, with a mere couple of minutes to spare before the train took off for Brussels.

A day in Flanders – Antwerp

The foray in Antwerp began from the impressively massive Antwerpen Centraal Train station, a masterpiece unto itself. They are still expanding it to add more shops in its staggering 3-5 storey-high building, with train platforms nearly on each level.

The distance of about a km and a half paves the way from the central station to the historic core (Grote Markt) is a massive pedestrian vein known as the “Meir” of shops ranging from the kitsch to the large department stores.

Antwerp is known for its avant-garde designers and has since become a shopping magnet for hard core shoppers. Walked around the historic centre for a while, and wondered how long it would be before I filled myself to saturation point with 16th century late gothic guild houses.

Caved in and bought Leonidas Chocos (12-15 pieces cost only approx 4.50 Euro?!) in one of the stores – apparently Leonidas is merely a standard brand [for the common man] in Belgium, with other atas ones that cater to the likes of the Royal Family. Such chocolate cafes are the norm, and hey, Belgium is unashamedly a food/dessert haven. One must not, for instance, mistake the Belgian Waffle for the Liege one – anything that is not strictly rectangular is counterfeit.

Past the historic centre to the small river Scheldt, lies a strange statue of Lange Wapper at the foot of the Steen castle (now a maritime museum).

According to 16th century Flemish folklore, the Lange Wapper is a legendary character whose powers include inexhaustible ways of changing his form and height to – guess what - get close to the women or drink their breast milk.

Looks like there is no end to a debauched medieval mind.

Post Script:
Some stories say: On one occasion he disguised himself as a newly-starched white handkerchief and lay down on the street. He was picked up by an unsuspecting passer-by and ended up in the pocket of her skirt. On another occasion he took the form of a newborn baby and laid himself on a stone bench outside the Butcher’s Hall pretending to be a foundling. A woman who had just given birth to a child took pity on the crying baby and gave him her breast.