16Mar09
Epworth Hospital, Box Hill
The big black hands of her watch were out of proportion to the slender firm forearm of the physio. They showed 1:30, which meant I’d been there for 30 minutes, having arrived on time. She explained the likelihood that I’d be awoken around midnight as the anaesthetic wore off. Her advice was to take a couple of the painkillers before I went to bed tonight. Then she got into details about what I was to do for the next few days.
I was being prepared for an arthroscopy – needle-point keyhole surgery to remove the jagged torn edge of the meniscus on my left knee. I don’t know what caused it nor when it happened but the pain had bothered me for a few years. My regular physio was unable to relieve it so I chose to succumb to a surgical fix.
Today will be the first time I have ever been unconscious.
I’m impressed by the efficiency of this place. There are at least 30 people in the waiting room, all with appointments and all having earlier prepared at home, and mailed in a comprehensive profile of their medical history, as I had. Smart business transfer to their customers the responsibility to record and provide all their clerical data. These days this applies across all but the most backward interactions between suppliers and customers. In this case the supplier is the hospital, and the customer is me. Capturing my data this way reduces the hospital's cost, and also reduces its responsibility for the accuracy of the information. It assumes – quite validly – that I am truthful and have a good memory, so my medical history is correct.
I was checked in by a cheery and efficient Sri Lankan lady who processed the insurance aspects and payment of my share. It’s all convenient, efficient and painless. I subsequently learn there isn’t much pain at this place even though it’s a hospital. Perhaps painlessness is the best way to measure the efficiency of a hospital...
Back to the physio – I’m given instructions and a set of crutches. She says I’ll need them for the next 3 days. They’ll be collected from my home by the company to which the hospital outsources the supply. I simply call up to say I no longer need them, and supplier picks them up. All that efficiency for just $20.
I return to the waiting room.
Regardless of the venue, if I’m in a line, the other one always moves faster; and so it is here. By 2:00 I am one of only 3 people left. No problem, I’ve come prepared with The Economist that arrived this morning. The good stuff in it sustains me for another 30 minutes until my name is called and I’m guided to a small changing room. As instructed, I take off all my clothes, except underwear, and change into the hospital gown with the open back. My clothes and the man-bag into which my wallet, blackberry and various forms are placed, goes into a large paper bag that I’m told will go with my bed, so it won’t be lost or tampered with. More efficiency.
I’m pointed in the direction of a bathroom and invited to urinate. It’s a surprise there’s anything left because I’ve obediently have observed a complete fast since 7 am.
From the gowned waiting area I overhear a conversation between two men I can’t see. One is complaining about a new employment arrangement where they will get overtime penalty rates only after they’ve worked all their regular scheduled weekly hours.
“You can work a 20 hour shift early in your week’s schedule and not get anything extra.” complains one of them, “It isn’t worth it.”
There’s no response. The complainant goes on with more of the same. I tune out.
After a short wait and I’m guided into another room where there are several beds, with curtains for privacy. For about the 3rd time, I'm asked my name and date of birth. This handover procedure is obviously to ensure that the right surgeon gets the right patient (and vice versa). I wonder what disastrous mix up prompted this precaution. It’s all done in a friendly efficient manner.
Another nurse goes through the same name, birth date routine and proceeds to shave the targeted knee with a noisy and not very sharp electric razor that looks like an undersized sheep shearing device. An Asian woman arrives, introduces herself as the assistant to the anaesthetist. She too does the name and birth date thing, but adds an extra – she holds up the forms I signed earlier and asks me to confirm that the signature is mine. I deduce that I must soon be going under, and this is the last chance I’ll have to verify something visually. Then she wraps a wide band around my right bicep, explains that something is going to be attached, and takes my blood pressure.
“It’s 113 over 70. That’s good,” she says. It has been 110 over 70 since I was about 25.
Now the shaving nurse pours a cold brown antiseptic liquid over my balded knee and washes left and right, top and bottom. There’s a little friendly banter and good cheer. They leave me alone.
I reflect on how good everyone here is at their job; and how we are a nation of immigrants. Just as well – we probably don’t have enough capacity in Australia to find and train enough of these people to provide an acceptable level of service.
I’m very relaxed by the ambiance. Shortly, the shaving nurse is joined by another cheerful young Asian woman. They wheel my bed and me off down a long corridor. The view of the lights passing above reminds me of how this scene is treated in the movies. There’s an odd beeping sound, like a doorbell as we pass various doors to my right. Some system to ensure I get to the correct theatre?
I think of the time years ago in Perth, when I accompanied Timo all the way to the door of the theatre for the last operation he had on his hand. He had been so brave through all the operations he had in Thailand.
I recall the feeling of tenderness in my heart for him when we took him to the Mongkut hospital in Bangkok for one of those procedures. It was a military hospital that excelled at orthopaedic surgery, supposedly because they’d treated many injuries from landmines during and after the Vietnam War. That gave them opportunities to increase their knowledge of this type of surgery, and to hone their skills.
Timo’s visit coincided with a border skirmish on the Lao border, so there were a few injured soldiers, silent and in their blooded battle fatigues, waiting on gurneys. Tim waited on his in this line. “My brave little soldier", I thought. When his turn came, a perspex window was lifted and he was slid across a stainless steel counter into the antiseptic theatre area. Then the window was lowered.
He came out a couple of long hours later, so small and sweet and innocent with a tube from his nose.
That was about 7 or 8 years before the last operation in Perth. We were all pleased that the Perth operation would be the last for along time; maybe forever, which is how it turned out. And I remember being there as he came to. He half opened his sleepy eyes and reached up his arms, one heavily bandaged, to cuddle Papa. My soul swelled with love and a happy sense of responsibility for this wonderful young boy; our son. The memory of it prompts the same feeling.
We stop, and I rejoin the present.
I’m left in a small ante room outside what I assume is the theatre. There’s a view to some trees outside and I enjoy watching them wave in the breeze. It seems a good place to do a meditation so that’s what I do. Don’t know how long it took but I was interrupted by a woman who introduces herself as the anaesthetist. She too is a bright and friendly Asian, and exudes competence. “Usually,” she says “I have to go through a book of questions, but your case is only a couple of pages. You’re healthy and strong.”
She’s referring to the forms I filled in and mailed last week. They’ve efficiently moved from my desk at home to her clipboard outside the theatre. Her comments make me feel “healthier than the average bear!”
She explains what will happen, emphasising that nothing untoward ever does and that she’ll be monitoring me at all times. She tells me the name of a painkiller that will be fed in with the anaesthetic.
While this is going on woman wearing a blue wimple on her head appears from inside the theatre. She looks like a nun, and her accent tells me she’s South African. I suppress an urge to call her sister. She’s the assistant surgeon and asks me some other questions. I deduce that they are designed to cross check all that’s been answered before, just to make sure they haven’t missed or confused anything. I feel her draw the shape of an arrow above my shin, pointing to the knee that I’m here to have fixed. Then she leaves me alone.
The surgeon comes in, all cheery and hearty and says almost the same things everyone else has, but with a certain extra and comforting gravitas. I know now that I have to leave the bandage on for three days and then not remove the small waterproof plaster that’ll be left. He’ll remove that when I see him for the follow-up appointment. He makes a joke about the arrow. I feel pretty good about everything, and the anaesthetist returns. She sticks a needle in the back of my left hand explaining that I’ll soon feel like I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, then I’ll wake up in the recovery area.
And that’s what happens.
I don’t remember anything and I wake up in another room, where another 5 or 6 people are waking up too. I’m not fully conscious yet. That comes slowly and in waves, perhaps aided by the comforting words from another pleasant Asian nurse. I feel neither pain nor even the slightest discomfort, in head or knee. There’s a plate of small sandwiches a glass of water and cup of tea. They disappear fairly quickly, although I don’t recall what they were.
Nor do I remember getting dressed, but soon I’m sitting in a wheelchair with my paper bag. I check that my wallet, notebook and instructions are still in the man-bag.
I’m dressed and ready to go and the nurse says Nena is on the way.
A friendly porter arrives to push my wheelchair. I recognise his voice as the complaining half of the earlier conversation about lousy overtime pay. He wheels me to the car. I hope he’s still on ordinary time.
It’s easy to get in the car and soon I’m home and the hunger gets me. Nena’s cooked the usual delicious Monday evening leftovers which tonight are lamb chops a la George Foreman, her incomparable potato salad and some veggies.
She has to go out, so I eat in a happy solitude, watching a live league game on television. I treat myself to ice cream. But no vino – I want to take those painkillers the physio assured me would deliver uninterrupted sleep.
The game finishes and I turn off the TV. I sit, following the physio’s instructions, with my feet up and open my laptop. Back to work, checking emails and working on a report I’ve promised to complete tomorrow.
Efficient use of my time I tell myself.
It's been a long day.
Monday, March 16, 2009
My New Tobacco Mate
Wed 25th Feb 09
Budapest and other places….
I got up early and shared a cab through snow covered Budapest to get to the airport. In the lounge after checking in for my flight to London that would get me home to Melbourne via Hong Kong, I picked up a copy of the Jerusalem Post. (Should I say that again?) I’d never seen one before.
My professional eye got a first and favourable impression, scanning the quality of print. Well balanced and sharp coloured photos, perfect register and good solid even black text. But as I was about to start reading it, my new friend from the conference arrived and we fell into conversation. He is a very affable and warm voluble American, an expert in the tobacco industry. That’s why he was at the conference on Tax Stamps, the reason both of us were in Budapest.
I don’t recall the sequence that had me talking about my database project, but soon we were. He is in the business of gathering, analysing and using data about the tobacco business. I have enjoyed some incidental learning about that industry’s structure and function through various presentations at the conference. Prominent among them is the huge amount of money that criminal elements make by subverting government systems to collect excise taxes. The same is true of liquor. But back to the database project…
I explained that (but not how) I’d found a way to define and quantify the demand and supply for commercial printing, which in any economy is probable the most over supplied and most fractioned industry of all. Right there after sole-trader hairdressers and bakers, but with a quantum of investment that puts it in the big leagues. Despite the enormous risky investment, there is no data available about supply and demand, or much else, that printing business owners can use.
The elements of my project do not take long to explain. We quickly got to a point where he was quizzing me not about the principles, but about the practicalities of gathering the data. His questions were concise, valuable and interesting because they reflected his experience in a similar venture. He started an information service for the tobacco industry a long time ago. It’s now so large he employs nearly 30 people in Hyderabad to do the “back end” stuff of data entry and software engineering. He’s going to London on the same flight as me, to transfer to Hyderabad.
Isn’t it interesting how a casual conversation with a complete stranger, well almost a stranger, can be seriously valuable. There’s value for a few reasons. First, it reinforces a flagging conviction that what I believe is valuable and doable, probably is. Second it gives me added confidence and impetus to push ahead when my focus and enthusiasm has waned or at least been diverted to less exciting and more immediate things – like earning a living! But most of all the value is to re-kindle my imagination about where the project might go.
It is that aspect that gives me the proverbial kick in the butt to get active and focused again. And I realise all this while its happening; while our discussion is taking place. That’s a good feeling.
He talks about data gathering on the web. How he reads a few specific blogs as a way of watching and learning what is going on around his industry. I tell him about the new site I found that matches pro and con articles about global warming and he wants to know what it is. I’ve forgotten but it’s listed in my Google favourites so I can send it to him next time I connect.
We talk about other stuff. I’m always proud to talk about being a family guy with 4 kids. He has 3. Dads are all the same. We spend 10 minutes echoing each other. The only thing that changes are the gender, age and jobs they do. And we talk about the recession. He has an interesting perspective which I haven’t heard before: “If the government is putting up all this taxpayer funding, where’s the matching contribution from capital?” A reasonable question.
I mention the feature article about manufacturing in this week’s Economist. He thinks, as I do, that The Economist is the best thing he reads. Although I think he was about content and I’m about content and also the use of English.
We’re called to our flight. The skyway (what a stupid word) to the plane is cold, a fitting farewell from snowy Budapest where I left the hotel just once since checking in because it was so cold outside. We’re both sitting up the front of the plane. I hand him the Economist, saying, “I’ll get it back at the other end.”
For a moment I’m amused at the incongruence of Hungarian announcements on British Airways, but it is a small world after all, and nowhere smaller than Europe where all those countries that used to, in living memory, war against each other, but now trade and travel and call themselves a union.
I start reading my Jerusalem Post but nod off to sleep. I’m awake in time to look down on England as we arrive at Heathrow. Leaving the plane my new tobacco mate returns the magazine with thanks. We wait to disembark.
“Good luck with your projects!” I say, a Melbourne-flavoured farewell, “I’ll send you the website address as soon as I get home.” We’re off the plane and he’s headed into a line for transit at T5 while I go the other way to T4. I know I’ll be in touch, and so does he.
It’s a small world.
I still didnt' get around to reading the Jerusalem Post - maybe next year...
Budapest and other places….
I got up early and shared a cab through snow covered Budapest to get to the airport. In the lounge after checking in for my flight to London that would get me home to Melbourne via Hong Kong, I picked up a copy of the Jerusalem Post. (Should I say that again?) I’d never seen one before.
My professional eye got a first and favourable impression, scanning the quality of print. Well balanced and sharp coloured photos, perfect register and good solid even black text. But as I was about to start reading it, my new friend from the conference arrived and we fell into conversation. He is a very affable and warm voluble American, an expert in the tobacco industry. That’s why he was at the conference on Tax Stamps, the reason both of us were in Budapest.
I don’t recall the sequence that had me talking about my database project, but soon we were. He is in the business of gathering, analysing and using data about the tobacco business. I have enjoyed some incidental learning about that industry’s structure and function through various presentations at the conference. Prominent among them is the huge amount of money that criminal elements make by subverting government systems to collect excise taxes. The same is true of liquor. But back to the database project…
I explained that (but not how) I’d found a way to define and quantify the demand and supply for commercial printing, which in any economy is probable the most over supplied and most fractioned industry of all. Right there after sole-trader hairdressers and bakers, but with a quantum of investment that puts it in the big leagues. Despite the enormous risky investment, there is no data available about supply and demand, or much else, that printing business owners can use.
The elements of my project do not take long to explain. We quickly got to a point where he was quizzing me not about the principles, but about the practicalities of gathering the data. His questions were concise, valuable and interesting because they reflected his experience in a similar venture. He started an information service for the tobacco industry a long time ago. It’s now so large he employs nearly 30 people in Hyderabad to do the “back end” stuff of data entry and software engineering. He’s going to London on the same flight as me, to transfer to Hyderabad.
Isn’t it interesting how a casual conversation with a complete stranger, well almost a stranger, can be seriously valuable. There’s value for a few reasons. First, it reinforces a flagging conviction that what I believe is valuable and doable, probably is. Second it gives me added confidence and impetus to push ahead when my focus and enthusiasm has waned or at least been diverted to less exciting and more immediate things – like earning a living! But most of all the value is to re-kindle my imagination about where the project might go.
It is that aspect that gives me the proverbial kick in the butt to get active and focused again. And I realise all this while its happening; while our discussion is taking place. That’s a good feeling.
He talks about data gathering on the web. How he reads a few specific blogs as a way of watching and learning what is going on around his industry. I tell him about the new site I found that matches pro and con articles about global warming and he wants to know what it is. I’ve forgotten but it’s listed in my Google favourites so I can send it to him next time I connect.
We talk about other stuff. I’m always proud to talk about being a family guy with 4 kids. He has 3. Dads are all the same. We spend 10 minutes echoing each other. The only thing that changes are the gender, age and jobs they do. And we talk about the recession. He has an interesting perspective which I haven’t heard before: “If the government is putting up all this taxpayer funding, where’s the matching contribution from capital?” A reasonable question.
I mention the feature article about manufacturing in this week’s Economist. He thinks, as I do, that The Economist is the best thing he reads. Although I think he was about content and I’m about content and also the use of English.
We’re called to our flight. The skyway (what a stupid word) to the plane is cold, a fitting farewell from snowy Budapest where I left the hotel just once since checking in because it was so cold outside. We’re both sitting up the front of the plane. I hand him the Economist, saying, “I’ll get it back at the other end.”
For a moment I’m amused at the incongruence of Hungarian announcements on British Airways, but it is a small world after all, and nowhere smaller than Europe where all those countries that used to, in living memory, war against each other, but now trade and travel and call themselves a union.
I start reading my Jerusalem Post but nod off to sleep. I’m awake in time to look down on England as we arrive at Heathrow. Leaving the plane my new tobacco mate returns the magazine with thanks. We wait to disembark.
“Good luck with your projects!” I say, a Melbourne-flavoured farewell, “I’ll send you the website address as soon as I get home.” We’re off the plane and he’s headed into a line for transit at T5 while I go the other way to T4. I know I’ll be in touch, and so does he.
It’s a small world.
I still didnt' get around to reading the Jerusalem Post - maybe next year...
Chinese Dental Floss
Sat 21Feb09
Chinese Dental Floss
Something happened to me for the first time this morning. My dental floss broke.
It wasn’t under any more than normal stress. That something unorthodox happened to this particular floss is appropriate. I had a minor adventure acquiring it earlier this week, in Taipei, where English is rarely spoken.
I speak no Chinese so it is not easy to say dental floss in the sign language I use, a sort of default dexterous Esperanto. When I asked the helpful smiling people at the front desk of my hotel, they had no idea. But the word dental meant something because one of them indicated that I should go down the street and around the corner, where I found a dentist’s shop. Yes – a dentist shop, with dental chairs lined up like a barbers and open to the street. There was even a display case of dental products at the little reception desk.
I saw two packages that looked like what I wanted, but it turned out one was inter-dontal floss which I don’t use, and the other about the size of a tennis ball, which I didn’t need. But I did get something useful. It was the Chinese word for dental floss, which I repeated over and over in my head as I headed to a seven eleven store to which it was suggested I go.
And there I found it, displayed right opposite the cash register. And because I found it, I didn’t need to say anything; just hand it over and pay the indicated amount. But I didn’t want to waste my newly acquired word, which I did as I handed the article over, expecting at least a patronising smile. There was no smile of any sort. (If you think about it, my expectation was pretty stupid. If, in a similar transaction at home, I had said “dental floss” as I handed it to a cashier, she could be excused for responding with a derisive, “No shit?”) The cashier took my money without reaction to my lingual skills. I was the new owner of a dental floss dispenser with a Chinese seven eleven label. I forgot the Chinese word for dental floss a few seconds after leaving the shop.
That was only 4 days ago, and now I discover it is of inferior quality. I just pulled out a length to check the stuff and it’s clearly poor quality. It’s probably that the cashier back in that shop is smiling quietly to herself, knowing that this is how the dental floss Gods get their revenge on the would be linguists who know only one word of a language and insist on saying it.
And I just remembered a tiny emergency roll I keep in the side pocked of my computer bag. It’s strong and mint flavoured and probably made in China.
Chinese Dental Floss
Something happened to me for the first time this morning. My dental floss broke.
It wasn’t under any more than normal stress. That something unorthodox happened to this particular floss is appropriate. I had a minor adventure acquiring it earlier this week, in Taipei, where English is rarely spoken.
I speak no Chinese so it is not easy to say dental floss in the sign language I use, a sort of default dexterous Esperanto. When I asked the helpful smiling people at the front desk of my hotel, they had no idea. But the word dental meant something because one of them indicated that I should go down the street and around the corner, where I found a dentist’s shop. Yes – a dentist shop, with dental chairs lined up like a barbers and open to the street. There was even a display case of dental products at the little reception desk.
I saw two packages that looked like what I wanted, but it turned out one was inter-dontal floss which I don’t use, and the other about the size of a tennis ball, which I didn’t need. But I did get something useful. It was the Chinese word for dental floss, which I repeated over and over in my head as I headed to a seven eleven store to which it was suggested I go.
And there I found it, displayed right opposite the cash register. And because I found it, I didn’t need to say anything; just hand it over and pay the indicated amount. But I didn’t want to waste my newly acquired word, which I did as I handed the article over, expecting at least a patronising smile. There was no smile of any sort. (If you think about it, my expectation was pretty stupid. If, in a similar transaction at home, I had said “dental floss” as I handed it to a cashier, she could be excused for responding with a derisive, “No shit?”) The cashier took my money without reaction to my lingual skills. I was the new owner of a dental floss dispenser with a Chinese seven eleven label. I forgot the Chinese word for dental floss a few seconds after leaving the shop.
That was only 4 days ago, and now I discover it is of inferior quality. I just pulled out a length to check the stuff and it’s clearly poor quality. It’s probably that the cashier back in that shop is smiling quietly to herself, knowing that this is how the dental floss Gods get their revenge on the would be linguists who know only one word of a language and insist on saying it.
And I just remembered a tiny emergency roll I keep in the side pocked of my computer bag. It’s strong and mint flavoured and probably made in China.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
A Free Day In Haarlem
A free day in Haarlem
Sat 21Feb09
The phone rang at 2 a.m. A business contact in another time zone, answering a message I left last week. He made two apologies; one for not calling sooner and a second for waking me, then promised to call back in 10 hours. I went back to sleep but the jetlag kicked me awake a couple of hours later.
This is Saturday, my day to sleep in, to laze about and catch up on the rest a body needs. I thought about working but that wasn’t on so I switched on the computer and via the internet read the newspaper I usually savour on Saturday mornings at home. It also seemed a good time to run a virus and registry scan on the laptop.
I thought this might bring back my sleep, but no. With news from home to catch up on and nothing else to do I meandered through reports, editorials, blogs and responses until 7 o’clock arrived. Dawn hadn’t lit the view through my window.
My hotel room is a well appointed garret. The furnishings are efficiently comfortable. Its ceiling follows the curved roofline of this old building. Two small deep-silled windows look onto the cobbled wet lane that runs the 100 metres from a canal to my right to open on a lovely cobbled stone square and huge cathedral, dating from the early 16th century, on my left. It is all quite old, and kept as if new. This is very picturesque and typical of Haarlem.
I shower and dress, and go downstairs for a health Dutch breakfast.
It’s really boring being alone on the road in a foreign country at weekends. I didn’t feel like working or reading all day, and had resolved to go to a museum, the one that has Vermeer’s Girl with an Earring on display. It’s in The Hague at a museum called Mauritshuis. I’m told it’s about an hour away.
I get there by train after breakfast. The Haarlem station is a 15 minute walk from my hotel through these pretty cobbled lanes. It’s a cool overcast day and I’m glad I’ve brought my only warm coat, a big heavy Mac. Approaching the station I’m surprised by the thousands of bicycles parked in racks outside. I notice that very few have locks. There must exist a culture of honesty about this place that we’ve lost at home. It costs me 14.40 Euro for a one day return trip to Den Haag, and the train leaves a convenient 10 minutes after I buy the ticket.
The European train stations I’ve used have in common that they are busy, and even on a Saturday morning there’s a little bit of bustle here. I have time to buy The Independent, an English newspaper. I note is printed in Belfast. Two stories are oddly juxtaposed on the front page; a dying celebrity’s groom is being released from custody in order to spend the wedding night with her, and the Poms are concerned that the extreme right (read Nazi) British National Party are likely to win a seat in the forthcoming European parliamentary elections.
The few passengers include some noisy unsupervised kids. The trip takes about an hour, during which time I finish reading the paper and look out at the intensely farmed and carefully organised landscape that passes by. I plug earplugs into my Blackberry and listen to some familiar music, to past he time. We arrive at Den Haag and I realise that I’m very thirsty. Easily fixed when I buy a bottle of the ubiquitous plastic bottled water at a store on the station, where they sell sandwiches and beer in a very efficient way.
Den Haag central station opens out onto a large and lovely cobbled square, on which are parked several thousand bikes, just like Haarlem. The sun is shining. The museum is about 10 minutes walk away, in the far corner of another, larger and more imposing square built around a statue of Prince Willem. The building was a large house. Now it’s been converted to a lovely repository of hundred of paintings from the Dutch masters. It’s well organised and well run and when I visited it was busy, but not crowded. These paintings are all about 400 years old.
I’m given a thing that looks like a mobile phone with stereo head phones. By plugging in a code number displayed near particular paintings, I get a commentary. It’s useful and interesting. I learn a lot and get a sense of what it was like living back then. Makes me glad I’m living in the 21st, not the 17th century. I’m struck by the brilliant colours and high sheen of many of the paintings. There are not dark and sombre like Rembrandt. I was expecting to see faded old paintings but these look as if they were created recently.
After about an hour I get to the main attraction. I am very impressed with this painting and the explanation I get through the clever headphone set. It is the same size as the replica we had hand painted from a faded old print when we lived in Bangkok. Although we thought the painter understood we wanted it restored to a natural colour, he replicated the same faded blue look! We took it back with a copy of this Museum’s catalogue, which we were given by a work colleague who came from around here. I recall all this as I leave. The painting still hangs on our wall at home by the front door.
I felt a sort of connection to the painting because of all this. When a fictional story of its creation was published a few years ago I felt compelled to read it. The book was excellent, and we also felt a sense of ownership when we went to see the movie of the book a few years later. It starred the very beautiful Scarlett Johansen.
I have time to amble back to the station in time to catch a train back to Haarlem. The sun is brighter so I re-take a picture of the bicycles parked in from of Den Haag Central, thinking it should impress people at home. The return trip stops at all stations and has an unhurried ambiance of non-rush hour commuting. I don’t recognise the station when it reaches Haarlem, and because a few people have stayed on I think we still have a way to go. 5 minutes later I realise we must have arrived so I get out. I notice straight away that the train is right up against the buffer at the end of the line.
Coming out onto the street I’m at the end of the station, about 100 meters from the door where I entered this morning. The gap between me and that door is full of bicycles, thousands of them. I must ask why they’re parked there – it’s not as if people are commuting on a Saturday.
I walk back through cold crowded streets, my coat, scarf and hat a great comfort. An old Duesenberg rolls past me as I wait to cross the road near a bridge over a canal. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen one in motion. The driver wears 1930’s attire and a Sherlock Holmes cap. People are shopping and there’s an almost festive air about things.
In 10 minutes I'm back at the hotel where I freshen up and watch some TV; a show about refurbishing a VW van for some lucky guy in California. They do a great job and it’s entertaining to watch. Almost everyone on screen is fed well beyond what’s required for their health.
There's a small bar a few doors down, at the corner of the old square, where the Robert the barmen and patrons are friendly and the beer really good. I head there for company and refreshment about 6.00. It’s full and noisy with a convivial Saturday evening feel. My plan is to have a couple of beers and stroll down the lane full of restaurants, for dinner at one I visited last year. The barman introduces me to a couple standing at the bar and we strike up a conversation. The man (didn’t get the name) is a fireman and wants to talk about Victoria’s bushfires. Since I left home a week ago so many people have asked me that I have a little summary! He shakes his head at the number of deaths, and tells me that in Haarlem he attends and average of 2 fire deaths each year. His face turns sombre and he looks at the floor.
Things perk up when his friends Rene and wife arrive. They are old mates, who live within 500 metres of the bar (it’s one of many such places around the square) and they haven’t seen each other for months. Rene was born in Adelaide and has lived in Haarlem for 39 years. He goes back every few years for a long family holiday. We talk about footy and the fires and our respective jobs. He insists on buying me a beer.
I get a whole new angle on "Dutch Treat". They say “will you have a beer with me?” It’s hard to say no, even if I wanted to. Then his fireman mate does the same, so my couple of beers has become 4. Then the barman does the same so I start planning my departure.
While this is going on, they’ve explained the history of the bar, which has been there since 1875, and looks it. I’m told it’s typical of Dutch bars, both in appearance and history. I ask about the Latin inscription above the window - "Dulce et decorum estin taberna mori". This prompts an animated discussion and Robert produces from under the bar a book which is a little history someone put together many years ago. They continue the animated discussion and I scan through the book. There’s a poem written by Wilfred Owen, whom I’ve never heard of, but who was obviously a soldier in the First World War. It’s a moving lament - really moving - around the idea that the notion of noble sacrifice in dying for your country is a cruel fake. The poem is dulce et decorum est - the beginning of the Latin inscription above me.
Thankfully, my generous hosts are ready to go, so I pay my bill and leave. It’s about 7:30 by now and s0 I decide to have room service dinner and get an early night because I leave early in the morning.
Back in my room, Mr Google introduces me to Wilfred Owen. I feel ignorant – he was one of the great poets of the War. The only ones I heard of were Rupert Brooke, and Seigfried Sassoon. I have something here to cogitate upon.
Sat 21Feb09
The phone rang at 2 a.m. A business contact in another time zone, answering a message I left last week. He made two apologies; one for not calling sooner and a second for waking me, then promised to call back in 10 hours. I went back to sleep but the jetlag kicked me awake a couple of hours later.
This is Saturday, my day to sleep in, to laze about and catch up on the rest a body needs. I thought about working but that wasn’t on so I switched on the computer and via the internet read the newspaper I usually savour on Saturday mornings at home. It also seemed a good time to run a virus and registry scan on the laptop.
I thought this might bring back my sleep, but no. With news from home to catch up on and nothing else to do I meandered through reports, editorials, blogs and responses until 7 o’clock arrived. Dawn hadn’t lit the view through my window.
My hotel room is a well appointed garret. The furnishings are efficiently comfortable. Its ceiling follows the curved roofline of this old building. Two small deep-silled windows look onto the cobbled wet lane that runs the 100 metres from a canal to my right to open on a lovely cobbled stone square and huge cathedral, dating from the early 16th century, on my left. It is all quite old, and kept as if new. This is very picturesque and typical of Haarlem.
I shower and dress, and go downstairs for a health Dutch breakfast.
It’s really boring being alone on the road in a foreign country at weekends. I didn’t feel like working or reading all day, and had resolved to go to a museum, the one that has Vermeer’s Girl with an Earring on display. It’s in The Hague at a museum called Mauritshuis. I’m told it’s about an hour away.
I get there by train after breakfast. The Haarlem station is a 15 minute walk from my hotel through these pretty cobbled lanes. It’s a cool overcast day and I’m glad I’ve brought my only warm coat, a big heavy Mac. Approaching the station I’m surprised by the thousands of bicycles parked in racks outside. I notice that very few have locks. There must exist a culture of honesty about this place that we’ve lost at home. It costs me 14.40 Euro for a one day return trip to Den Haag, and the train leaves a convenient 10 minutes after I buy the ticket.
The European train stations I’ve used have in common that they are busy, and even on a Saturday morning there’s a little bit of bustle here. I have time to buy The Independent, an English newspaper. I note is printed in Belfast. Two stories are oddly juxtaposed on the front page; a dying celebrity’s groom is being released from custody in order to spend the wedding night with her, and the Poms are concerned that the extreme right (read Nazi) British National Party are likely to win a seat in the forthcoming European parliamentary elections.
The few passengers include some noisy unsupervised kids. The trip takes about an hour, during which time I finish reading the paper and look out at the intensely farmed and carefully organised landscape that passes by. I plug earplugs into my Blackberry and listen to some familiar music, to past he time. We arrive at Den Haag and I realise that I’m very thirsty. Easily fixed when I buy a bottle of the ubiquitous plastic bottled water at a store on the station, where they sell sandwiches and beer in a very efficient way.
Den Haag central station opens out onto a large and lovely cobbled square, on which are parked several thousand bikes, just like Haarlem. The sun is shining. The museum is about 10 minutes walk away, in the far corner of another, larger and more imposing square built around a statue of Prince Willem. The building was a large house. Now it’s been converted to a lovely repository of hundred of paintings from the Dutch masters. It’s well organised and well run and when I visited it was busy, but not crowded. These paintings are all about 400 years old.
I’m given a thing that looks like a mobile phone with stereo head phones. By plugging in a code number displayed near particular paintings, I get a commentary. It’s useful and interesting. I learn a lot and get a sense of what it was like living back then. Makes me glad I’m living in the 21st, not the 17th century. I’m struck by the brilliant colours and high sheen of many of the paintings. There are not dark and sombre like Rembrandt. I was expecting to see faded old paintings but these look as if they were created recently.
After about an hour I get to the main attraction. I am very impressed with this painting and the explanation I get through the clever headphone set. It is the same size as the replica we had hand painted from a faded old print when we lived in Bangkok. Although we thought the painter understood we wanted it restored to a natural colour, he replicated the same faded blue look! We took it back with a copy of this Museum’s catalogue, which we were given by a work colleague who came from around here. I recall all this as I leave. The painting still hangs on our wall at home by the front door.
I felt a sort of connection to the painting because of all this. When a fictional story of its creation was published a few years ago I felt compelled to read it. The book was excellent, and we also felt a sense of ownership when we went to see the movie of the book a few years later. It starred the very beautiful Scarlett Johansen.
I have time to amble back to the station in time to catch a train back to Haarlem. The sun is brighter so I re-take a picture of the bicycles parked in from of Den Haag Central, thinking it should impress people at home. The return trip stops at all stations and has an unhurried ambiance of non-rush hour commuting. I don’t recognise the station when it reaches Haarlem, and because a few people have stayed on I think we still have a way to go. 5 minutes later I realise we must have arrived so I get out. I notice straight away that the train is right up against the buffer at the end of the line.
Coming out onto the street I’m at the end of the station, about 100 meters from the door where I entered this morning. The gap between me and that door is full of bicycles, thousands of them. I must ask why they’re parked there – it’s not as if people are commuting on a Saturday.
I walk back through cold crowded streets, my coat, scarf and hat a great comfort. An old Duesenberg rolls past me as I wait to cross the road near a bridge over a canal. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen one in motion. The driver wears 1930’s attire and a Sherlock Holmes cap. People are shopping and there’s an almost festive air about things.
In 10 minutes I'm back at the hotel where I freshen up and watch some TV; a show about refurbishing a VW van for some lucky guy in California. They do a great job and it’s entertaining to watch. Almost everyone on screen is fed well beyond what’s required for their health.
There's a small bar a few doors down, at the corner of the old square, where the Robert the barmen and patrons are friendly and the beer really good. I head there for company and refreshment about 6.00. It’s full and noisy with a convivial Saturday evening feel. My plan is to have a couple of beers and stroll down the lane full of restaurants, for dinner at one I visited last year. The barman introduces me to a couple standing at the bar and we strike up a conversation. The man (didn’t get the name) is a fireman and wants to talk about Victoria’s bushfires. Since I left home a week ago so many people have asked me that I have a little summary! He shakes his head at the number of deaths, and tells me that in Haarlem he attends and average of 2 fire deaths each year. His face turns sombre and he looks at the floor.
Things perk up when his friends Rene and wife arrive. They are old mates, who live within 500 metres of the bar (it’s one of many such places around the square) and they haven’t seen each other for months. Rene was born in Adelaide and has lived in Haarlem for 39 years. He goes back every few years for a long family holiday. We talk about footy and the fires and our respective jobs. He insists on buying me a beer.
I get a whole new angle on "Dutch Treat". They say “will you have a beer with me?” It’s hard to say no, even if I wanted to. Then his fireman mate does the same, so my couple of beers has become 4. Then the barman does the same so I start planning my departure.
While this is going on, they’ve explained the history of the bar, which has been there since 1875, and looks it. I’m told it’s typical of Dutch bars, both in appearance and history. I ask about the Latin inscription above the window - "Dulce et decorum estin taberna mori". This prompts an animated discussion and Robert produces from under the bar a book which is a little history someone put together many years ago. They continue the animated discussion and I scan through the book. There’s a poem written by Wilfred Owen, whom I’ve never heard of, but who was obviously a soldier in the First World War. It’s a moving lament - really moving - around the idea that the notion of noble sacrifice in dying for your country is a cruel fake. The poem is dulce et decorum est - the beginning of the Latin inscription above me.
Thankfully, my generous hosts are ready to go, so I pay my bill and leave. It’s about 7:30 by now and s0 I decide to have room service dinner and get an early night because I leave early in the morning.
Back in my room, Mr Google introduces me to Wilfred Owen. I feel ignorant – he was one of the great poets of the War. The only ones I heard of were Rupert Brooke, and Seigfried Sassoon. I have something here to cogitate upon.
Korea
19Feb09
en route from Seoul to Helsinki
When my old friend Dick Walker arrived at Inchon, it was his 7th such landing. The first was at Guadalcanal and there followed a string of awful arrivals with the 1st US Marine Corps, at places like Tarawa, Saipan and Iwo Jima. A few years rest and Dick was back into it when the Chinese communists decided to take Korea.
My landing at Inchon yesterday morning was my first, and very short, visit to Korea. Judging from the age of those around me, I was probably the only arriving passenger at what must be the world’s swankiest airport, who thought of Inchon as battleground. Traipsing tiredly and obediently through the immigration and customs checks I missed seeing things that impressed me today on my less rushed departure.
I was in Seoul on business. I’m glad not to be in the business of selling compasses or protractors because they have no use for them here. On the long bus ride to my hotel I see only straight lines. All the architecture is square, vertical, sharp, and business-like. There’s no whimsy in it. The main roads are wide and full of new looking locally made vehicles wearing brands that have taken a soon-to-be-fatal market share from the old new world’s manufacturers. The side roads are narrow. There’s a bustle in the cold air. I am the only non-Asian person I saw at my hotel, which was a convenient few blocks from my business appointment.
Like the protractor salesman, there aren’t any obvious opportunities for me here. Although Korea participates in the world of trade, an artificial barrier lingers in the field I plough. It’s not yet possible to even get through the gate into the field, let alone plough. But the meeting is pleasant and I’m able to whet the appetite of people whose limited access to international expertise leaves them frustrated at the sameness of what’s available to them locally. They’re frustrated that they can’t offer their customers the new innovative things they probably seek. I am invited to persist in trying.
My hotel room is a time warp to about 1980. Everything is the same, and in the same place, except for the huge plasma screen for TV. The only English speaking channels are CNN and a Sports channel. When I turn on to catch up, the news is a repeat of what I saw a few hours earlier. So I have time without distraction.
I read somewhere that Korea leads the world in connectivity to the internet, etc., but I have bad luck. The link in my room is so slow I feel like I’m home already. I do my paperwork and a bit of research, and manage also to Skype home. If this place is so well wired, how is it that my BlackBerry can’t get a signal? I assume it’s because Optus hasn’t arranged it, but when I see how slow the internet connection is, I think maybe I’m misinformed about Korea’s world-leading telephony systems.
The night before I arrived here, I had dinner in Taipei at a humble little restaurant, as the guest of our agent there. Somewhat incongruously he drove me there in a Bentley, which he parked at the door. The meal comprised two broths in the same open pot which had a divider separating the spicy broth from the bland. It was on a gas ring built into the table like Koreans do.
A chatty lady on the plane this morning told me it was Ha Po (I think) and claimed it as a Taiwanese specialty. It was pretty good. The eating of it involved first preparing your own sauce, from a table of different sauces and chopped onions, ginger and so on. At the table, you take what you want from the bubbling pot, put it in your designer sauce and then into your eating bowl. Then came a big plate of finely cut meat that was so red I figured it might be horse. Oh no! I’m assured it is beef, as our host drops a few pieces in the hot side and lets them cook for a minute or so. I get into it all. I hear murmurs that I can tall are expressions of surprise that I handle chop sticks and eat everything. Well not everything – I can’t abide that congealed blood stuff which features in so many soup dishes in Asia.
We are at the table with three ladies who work for Agent. None speak English with any proficiency and my Chinese is less than minimal. Less even than my Korean which is hello and thank you. They are all very deferential and happy. Our agent has only slightly more English than I have Chinese so we’re getting on well with diagrams and gestures.
There’s the standard little Asian table entertainment. There’s “watch the Gwailo eat”. Then it’s time for “guess my age”. No-one can believe mine so I have to show my license. Aren’t they polite to their guest!
A group arrives as we leave and there’s a bit of a hush that tells me these aren’t regular people. Agent whispers “famous” to me so I deduce they’re movie stars or something similar. Their clothes are very out-there modern, which matches their coiffure. Their demeanour suggests they know we’re watching them but they’re used to pretending they don’t. In the car – three ladies all behind me in the back seat with still plenty of room – they chatter excitedly and I learn this group is from a famous TV show which would have just finished a live broadcast. It’s not easy to be impressed by this but they clearly are. They are still chattering excitedly when I’m dropped off at my hotel ten minutes later.
I thank them all profusely and they wish me a happy flight and want to see me again soon. Thank you is the best word to learn in any language. It’s even more important than beer, which is a close second. And please is very good too.
After several days of oriental food I feel like a steak for dinner. It’s way too cold to go out for dinner and the hotel boasts a “Western” restaurant. Another time warp, with a damask covered menu, thick linen tablecloth and stooping waiters with black aprons to their ankles. I might be in France. The fare includes French onion soup and steak Chateaubriand, which my wife and I often ordered in romantic moments in restaurants like this. Way back when it used to always be on the menu...
I read the menu a few times. It’s printed on a high quality paper (I know these things) in an elegant copperplate script. Stuck under two items are narrow strips of paper printed with the words “Product of Korea” (mushrooms) and “Product of Australia” (beef). I assume that Koreans live highly regulated lives and the menu police have insisted that the original printing should have told me the origin of these two, apparently random items.
Is there anything quite as lonely as eating alone in a foreign land? Probably not. But I am used to it, so I stare at the dark cold street below and drift into odd thoughts as I wait for dinner. I also order a beer.
A huge television screen, virtually a full colour movie billboard is mounted outside the building opposite. It casts changing light on the buildings around it and from my viewing angle it appears to be showing TV commercials. I think of the hazard for distracted drivers but there are no screeching tires or tail enders. Maybe they take as much notice of TV ads as I do.
My French onion soup comes with a large green and gold-foiled supermarket canister of Parmesan cheese. French-Italian soup? There isn’t a lot of taste so I pour some cheese on it. The cheese transforms from a powder into plastic and sticks to my spoon. But I persist. Waste not, want not. My tastebuds don't reward my frugality.
I ordered the beef, wondering if I should fill out a form to say I’m going to eat it now. The menu police don’t show up, but the waiter hovers, watching my every move. I can see him in the reflection as I stare outside. I am the only diner, although there are three closed rooms labelled “Rose Room” and suchlike into which he occasionally disappears and remerges empty handed.
The beef is very good, and I rinse it down with a glass of haut medoc, not caring that I don’t know how you pronounce that. It isn’t a Limestone Coast Shiraz but it is very good. Beef and burgundy; I can’t get any more western food than that.
With the sense of contentment that beef and wine can bring, I return to my room. I turn on CNN while the computer boots up. There’s the same Serena Williams interview. It seems she is now also a fashion model. And the financial crisis has uncovered more malefeance, this one involving some guy who put up millions for a Caribbean cricket tournament. It’s old news now. I’ve seen it three times already.
It’s too late to Skype my darling again so I pack for an early checkout and get ready for bed. Drifting off to sleep I recall pleasant times with Dick Walker many years ago. I remember that he seldom smiled but seemed content nonetheless. He was a lanky grey haired man when I knew him. It surprised me when I once borrowed his .22 rifle (to kill our pig) that this marine hadn’t cleaned it in years. I had to disassemble and clean it before it would cock. He clearly had no use for even a small rifle like that anymore. I wonder why he had it at all.
This morning I go back to the western restaurant for breakfast but it’s too crowded and I don’t recognise much of the food on the buffet so I chose the coffee shop instead. I’m the only person in there. No paper strips for the menu police, but there is scrambled eggs and bacon. I read the newspaper as I wait.
There are pages in tribute to a recently deceased catholic cardinal who sounds like an heroic humble guy. There are reports about a crisis in education – sounds like Australia politician speak. So I read on expecting to see that a education revolution is the only cure, but no – violent students and falling grades are two concerns. Students arcing up to their teachers is apparently par for the course. And there’s no counter to it.
The scrambled eggs and bacon arrives with a large helping of soggy looking crinkle-cut French fries - for breakfast! There isn’t a lot of flavour in what I eat, but I have a long day ahead so I make do. As you do.
Checking out it easy and I buy a bus ticket for the airport transfer. Why is it called a transfer if the airport is at either end of a bus trip. I don’t hear people say I’m going to transfer to the city in the transfer bus. Anyway, I transfer to the airport.
It is about an hour away and as we approach the terminal – that swanky one – I see why there aren’t any curves in Seoul’s architecture. The city fathers or the architects must have been storing them to use on the airport building. They used them all on this beautiful structure, this enormous complex at Inchon. It doesn’t have any straight lines – not one. I almost say “that’s where they got to” out loud! This perks me up. I’m the guy who solved the mystery of the missing Seoul curves.
Checking in is simple and quick in these curvaceous surroundings. Built into the structure are systems that make the tedious check in processes almost pleasant, certainly bearable. It doesn’t take long for me to get from the entrance through baggage check-in, security check and immigration check to the automatic train that rushes us to the departure pods.
I notice though that I am the tallest person in the train. This is a recurring Asian thing with me and a subject to be covered on another day. For now, I’m just glad I found those missing curves.
en route from Seoul to Helsinki
When my old friend Dick Walker arrived at Inchon, it was his 7th such landing. The first was at Guadalcanal and there followed a string of awful arrivals with the 1st US Marine Corps, at places like Tarawa, Saipan and Iwo Jima. A few years rest and Dick was back into it when the Chinese communists decided to take Korea.
My landing at Inchon yesterday morning was my first, and very short, visit to Korea. Judging from the age of those around me, I was probably the only arriving passenger at what must be the world’s swankiest airport, who thought of Inchon as battleground. Traipsing tiredly and obediently through the immigration and customs checks I missed seeing things that impressed me today on my less rushed departure.
I was in Seoul on business. I’m glad not to be in the business of selling compasses or protractors because they have no use for them here. On the long bus ride to my hotel I see only straight lines. All the architecture is square, vertical, sharp, and business-like. There’s no whimsy in it. The main roads are wide and full of new looking locally made vehicles wearing brands that have taken a soon-to-be-fatal market share from the old new world’s manufacturers. The side roads are narrow. There’s a bustle in the cold air. I am the only non-Asian person I saw at my hotel, which was a convenient few blocks from my business appointment.
Like the protractor salesman, there aren’t any obvious opportunities for me here. Although Korea participates in the world of trade, an artificial barrier lingers in the field I plough. It’s not yet possible to even get through the gate into the field, let alone plough. But the meeting is pleasant and I’m able to whet the appetite of people whose limited access to international expertise leaves them frustrated at the sameness of what’s available to them locally. They’re frustrated that they can’t offer their customers the new innovative things they probably seek. I am invited to persist in trying.
My hotel room is a time warp to about 1980. Everything is the same, and in the same place, except for the huge plasma screen for TV. The only English speaking channels are CNN and a Sports channel. When I turn on to catch up, the news is a repeat of what I saw a few hours earlier. So I have time without distraction.
I read somewhere that Korea leads the world in connectivity to the internet, etc., but I have bad luck. The link in my room is so slow I feel like I’m home already. I do my paperwork and a bit of research, and manage also to Skype home. If this place is so well wired, how is it that my BlackBerry can’t get a signal? I assume it’s because Optus hasn’t arranged it, but when I see how slow the internet connection is, I think maybe I’m misinformed about Korea’s world-leading telephony systems.
The night before I arrived here, I had dinner in Taipei at a humble little restaurant, as the guest of our agent there. Somewhat incongruously he drove me there in a Bentley, which he parked at the door. The meal comprised two broths in the same open pot which had a divider separating the spicy broth from the bland. It was on a gas ring built into the table like Koreans do.
A chatty lady on the plane this morning told me it was Ha Po (I think) and claimed it as a Taiwanese specialty. It was pretty good. The eating of it involved first preparing your own sauce, from a table of different sauces and chopped onions, ginger and so on. At the table, you take what you want from the bubbling pot, put it in your designer sauce and then into your eating bowl. Then came a big plate of finely cut meat that was so red I figured it might be horse. Oh no! I’m assured it is beef, as our host drops a few pieces in the hot side and lets them cook for a minute or so. I get into it all. I hear murmurs that I can tall are expressions of surprise that I handle chop sticks and eat everything. Well not everything – I can’t abide that congealed blood stuff which features in so many soup dishes in Asia.
We are at the table with three ladies who work for Agent. None speak English with any proficiency and my Chinese is less than minimal. Less even than my Korean which is hello and thank you. They are all very deferential and happy. Our agent has only slightly more English than I have Chinese so we’re getting on well with diagrams and gestures.
There’s the standard little Asian table entertainment. There’s “watch the Gwailo eat”. Then it’s time for “guess my age”. No-one can believe mine so I have to show my license. Aren’t they polite to their guest!
A group arrives as we leave and there’s a bit of a hush that tells me these aren’t regular people. Agent whispers “famous” to me so I deduce they’re movie stars or something similar. Their clothes are very out-there modern, which matches their coiffure. Their demeanour suggests they know we’re watching them but they’re used to pretending they don’t. In the car – three ladies all behind me in the back seat with still plenty of room – they chatter excitedly and I learn this group is from a famous TV show which would have just finished a live broadcast. It’s not easy to be impressed by this but they clearly are. They are still chattering excitedly when I’m dropped off at my hotel ten minutes later.
I thank them all profusely and they wish me a happy flight and want to see me again soon. Thank you is the best word to learn in any language. It’s even more important than beer, which is a close second. And please is very good too.
After several days of oriental food I feel like a steak for dinner. It’s way too cold to go out for dinner and the hotel boasts a “Western” restaurant. Another time warp, with a damask covered menu, thick linen tablecloth and stooping waiters with black aprons to their ankles. I might be in France. The fare includes French onion soup and steak Chateaubriand, which my wife and I often ordered in romantic moments in restaurants like this. Way back when it used to always be on the menu...
I read the menu a few times. It’s printed on a high quality paper (I know these things) in an elegant copperplate script. Stuck under two items are narrow strips of paper printed with the words “Product of Korea” (mushrooms) and “Product of Australia” (beef). I assume that Koreans live highly regulated lives and the menu police have insisted that the original printing should have told me the origin of these two, apparently random items.
Is there anything quite as lonely as eating alone in a foreign land? Probably not. But I am used to it, so I stare at the dark cold street below and drift into odd thoughts as I wait for dinner. I also order a beer.
A huge television screen, virtually a full colour movie billboard is mounted outside the building opposite. It casts changing light on the buildings around it and from my viewing angle it appears to be showing TV commercials. I think of the hazard for distracted drivers but there are no screeching tires or tail enders. Maybe they take as much notice of TV ads as I do.
My French onion soup comes with a large green and gold-foiled supermarket canister of Parmesan cheese. French-Italian soup? There isn’t a lot of taste so I pour some cheese on it. The cheese transforms from a powder into plastic and sticks to my spoon. But I persist. Waste not, want not. My tastebuds don't reward my frugality.
I ordered the beef, wondering if I should fill out a form to say I’m going to eat it now. The menu police don’t show up, but the waiter hovers, watching my every move. I can see him in the reflection as I stare outside. I am the only diner, although there are three closed rooms labelled “Rose Room” and suchlike into which he occasionally disappears and remerges empty handed.
The beef is very good, and I rinse it down with a glass of haut medoc, not caring that I don’t know how you pronounce that. It isn’t a Limestone Coast Shiraz but it is very good. Beef and burgundy; I can’t get any more western food than that.
With the sense of contentment that beef and wine can bring, I return to my room. I turn on CNN while the computer boots up. There’s the same Serena Williams interview. It seems she is now also a fashion model. And the financial crisis has uncovered more malefeance, this one involving some guy who put up millions for a Caribbean cricket tournament. It’s old news now. I’ve seen it three times already.
It’s too late to Skype my darling again so I pack for an early checkout and get ready for bed. Drifting off to sleep I recall pleasant times with Dick Walker many years ago. I remember that he seldom smiled but seemed content nonetheless. He was a lanky grey haired man when I knew him. It surprised me when I once borrowed his .22 rifle (to kill our pig) that this marine hadn’t cleaned it in years. I had to disassemble and clean it before it would cock. He clearly had no use for even a small rifle like that anymore. I wonder why he had it at all.
This morning I go back to the western restaurant for breakfast but it’s too crowded and I don’t recognise much of the food on the buffet so I chose the coffee shop instead. I’m the only person in there. No paper strips for the menu police, but there is scrambled eggs and bacon. I read the newspaper as I wait.
There are pages in tribute to a recently deceased catholic cardinal who sounds like an heroic humble guy. There are reports about a crisis in education – sounds like Australia politician speak. So I read on expecting to see that a education revolution is the only cure, but no – violent students and falling grades are two concerns. Students arcing up to their teachers is apparently par for the course. And there’s no counter to it.
The scrambled eggs and bacon arrives with a large helping of soggy looking crinkle-cut French fries - for breakfast! There isn’t a lot of flavour in what I eat, but I have a long day ahead so I make do. As you do.
Checking out it easy and I buy a bus ticket for the airport transfer. Why is it called a transfer if the airport is at either end of a bus trip. I don’t hear people say I’m going to transfer to the city in the transfer bus. Anyway, I transfer to the airport.
It is about an hour away and as we approach the terminal – that swanky one – I see why there aren’t any curves in Seoul’s architecture. The city fathers or the architects must have been storing them to use on the airport building. They used them all on this beautiful structure, this enormous complex at Inchon. It doesn’t have any straight lines – not one. I almost say “that’s where they got to” out loud! This perks me up. I’m the guy who solved the mystery of the missing Seoul curves.
Checking in is simple and quick in these curvaceous surroundings. Built into the structure are systems that make the tedious check in processes almost pleasant, certainly bearable. It doesn’t take long for me to get from the entrance through baggage check-in, security check and immigration check to the automatic train that rushes us to the departure pods.
I notice though that I am the tallest person in the train. This is a recurring Asian thing with me and a subject to be covered on another day. For now, I’m just glad I found those missing curves.
Taipei
Taipei
18Feb09
It wasn’t until I arrived at the airport on my way out, that I realised I hadn’t seen any other non-Chinese person in the 2 days I spent in Taipei recently. I also noticed that there aren’t many English speakers there either. Or perhaps I wasn’t operating in the right circles. But even at the airport, there are signs in English but the public announcements are only in Chinese, expect for a “test of the announcing system”.
Taiwan people seem very happy and content. Their island is crowded. 23 million people fit into a space off the coast of China that’s I think is about the same size as Victoria (I may be wrong). There is still space for tracts of farmland and forested hills. Signs of wealth abound and poverty, if it exists, doesn’t display itself in the places I visited or drive through. There’s a sense of business and urgency and it’s seasoned with an unfailing politeness and courtesy.
The Taiwanese have an air of healthy pride in being Chinese. They are pretty sure of themselves. It was hard to engage anyone in the sort of political discussion that might occur between locals and visitors in Australia or Sweden or the US. It also seemed impolite in a land of deference and politeness. Only one of my hosts ventured a political comment and that was on the back of a question about our Prime Minister Rudd. He commented that about 75% of Taiwan’s people voted. Half of them want to link with China and the other half think Taiwan should stay pretty much as it is. When I suggested it would perhaps be difficult to merge with a country that doesn’t elect its leaders, the response referred to the pragmatic issue of market size. I wonder if that’s a fair representation of Taiwanese opinion. It does strike me as an essentially Chinese response.
In my dealings with Asian people, I have an expectation that great importance is placed on making money, sometimes as if it was a primary purpose of life. Except that family and face seem to qualify for that. So maybe the pursuit of wealth is just a very close second. Of course in western society there are many who appear to rate money as the most important thing in their life. There’s more about us that’s the same than there is that’s different.
Life has taught me this. I’ve been fortunate to travel and work in many places; getting to know people. In every case, the people I have met are the same as me in at least three things; they want their children to have a better life than they’ve had, they want to succeed at the work they do, and they want to be left alone – in the sense that authority doesn’t interfere – to raise their family. A fourth thing is that they all know the song “Happy Birthday” in English, and all know the work “Okay”.
So even though I met only a very few people here who speak English, perhaps even fewer than those who speak Chinese where I live, I know they are all essentially the same as me.
18Feb09
It wasn’t until I arrived at the airport on my way out, that I realised I hadn’t seen any other non-Chinese person in the 2 days I spent in Taipei recently. I also noticed that there aren’t many English speakers there either. Or perhaps I wasn’t operating in the right circles. But even at the airport, there are signs in English but the public announcements are only in Chinese, expect for a “test of the announcing system”.
Taiwan people seem very happy and content. Their island is crowded. 23 million people fit into a space off the coast of China that’s I think is about the same size as Victoria (I may be wrong). There is still space for tracts of farmland and forested hills. Signs of wealth abound and poverty, if it exists, doesn’t display itself in the places I visited or drive through. There’s a sense of business and urgency and it’s seasoned with an unfailing politeness and courtesy.
The Taiwanese have an air of healthy pride in being Chinese. They are pretty sure of themselves. It was hard to engage anyone in the sort of political discussion that might occur between locals and visitors in Australia or Sweden or the US. It also seemed impolite in a land of deference and politeness. Only one of my hosts ventured a political comment and that was on the back of a question about our Prime Minister Rudd. He commented that about 75% of Taiwan’s people voted. Half of them want to link with China and the other half think Taiwan should stay pretty much as it is. When I suggested it would perhaps be difficult to merge with a country that doesn’t elect its leaders, the response referred to the pragmatic issue of market size. I wonder if that’s a fair representation of Taiwanese opinion. It does strike me as an essentially Chinese response.
In my dealings with Asian people, I have an expectation that great importance is placed on making money, sometimes as if it was a primary purpose of life. Except that family and face seem to qualify for that. So maybe the pursuit of wealth is just a very close second. Of course in western society there are many who appear to rate money as the most important thing in their life. There’s more about us that’s the same than there is that’s different.
Life has taught me this. I’ve been fortunate to travel and work in many places; getting to know people. In every case, the people I have met are the same as me in at least three things; they want their children to have a better life than they’ve had, they want to succeed at the work they do, and they want to be left alone – in the sense that authority doesn’t interfere – to raise their family. A fourth thing is that they all know the song “Happy Birthday” in English, and all know the work “Okay”.
So even though I met only a very few people here who speak English, perhaps even fewer than those who speak Chinese where I live, I know they are all essentially the same as me.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Refugees
Wednesday 11th February 2009
My wife says they aren’t refugees because they speak English; and they’re Australian.
But a few miles away from where we live in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs there are about 4,000 of them. People who have lost everything and managed to escape from the war zones left behind after the fires exploded through the little towns and hamlets nestled in the hills. All that’s missing from the photos are the horse and carts loaded with random pieces of furniture.
These refuges are all dinky-di Aussies just like me.
Now they’re living in tents, or town halls, or the homes of neighbours. They look haggard when interviewed on television, hair not coiffured, wearing clothes that don’t quite fit. They speak real Australian. They praise the fire fighters and their neighbours, and tell poignant stories of friends and family lost. Most of them have lost someone, not knowing whether they are still alive. They all look stoic but slightly lost, which isn’t surprising because their future is a mystery. They know only that they aren’t alone. They’re on the receiving end of a generous outpouring of solidarity and all kinds of support, and don’t know how to react. I wouldn’t either.
Hearing refugees speaking my language in my accent is bizarre. It’s confronting yet strangely comforting.
I live in a land where no-one expects familiar nearby towns to be flattened, with or without warning. I drifted over some of them last week in a balloon flight snapping pictures of the dry brown land below. Now newspapers and TV show confronting images. A black and grey landscape with twisted roofing iron and burnt out vehicles and endless hills, bare except for the black matchsticks that used to be tall proud familiar white gum trees. Dishevelled rough looking people of all ages and stations in life, many holding onto a loved one who is all they have left in life. All express acceptance of events and a gladness just to be alive. All express sorrow for lost ones and sympathy for those who lost everything, but somehow seem not to feel sorry for themselves.
It’s comforting to think that’s how I would be too. It is how stuff works in this great dry brown land. It’s what we expect of ourselves and each other because getting by in a harsh place like this breeds self reliance and that breeds self confidence. It’s a natural consequence of being here. As soon as we dust ourselves off, the next task at hand is helping those around us. First the little kids, then the old people, then ourselves. It has been ever thus. There’s comfort in belonging to this tribe.
Our land is populated by good hearted people who instinctively discern where help is needed and reactively provide it. We are a nation of good neighbours.
That’s evident everywhere since Sunday.
Warmer weather and strong wins are forecast. There are 23 fires burning all across Victoria, many still out of control.
Neighbouring states and almost states (I refer to our Kiwi friends, who almost joined the federation and we left room in our constitution should they ever want to change their mind) offer generous support too. Fire-fighters arrive from as far away as California.
The ever-selfless Salvos and the Vinnies and the Brotherhood of St Lawrence are out in generous force. God bless them for it.
They’ll be kept busy as the number of Australian-speaking refugees grows.
My wife says they aren’t refugees because they speak English; and they’re Australian.
But a few miles away from where we live in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs there are about 4,000 of them. People who have lost everything and managed to escape from the war zones left behind after the fires exploded through the little towns and hamlets nestled in the hills. All that’s missing from the photos are the horse and carts loaded with random pieces of furniture.
These refuges are all dinky-di Aussies just like me.
Now they’re living in tents, or town halls, or the homes of neighbours. They look haggard when interviewed on television, hair not coiffured, wearing clothes that don’t quite fit. They speak real Australian. They praise the fire fighters and their neighbours, and tell poignant stories of friends and family lost. Most of them have lost someone, not knowing whether they are still alive. They all look stoic but slightly lost, which isn’t surprising because their future is a mystery. They know only that they aren’t alone. They’re on the receiving end of a generous outpouring of solidarity and all kinds of support, and don’t know how to react. I wouldn’t either.
Hearing refugees speaking my language in my accent is bizarre. It’s confronting yet strangely comforting.
I live in a land where no-one expects familiar nearby towns to be flattened, with or without warning. I drifted over some of them last week in a balloon flight snapping pictures of the dry brown land below. Now newspapers and TV show confronting images. A black and grey landscape with twisted roofing iron and burnt out vehicles and endless hills, bare except for the black matchsticks that used to be tall proud familiar white gum trees. Dishevelled rough looking people of all ages and stations in life, many holding onto a loved one who is all they have left in life. All express acceptance of events and a gladness just to be alive. All express sorrow for lost ones and sympathy for those who lost everything, but somehow seem not to feel sorry for themselves.
It’s comforting to think that’s how I would be too. It is how stuff works in this great dry brown land. It’s what we expect of ourselves and each other because getting by in a harsh place like this breeds self reliance and that breeds self confidence. It’s a natural consequence of being here. As soon as we dust ourselves off, the next task at hand is helping those around us. First the little kids, then the old people, then ourselves. It has been ever thus. There’s comfort in belonging to this tribe.
Our land is populated by good hearted people who instinctively discern where help is needed and reactively provide it. We are a nation of good neighbours.
That’s evident everywhere since Sunday.
Warmer weather and strong wins are forecast. There are 23 fires burning all across Victoria, many still out of control.
Neighbouring states and almost states (I refer to our Kiwi friends, who almost joined the federation and we left room in our constitution should they ever want to change their mind) offer generous support too. Fire-fighters arrive from as far away as California.
The ever-selfless Salvos and the Vinnies and the Brotherhood of St Lawrence are out in generous force. God bless them for it.
They’ll be kept busy as the number of Australian-speaking refugees grows.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
