Up and Down

Getting croissants in the morning is a matter of going down. Down from the 20th floor, greeting the doorman hunched behind his desk with a cheerful "Jo San"! ("Hello" in Cantonese, but only in the morning. I have no idea what to say in the afternoon or the evening. Just say "hi", I was told, how uninspiring), down a  steep flight of steps, across Holywood road, a smile to the antique dealer who owns a stall down the next steps, down more steps, walk along Cleverly street, turn right at the shop that sells dried food... when I say down,  I mean down. The young waitresses at the bakery have taught me how to order my cafe latte in Cantonese. Mm Koï, yat pui kafe, yu laï MmKoï. Mouthing sentences in another language - and be understood- is an ever renewed pleasure. Then back up, up, up and up with my pastries in a paper bag "In bread we crust".
I like place names in Hongkong. Island Line towards Kennedy town, Sheung Wan ("wan" means bay, loads of "wans" around here), Ladder street, as steep as its name evokes...

In Macau, place names are both in Portuguese and Cantonese. The city has been given back to China only 20 years ago. The old town is now a world heritage site and beautiful buildings in pastel colours make me think of elaborately iced cakes. I walk along its European-looking alleys, baffled by pervasive smells of Peking duck and soy sauce. In a vegetarian restaurant recommended by a young lady, I meet Wai Chong, who speaks perfect English. She is surprised to see me there. No tourists ever eat in that tiny place at the end of a back street. She orders for me, will insist to pay for my meal. Welcome in Macau! Most vegetarian restaurants in China, she explains,  have a religious background. This one is Buddhist. This is why no onion or garlic is used in the dishes as they disturb mindfulness.
I take the bus to the island of Taipa, where tall buildings and crazy grand hotels dwell.

In the Venetian, I wander for an hour or so along the Gucci/Dior/Longines/Vuitton corridors, have a peak at the casinos and eat ice-cream along the grand canal, complete with gondolas... Sorry Macau, you haven't quite out-blinged Dubai but, no worries, you are almost there. This is James Bond precinct... I escape to a park where remaining wetland and a few birds survive among the roaring traffic and a young married couple is being photographed in front of a colonial house.

With Gwendoline, we sail on the Hongkong straight in a classic junk. We are offered drinks, see the full moon over the water, the reflection of the city lights. Sails are lit red. It could be artificial but it is magical, like being on a film set of "Pirates of the China Sea" with Jackie Chan as its maverick captain.

It is the first time I celebrate Xmas at my daughter's, with her partner. We get up early, open a few pressies. Friends arrive at 9am, with bottles of beer. Start as you mean to go on. Up, up more flights of steps, later, to other friends with food and bottles adding to the magnificent buffet awaiting us. We play non-politically correct games. Roaring laughters. I get back early, down, down to the flat to phone Europe and snuggle up on the sofa. A perfect day.

One evening, I go to Ben's art class, down and along Queen's road. He teaches me how to hold my brush, how to give the ink different values, shows me the work of modern Chinese artist, emphasises the importance of the empty space, the white in the page, of trying the essential stroke.

Following his advice, I take many trains to go almost all the way to the border with China to the Art museum of the China university of Hongkong. I walk up, up into the forest surrounding the campus, perched on the mountainside. The permanent collection is not available but I marvel at the display of jewels from Tibet, Nepal and Mongolia. On the way down, I eat Dim Sum in a restaurant that seems to be a club for the university staff. Never mind. They welcome me, give me a menu, lead me to a table covered with a pristine white cloth, offer me a choice of teas, bring steaming dishes. I eat a sweet soup for dessert.

On the way back to Hongkong island, there is time to visit the monastery of the 10 000 Buddhas. Golden statues line the path up the slope. A lot of steps for a lot of Buddhas. Buddhettes adorn the top shrine, some holding a baby, not unlike statues in most catholic churches. I walk down a secluded path, where no tourists stray, where families of monkeys scamper away as I approach and spot signs for a bees farm, delighted to be away from buildings, busy-ness and traffic.

Gwendoline, who knows my longing for wide natural spaces, takes me to the island of Lan Tau. We walk along market gardens and up, up, up. It is only 24° but so humid that it feels much hotter. We walk down the path, more flights of steps to another harbour, a restaurant, the ferry to Hongkong island. Beaches ares still being cleared of the destruction wreaked by the October typhoon, the most severe on record, tangles of trees and branches, concrete blocks torn away from the promenade... I was recently asked whether I "believed" in global warming. It is a strange turn of phrase. Believing is not seeing and the effects of global warming are in front of our very eyes.

After 3 weeks spent here in the Far East, I can't help reflecting on how wholeheartedly consumerism is embraced. I met Isabelle, a French lady who taught French in Yunnan, China, for the last 15 years. People are happy there, she said, rejoicing in being able to purchase goods. For how long will they rejoice until, like some of us (not enough of us) in the west, they realise it is a downward spiral for our world?  In 100 years, will there even be insects left?

This evening, we will celebrate New Year and I hug and embrace all my loved ones, those are that present and those that are not, all y friends far and wide. I wish them to live in peace and happiness.

Philosophy and Factoids

Errata:

 So, yes, in the first blog: it is a “cormorant”, not a cormoran. I had just read the last Robert Galbraith Cormoran Strike murder mystery. And, then, on the last one: hum…“a walk-in” wardrobe, not a walking one. Runaway clothes.

There will be others that I haven’t spotted.

Today Sunday, grey skies and warm rain: At PMQ, the old refurbished Police Married Quarters, now full of trendy shops and restaurants, I have found a café where I can recline on cushions and type away on my computer. 

Life is good. In a nutshell: I have recovered from jet lag and weird health problems and flew to Taiwan to visit my cousin Barbara and my pilgrim friends Hsiao Ling and Andy. Since Friday, I am back in Hongkong where I will spend Xmas with Gwendoline and her partner Jason. The first time I spend Xmas at my daughter’s. In her home. One of the wonderful watersheds of life. 

I have now probably seen enough curlicue-roofed temples to last me for a while, beautiful as they are, and ate yesterday in a fusion Peruvian Dim Sum restaurant (don’t ask). It was delicious.

Last week, I had a moment of existential angst, after visiting a perplexing, exasperatingly eye-rolling contemporary art museum in Hongkong. As a whole my opinion towards contemporary art is that, apart from some staggering masterpieces, there is a lot that will not stand the test of time. Some would say that to induce angst is a result. Well, yes, thanks a bunch. I felt adrift in a meaningless world, the same sort of sentiment pervasive in American literature. After a few days spent in this anthill, one is entitled to wonder about the purpose, the meaning of mankind on the earth. 

I remember Khalil Gibran’s words: ”Your children are not your children, they are the longing of life for itself.” Why should there be a purpose? Maybe there is no purpose, just life longing for self-perpetuation. 

On a less philosophical note, I have been awed by incredible views of skyscrapers mushrooming in every nook and cranny available among the green steepness of high hills and have enjoyed the ordered chaos of little streets and alleyways with their offer of dried and fresh food, mysterious mechanical repairs, antiques, foot massage, snacks, incense, etc… I saw an exhibition of the “city of the future” by Hongkong’s children. Creations of cardboard, plastic, paper, glue… More than half of them have a lot of trees, green spaces. Few buildings. Kids’ longings.

Taipei is more spread out, a gentle wave of humanity instead of Hongkong’s tsunamis. I thought I would never see Hsiao Ling again but there she was! Fiercely hanging on and joyful in spite of terminal illness. 

Barbara took me to the public thermal springs. We bathed under the stars in rock pools increasingly hotter as you go up the hillside.  Alternate plunges in a cold bath are recommended and welcome.  

Andy and I drove to the hills east of Taipei to Shifen waterfalls and in Pingxi, sent a sky lantern into the blue with our prayers written on it. The sudden weightlessness of it as it freed itself from gravity filled me with joy. Surely our prayers will be fulfilled.

Hongkong and Taipei factoids: 

* There seems to be more than 500 boarding gates at Hongkong airport.

* I noticed many people in both cities with a paper mask over their nose and mouth. Pollution? That would be a likely explanation in those cities of respectively 8 and 7 million people. No, it is in order to avoid their cold, virus, bug, to spread. Another example of how considerate a culture it is. 

* Hongkong and Taipei dogs. Some I had never seen before, like a fox-like middle- sized Japanese breed. Smaller breeds are favoured in order to fit them into postage-stamp apartments. They are often furry and yapping with a pointy nose. As it is winter (today only 20° C, freezing, hey), some of them are dressed in little coats and/or being walked around in pushchairs, shopping trolleys, their tongue lolling, a perfect picture of spoilt-rottenness.

* The MTR (underground) stations in Hongkong are all of different colours, a custom dating from the time when less people knew how to read and write. My daughter told me it is very useful to spot one’s station during rush hour colour. A flash of colour through a sea of heads. 

* Hongkong is a vertical city. The buildings soar and wherever you go is hilly. Calves get exercised. Puff whizz pant…

* Beware those dragon fruit with a bright pink flesh inside. They are delicious, sweet, fragrant.. but that’s not the point. You will pee pink. Better be warned.

* There is a number 1968 direct bus from Qizhang, Taipei, to the airport. It has  air conditioning and light blue curtains with pompons.

* The traditional calendar is lunar. You burn sky money to the ancestors on the full moon and the new moon. I finally had the explanation about those crescent-shaped red bits of wood that I saw people throw like dice. Depending on which side they land, you have a yes or a no to your question. I didn’t try. Didn’t want to know. 

* In Taiwan, there is a happy mix of Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism. It is a tolerant culture. My friend in Taipei converted to Christianity and has an altar for ancestors in her lounge. 

I saw a Kung Fu temple (!) in Taipei with bas-relief of a tiger and a dragon at the entrance with bells and gongs inside but no fearsome-looking deities. It is also a kindergarten, as shown by rows of little shoes outside the classrooms and toys in the courtyard.

* Traditional Taiwanese breakfast consist in warm (or cold) soy and/or rice milk, sweetened or not, with long crispy things called youtiao. You can also order steamed dumplings. 

* Taipei has a Buddhist hospital that has been built with donations only. Were I very ill, this is where I would like to be. This is comforting to see a hospital that is grander and more beautiful than, say, a bank, with gardens, water features and one of the best vegetarian restaurant in Taipei. 

Dumplings and Ding-ding

Not quite so motivated to ping as jet lag finally kicked in on my second night in Hongkong. A lot has been said about it and there is nothing new to report on that peculiar kind of misery. I was a bit quick to rejoice yesterday after a good eight hours of sleep, hoping, against all previous experience, that I had nailed it. Still, the foggy feeling that I was a bit removed from reality should have warned me that the European part of me was not running fast enough to catch up with the rest in Asia. Nothing to do, of course, with the strangeness of landing in a city of 7 million souls, of being neighbours to a Taoist temple whose gong can be heard in the morning, of being perched on the 20th floor and still get a crick in the neck looking up at surrounding skyscrapers, of trees with a forest of apparent roots and of markets with unidentifiable goods labelled in unidentifiable writing.

Stewardesses have a thankless task. Those on my British Airways flight were absolute darlings. I was ill, had cold sweats, fainted, was a bit sick, nothing too messy, thank goodness for that. Being English, Kay and Clarissa offered me a cup of tea, which made me smile. Then, they brought oxygen, which was just the thing. Then, the plane being full to the brim, they asked a lady to move from business class to 1st class and offered me her bed. What a way to get an upgrade… I wallowed in luxury for  the rest of the journey. Air-sickness, they told me. They see it all the time. A first for me. I was close to tears to see my big girl at the airport, with a smile that lit all her face. 

She recently moved with her partner, Jason, to a more roomy flat. Under Hongkong standards, it means it is only marginally bigger than the boat. Haha… Seriously, it is very light and there are seats on the window ledges with a plummeting view… They have a large bedroom (not the usual Hongkong cupboard-size) with a walking wardrobe, Gwendoline’s pride and joy. The  kitchen boasts a cooker with an oven, the latter being an exception, it appears. They purchased for their guests, a stool that can be unfolded into a comfortable single bed and stored back out of the way. I was fed a Vietnamese take-away that tasted fantastic and was poured a glass of single malt whisky, which dispelled any lingering air-sickness fumes. Bless them…

The welcome didn’t stop there. Gwendoline, being Gwendoline, had planned a full day for us, after a quiet morning with fresh croissants and a big coffee. First stop, Man Mo temple, built at the end of the 19th century for the worship of the God of Literature and the God of martial Arts. Red and gold shine behind the smoke of incense stick and the Sunday crowd. Deities line up against the wall. I promise myself to come back later, when it is empty. 

It is then only a short stroll to the former Police Married Quarters (PMQ). They have been transformed into a beehive of upmarket shops and exhibition spaces. Clothes designers, Japanese ceramic artists, bamboo bikes, alternatives to plastic (a very welcome but minute drop in that ocean), delicious coffees… 

We meet Heather, a friend of theirs, to eat a Bao (a sort of bun) and share a cab to the east of the island where we join Julia, and Felicity. Felicity is from Hongkong and is one of Gwendoline’s Christmas presents to me. All 5 of us are going to learn to make dumplings. We buy food in the market and I ply her with questions, hence solving some food mysteries. We go to her sister’s flat, big enough to accommodate us and meet her family. Wai Wai, her one-year-old nephew smiles a toothless grin at us from his play-pen. His name means that he is very clever though at the moment all he says is ba ba da ba… We prepare fish, pork and vegetable filling for the dumplings and learn the art of folding the little parcels in fish shape, Japanese style smily face shape, and another nifty one. Felicity watches us indulgently then steams the lot, which we savour with soy sauce. Foodie day, indeed. 

From the east to the west of the island, ding-dings offer a cheap and slow alternative to the very efficient public underground system. They are double decker trams who chime their way through the traffic. I see large groups of people sat on the pavement, chatting, preparing food, keeping warm with cardboard boxes and each other’s company. Sunday is family day, heather explains, and the Filipino and Indonesian help who take care of children and home are thrown out of the house for the day…. The contrast with the bling and the swanky buildings is painful. 

Storms of all sorts...

A few days ago, after a sleepless night (gusts at storm force 11, whistles, clangs and heaves), we struggled my suitcase over the guardrails. The pontoons were awash with spray and I held Phil's hand for dear life. We were walking like drunkards, intent on avoiding to be blown off into the brine, on reaching the shore and the 7am bus where we said goodbye, emotions numbed by the buffeting.

My grandpa used to say that trees made the wind. See, look how they move their branches! I feared to be clutched by gnarled twigs, Lord of the Rings style, loved the song of leaves in the breeze, a living force to be reckoned with… But here, ha! I imagine a sleeping creature in the middle of the ocean, in a place far off any sea routes, where there is no island of floating plastic. Sometimes, when it wakes up and sees what we, humans, do to our beautiful world, it sends vortices of indignation and anger towards our coasts. And on this western shore, indeed, for days it's balmy, quiet, sunny. On a Sunday, we motor around scraggy rocks for a picnic in the cockpit, anchored in a sheltered bay, with the sun on our face. On other days it can be foggy, drizzly…One can't see the other side of the bay and the old granite church on the sillon barely emerges from a ghostly, hushed, world... And then it hits the coast. Slam!

The quiet before the storm in the marina

Pontoon tales... It seems five of us are "live-aboard" in the "Port du Notic", or so Pierre says.  It's just as well as the heater in the shower block is being repaired. As the one in the toilet block works, we all queue up at the disabled shower there. The dribble of tepid water ends up really warm if one perseveres long enough under it. 

A hippy couple lives in a tiny yacht with a rather large dog who looks like a black labrador with a scruffy beard. It lounges in the sun on the pontoon and contemplates sea gulls with calm indifference. 

There is a guy who leaves long black hair in the shower and a dusting from his electric shaver in the sink. Ugh... 

There is Pierre, a good friend whom we enjoy having around for a drink or a soup, who will soon go back to Chamonix for the ski season. 

Another neighbour, Alan, is anxious about his beautiful boat. He took 8 years to build it and frets every time a storm is announced, which means he frets often. We know the weather will become more dynamic when Alan turns up at the marina, worrying that our two boats are too big to be moored together at this flimsy finger pontoon. 

From time to time, an old man, bent at an angle by eighty years of life, carries jerrycans down the quay slope, puts them down, grabs them again, one step at a time. He's got a wooden fishing boat, painted jolly colours. 

Another local chap goes out every day, even when it would be sane to hunker down, check all the ropes, secure the moorings and remove anything that might be shredded by the weather. When we’re having breakfast, through the portholes we see his mast go past, fast and undaunted. 

A tug boat, the "Abeille Flandres", famous in the area, anchors in Camaret when a storm is brewing. Its appearance doesn't bode well. West of Ushant is considered the "Cape Horn of Europe" and, since the Amoco Cadiz oil spill in 1978, the "Abeille Flandres" is there to save ships and guide them away from danger.

Camaret gives us both shelter, welcome, friendly cafés, restaurants and miles of stunning scenery. Nothing quaint or twee, but sturdy Breton houses, alleyways and artists who paint the cobblestones blue and orange…Jean-Paul has travelled and worked all over Europe, promised to himself he would never travel further, though Cuba had an appeal. He makes woodprints and his bearded self holds the wheel over his shop.

 The other day, I was sitting at the café de la place, for a grand crème. The owner, Vincent, was consulting the obituaries with a glum patron, both shaking their heads over the 2 page spread…If one stays long enough in a café, snippets of information come unbidden and aplenty. 

                                                                    I discovered that on the camino. Nothing better for local knowledge. Sooooo, it seems the new Queen Mary was berthed in Brest for internal refitting, 10 days round the clock work. I learned that Camaret, in its heyday of lobster fishing, when money was coming out of their ears, was offering that very seafood on workers’ menus. Vincent told me he lived in Africa for years, Burkina Faso. The paintings on the wall, village street scenes under wide skies, are his work. 

After three days in France, I am now still in Europe (well, Britain) : Chelmsford, Sudbury, Ipswich, Southwell, London and then Hongkong... and then... and then… Loose ends to tie (bank, hospital appointments, etc… yawn, yawn…). Before the longest trip since my early twenties, I wanted to reconnect, catch up, see family, friends. My sister and I had a leisurely time, covering our hair with henna and making soups. I shared a meal with Thierry, Clément and Brigitte and discovered Lille with Sophie and Ludovic. We had the most decadent hot chocolate and saw arts and crafts being made and sold in an old textile factory. The buzz in there!! 

Sue caught me when I arrived in England and my mobile phone was on strike. Mercury retrograde, that’s what I say. I shouldn’t be travelling under those auspices. Antonia, Ely and I talked about the magic in life and about writing. I caught up with Clare and Ann in Ipswich cafés, was welcome in Southwell by Ann who made me countless cups of tea and put my towel in the airing cupboard so it would be nice and warm for my bath…Bill showed me all his improvements of the old Westgate house, its elegantly painted windows and fiddly woodwork. Sue, Roger and I shared good reads and possible motivations for an interest in  history. I swapped family news with Caroline at the deli. In London, I lugged my suitcase through the rush hour in delayed public transport under a drizzly sky and, in Alice and Lizzie’s lovely flat, spent my last night in Britain for a long time.

Phi is expecting 60 miles an hour winds tonight....Westerlies. The gilets jaunes and the police sympathise... More storms...

Now in Heathrow terminal 5, I have been wandering in the departure lounge. A half-price, brightly-coloured Harrod's satin dress is, for your information, £1962.... But I feel far removed from the bling and the wafting of expensive perfumes.. I can’t contain a mixture of trepidation, happiness, joy, excitement, sadness. Now like a pinball at rest, in the lull before take off. Ping!