Destination Tāmaki-makau-rau

Ever since a few of my friends had compared my hermit like existence and lack of inner emotion to that of Smeagol in The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, I had been compelled to visit the prairies in which this creature fictitiously resided, tangled deep in its spider web of deceit and schizophrenia. In a landscape where Gollum could crawl in dank caves and devour raw fish from the springs was a place that I could call home for a few months with the soundtrack provided by the folk tinged musings of the Finn brothers.

Qantas Flight 43 from Sydney to Auckland arrived without delay, during which time the lamenting cirrus clouds and I embraced Taylor Swift's country pop recklessness on her debut album Fearless via the in-flight music playlist. I sliced through immigration with uncharacteristic ease over a pleasant spell of conversation from the courteous immigration official (she obviously admired the high volume of approved H1-B and H-4 visas that I had processed whilst working with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services in Manhattan). There was something inherently not right with such a smooth transition from one country to another, the process feeling more akin to a routine coach trip from an English seaside coast to another. My only apprehension arose when an outspoken and portly Australian lady clambered on to the airport shuttle bus, sat on the empty seat beside me with a thump and shrilled in my ear notes that continue to haunt my nights:

"Don't worry, I don't bite, they fed me on the plane....but I still have room for dessert"

I could only manage a pathetic gulp in response as I stared back in utter horror. The only other surprise for me was when I revised my STA Travel approved Around The World Ticket (a tattered and heavily creased piece of discoloured A4 paper rather than a shining golden token with promise of adventure) which informed me that I would be in this corner of the earth until mid June, rather than the month of May when I had assumed would be the time for my departure.


Popular Kiwi Magazines: More Pork. Subscribe now.

The hostel that I am currently staying in is a slumbersome dinosaur, a concrete block in the CBD with a large grey roof over 500 dormitory rooms. The ACB Base Hostel is fairly impersonal whilst the reception staff distant and dull eyed. The room that I am imprisoned in is windowless, bare-boned and the walls share the pigment of the liver spotted loose skin of an elderly lady. It took the workforce a mere four hours (and three despairing prompts) to finally make my bed as I wasn't so keen on resting on a blood splattered pillow case (I assume from acne and a care-free razor) that resembled a Jackson Pollock that I inherited from the previous inmate.


View from Mount Eden

Mount Eden, the highest natural point in Auckland, is located only a few kilometres from the hostel, thus within walking distance, be it mostly uphill, to the walking path leading up to the summit, and therefore ideal preparation for my active tour of the country. There was a cruel lesson that was learnt from this steady trek up to the volcanic crater that the Māori tribes utilised as a fortified hill pa (hill fort): Do not attempt to conquer rocky and unstable routes wearing only your flimsy plastic-green havaianas flip flops. My throbbing feet have yet to forgive their oafish master on this occasion.

As if to mock me further, the following day on taking a brief ferry ride out to the island of Rangitoto, my left camel tan Puma Ducati's (limited edition, to honour The Kentucky Kid - Nicky Hayden - of MotoGP infamy) decided to split mid-walk. The devouring open mouth invited the scattered lava rocks and black dirt into my shoe and eventually bruised my tender sole. The breezy view from the summit was grand, searching over the calm waters of the Hauraki Gulf. However, after my trainer ordeal, I could begin to understand why the Māori name for the Island is translated roughly as 'Bloody Sky'.

That's not evidence of heavy perspiration. It's the pattern on my T

The sweat inducing trail was all the more light hearted thanks to sharing the route with a Brighton based Accountant who's Bambi-on-ice stumbles on the downhill leg was the most delicious sight of ill judged coordination I had witnessed in an age. Her admission to always strictly following the Brownie / Girl-Guide code of conduct in the countryside was fairly endearing until the banana peel that she refused to discard and clasped tightly in her palm led to a swarm of wasps to stalk and attack her until she finally fell defeated and threw the flaccid fruit far out into the bay along with her adolescent ideals.

The arduous hunt for employment in New Zealand continues in earnest this week. Having already been rejected by a number of catering companies (no relevant experience) and a Senior Director role for a leading advertising company (no relevant experience), I may have to concede to the warm embrace of a role I was always born to play a part: Fruit picking. Though I fear I may consume more than I could possibly deliver in this boyhood life ambition.

Auckland Song of the Day: Owl City - Fireflies
Everywhere I have gone on this trip, this fuzzy radio-friendly song seems to have followed me. I believe this tune is a big hit in the US at the moment, and although I'm not enamoured with the whimsical chorus, it's just about the only new music I've heard recently.

Disposable Fact: Adam Young, the singer, only turned to music to overcome his insomnia.


i-Pod Song of the Day: Fields - Brittlesticks
A good friend of mine and star of Hollyoaks (he's the Northern Irish cross-dressing troublemaker Kris Fisher: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kris_Fisher) and doppelganger of the disgraced London socialite Henry Conway, recommended this Anglo-Icelandic electronic/indie ensemble. We even saw them play heroically in an ale sodden Camden bar not so many moons ago. I like this folky song from their first EP. I don't think they really took off though, which is a shame...

Brittlesticks video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK16otAfLkc

All of Your Roses Have Died

Matty and Katie had had enough of my company, and took it upon themselves to shake off the precious sight of me wandering around the flat in my hulk boxers by flying out to Queenstown in New Zealand for a week of privacy away from my hungry eyes. All of this was met with muted protest for now I had an apartment in Potts Point (bordering Kings Cross, but Potts Point sounds all the more luxurious) and their double bed in which to rest my sleepy head. The view that they have from their sitting room over St Mary's Cathedral and The Domain is extremely serene and picturesque. The morning sun is greeted by the passing calls of the pearl white cockatoos flying alongside the darting parakeets with their emerald green plumage. The day concludes with rather more menace as troops of black fruit bats stalk the evening air as the light fades and their shadows only briefly distract the ground below.



Admittedly, the timing of their departure from the country had been harsh as they had left me alone, cruelly some may add, on the weekend of Valentine's Day. They were foolish to believe that I would rot, once again in another year, hands clasped over my knees in the corner of a darkened room with only the salt leaves of tears to keep me company as couples waltzed in adoration in the parks and soft lit restaurants around me. I had other plans to spite Cupid's poisonous bow, including takeaway Malaysian noodles, a bottle of Diet Coke and a back to back viewing of Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi on television. Quick fire escapism which drowned out the cacophony of phony romantics hidden in their musk of cheap perfume.

Luna Park: Melbourne

On Monday morning, once my pillow had gained shape after a sleepless night of being cuddled desperately and pathetically, I chartered a flight to Melbourne where I planned to spend a couple of days in the beach fronted St. Kilda suburb, where I had been recommended to stay. My hostel, Habitat HQ (Which scored a lofty four out of five stars in the 2009 Good Hostel Guide) provided a fortnightly walking tour of the the City, and fortunately enough for me, I had arrived on the very day that one was pencilled in. I spent the afternoon on the hot footed trail left by the tour guide as we meandered the labyrinth of graffiti lined alley ways where quaint parasol shielded Cafes and Bistros calmly vented out the lingering aroma of freshly ground coffee and warm baked biscotti. Our amiable guide, a lady named Nat, disclosed to the group that she had demonstrated unsuccessfully against the demolition of the central Art Deco building to make way for an Apple store earlier in the year. I could taste her dissatisfaction with the monopoly as I have yet to forgive Steve Jobs for the way he so easily destroyed my faith in the mini disc.

Acland Street bakeries. Farewell treadmill

Later that day I caught up with two friends that I had met in Hanoi (where they had taken pity on me for reading on my own at the Hanoi Backpackers Hostel Bar as the jukebox blared out The Kooks' second album Konk on repeat). Tam met me by the Habitat HQ hostel, parading a Cambodian purchased bright red and blue elephant shaped hand bag which looked like she had swiped from a local primary school. Kat followed in close pursuit sporting a marvellously dishevelled and tattered grey-blue hoody designed for a pre-teen. Apart from that, they both held the colours of a Monet. As we stepped off the tram into the CBD, the two locals were not at all impressed with my new found walking tour knowledge of the place that they had grown up in. Apparently knowing that spire of The Art Centre was intended to be shaped like a ballerina by the architect Sir Roy Grounds, added no value to the armoury of my factual cavalry.


Tam and Kat. Elephant bag and blue top not in view

It was pleasant to take time to reminisce on some of the experiences that we had shared in South East Asia and for them to rescue me once again, in such short notice, from certain anonymity. The bubble of nostalgic recollections was quickly burst once I returned to my dormitory room where two shady characters, hidden under a lank duvet, kept awake all ten harmless and tired guests in the room throughout the night with their vile wet sounds and heavy breathing. I had not anticipated such vulgarity, and even the unsubtle coughs and movements from the travelers were not enough to distract the rapacious satyrs.


My favourite seat at Ampersand Cafe in Paddington, overlooking the Gas Station


Back in Sydney, with heavy eyes and tarnished innocence, I agreed to meet two members of the Sapa Trekking Odyssey; Ingrid and Alex Toughenough (Eleni, the third musketeer, had 'other plans' - namely in Japan). We met at the Opera Bar, as the previous year on visiting this famous landmark, the landscape had been tainted by the apathetic heavy clouds above. On a balmy and halcyon day, I was once again denied the spectacular setting sun over the Harbour Bridge, this time due to my silver stool facing the bar staff, and not the Parramatta River.

The two girls were as animated and sparkling as when I had last seen them, swimming listlessly in a cheesy ocean of Italian pizza and garlic bread in Northern Vietnam. After some enlightening conversation ranging from the merits of breast feeding to the pronunciation of such words as Yoghurt (it's definitely not Yo-Gert) we opted to dine on a meal that would satisfy the three of us and so we finally settled on....pizza. Obviously. It was a shame that Eleni, Amanda, J-Dizzle and Tom were not also present, and so we made up for their absence with larger portions and slices. We all knew that the hand clumped side salad was ordered as an afterthought to disguise the reality of our ravenousness. To ensure that we had the energy to walk back home we succumbed to the delights of a nearby Guylian Cafe to test the range of desserts on the menu. We weren't even slightly humiliated when we were escorted away from our initial outdoor table and herded hurriedly inside to hide their respectability to passers by.

1. Ingrid and Alex: Moderately happy at the Opera Bar
2. Finally ecstatic at Zia Pina at The Rocks
3. Guess who has found a new Sepia setting on their camera

Back in the apartment now for a couple more days before my flight out to Auckland and I have been busying myself with some lacklustre research for the South America leg later in the year, to appease Matty's concerns that we will get to Chile and swiftly get either mugged or lost on disembarking the plane. Now I shall return to my role as house-sitter, where it's time to water the plants and flowers. Their wilted petals are heavily bowed with melancholy and that is probably due to my lack of care and attention. Not to worry, I can always blame the New South Wales humidity for their sudden demise.

Melbourne Song of the Day: Basement Jaxx - Romeo
I was in the Fringe Cafe on Acland Street, yes, drinking a flat white coffee on my own again, where they played this strange mellowed down version of this song which I used to enjoy whilst slapping on some Polo Sport before a night out as a wee Sixth Former.

i-Pod Song of the Day: Wheat - Don't I Hold You?
This song is awesome, and featured on the Elizabethtown Original Soundtrack. Orlando Bloom is hugely miscast in this movie whose only redeeming factor is it's soundtrack (not surprising for a Cameron Crowe film) and the wonderfully shot mosaic of Drew Baylor's road trip.

Watch the only good scene in Elizabethtown (sure, it's in Spanish initially, but bare with it)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COdXG0pXKN8

I may only like the soundtrack because Ryan Adams features heavily and as we all know, Ryan Adams is the bestest Artist in the world.

Full Wheat Video:
Worth watching the video and waiting for the simple and fuzzy guitar solo towards the end: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYruO05apQI&feature=PlayList&p=3B4D3F5A1E28C73A&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=23

A Defeated Crab, A Defeated Morale

Apparently the arrival of clear blue skies and piercing sunshine was enough for Matty to force his hand in encouraging me to participate in some activity away from the air bed (sleeping, always sleeping). With an unfathomable persistence, he enrolled me in a five-a-side football game with his work team followed by a game of tennis the day after, under the thick canopy of the afternoon heat. After a few months away from any aerobic movement, it was no surprise that I almost collapsed with the strain of my hammering heart during the initial fusbal match. After I scored a clinical brace (you never really lose it), Matty decided to unleash a point blank shot into my precious and much admired nether regions. The price I paid for altering the trajectory of his almost certain goal bound shot would be a pain so enormous that my vision was surrendered for several minutes as I coaxed back vomit from the recess of my throat. With the tennis I fared little better. My loose swooping backhand firing the furry tennis ball over the fence and into the adjoining children's playground, violently spinning on to the blue plastic slide and narrowly missing the infants at play and their parent's subsequent wrath.

Walk along Harbour Bridge

There was to be some respite from the cruel torture of exercise and swollen soft flesh, and that would be in the arms of a student pub,The Friend in Hand, tucked deep within the stirring Acacia lined alleys of Glebe. Every Wednesday night the eclectically decorated saloon (rowing boats attached to the ceiling, pearly white cockatoos flying overhead and leathery alligator skins on the walls to name but a few of the quirks on display) hosts a very unique local event: Crab Racing. As those of you born with a cultured tilt of the head will already know, Crab Racing is a game steeped in skill, passion and dare not seen since the days of Ivan Drago's fleet footed destruction of Apollo Creed (R.I.P.) in the fourth, Cold War referenced, installment of the Rocky franchise. Each crab was priced at a reasonable $3, and so the group of us who attended, including Matty, Katie, Paul, Mark, Mel, Nicola, Becky and Ed (an array of names that will mean little to you, but I felt obliged to have mentioned them anyway), threw caution to the wind and bought a pink-shelled crustacean each.

Matty, a seasoned pro it would seem of this beach combed spectacular, had been coy throughout the day in regards to the rules of engagement once the crabs were released from their glass bowled prison and onto the small rounded mahogany table that bedded their sporting track. It became clear that the first crab to scurry its way to the edge of the table (and in doing so risking a sheer drop to the spiralling depths of the beer sodden and tattered mauve carpet) would be victorious. Matty mischievously failed to inform us all that the judge of the competition was accompanied by a fair haired waitress with a dangerous combination of a hostile temperament and a fire hose on hand to spray each crab owner with a sheen of ice cold jet water whenever she pleased. Matty and I took it in regular turns to single each other out to the devilish waitress, so that one of us would get soaked. My white dress shirt was a bad choice for this occasion.

Some of us were petrified of a mere balloon

Littered in between the races were various competitions for the floor to keep the neutrals content, including 'The Best Hula' and 'Best Six Pack'. The hula was won by an over eager German traveler who's hips refused to lie and the six pack award was deservedly won by a man shaped like a space hopper who was all too happy to showcase his smooth bulbous belly to the entire room, whilst the other contestants - with obvious steroid fixations - looked on ominously in scorn. The racing ended in misty-eyed shame as all eight of our soft clawed soldiers were denied any glory following a turgid and altogether lacklustre display.

Crabs, like the malady of life, will only fail you

As we all had a lot of fun at the races, Matty placed on his Corporal Punishment camouflaged beret once again and organised an end of week game of touch rugby at The Domain along with his utterly tonk acquaintance from school and his additional hulk-esque cronies. I hugged the patchy dry grass of the outer field for much of the session, so that the team could make the most of my agility and speed rather than conceding my withering core strength and diminutive stature. Another reason for opting for this position was that my opposing number was an Australian girl with a physique of a young fawn. Not quite sure of the etiquette with touch rugby I felt little hesitation in grabbing whatever anatomy I admired most when hauling her to the ground.

Guess who was the big winner of the night?
Neither of us, of course


The day ended with a symphony for the taste buds. We all but erased the hard work on the playing field by devouring the magical combination of an infamous 'Tiger Pie' at Harry's Cafe de Wheels piled with lashings of mash, gravy and mushy peas. In 1974, The Saint of All Fowl - Colonel Sanders -stopped at the Cafe and apparently consumed three 'pies and peas' whilst leaning menacingly on his walking stick as flakes of puff pastry dangled from his wispy white beard. This was information enough for me to grow very fond of the pie before me.

After our sportsman's feast we then decided not to ease up on our metabolism, and instead destroy it, by visiting the humble Messina Gelato on Darlinghurst Road. The cool ice-cream slowly melting under the heated discussions as to what two scoops we would opt for when we finally hit death row. I reckon Stracciatella and Pistachio would be enough to see me off.

Caught with more spoonfuls of FroYo

Sydney Song of the Day: The Saturdays - Just Can't Get Enough
I've been borrowing Matty's i-Pod to inject some Dr. Feel Good into my bloodstream as apparently I have become quite the bore of late. I can just about forgive some of the songs on his playlist (Adam Rickett and Hootie and the Blowfish I simply cannot). This cover of Depeche Mode fends off the imperious Gary Barlow's Forever Love and David Morales' Needin' U.

If anyone wishes to send me pictures of either Frankie or Mollie from the band, please do with haste, I miss them awfully with each passing moment.

A reminder of their talent:
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/bizarre/2847800/The-Saturdays-go-PVC-for-perfume-ad.html

i-Pod Song of the Day: Ladyhawke - My Delirium
Although Pip Brown hails from New Zealand, I still couldn't resist her pocket rocket wave of synth pop whilst sitting in the award winning Ampersand Cafe & Bookstore on Oxford Street with a bowl of lightly toasted granola for company.

www.ladyhawkemusic.com

A Sideways Glance at NSW

It was a relief to return back to a humane climate after the baltic stroll in China, and Australia was certain as to provide warmth in abundance. I would be staying with my friends from University Matty and Katie at their new apartment in Kings Cross. Luckily, having stayed in Sydney the year before I was aware of the carnival atmosphere of that particular district. I managed to dodge the temptations of the mature and sore-ridden ladies whose virtues were questionable on route to the flat as flocks of backpackers and camper vans careered by. Before Matty and Katie finished work I had time to spare to take a breath and mop my sweaty brow in a Cafe nearby called DOV. I was amazed to see that none other than Izzy Hoyland from Neighbours was sat reclined in large chair opposite me alongside a lank haired douchebag. Bizarrely enough, the year before I had spotted her at Sydney Airport on Christmas Day taking the same early morning flight to Melbourne. She was most probably pleased to see me once again. However, her choice of a steak sandwich at lunch eroded any chance she had with getting in my good books.

Matty Rees-Jones. He eats.

After I finally spotted the lean figure of my long suffering ex-housemate Matty in his unusually smart office attire approaching on Victoria Street, he welcomed me in to his generous bosom and guided me to his roof terrace, showcasing the birds-eye view of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House whilst firing open a bottle of champagne to ease me back into the Western world.

Guilty

Nothing says hanging around with Matty more than taking a football out to the park and showcasing our clumsy kick ups and inevitably falling over on to the dry grass when the sight of nearby pretty company distracts us. We jogged to Hyde Park and were not quite successful in attempting to avoid belting the ball disastrously towards the main road whilst running energetically in the shadow of the towering Captain James Cook monument. I was surprised to learn from the rusty plaque by his statue that he was born in Marton in Yorkshire. So little do I know about my adopted County of birth, and so marginal guilt I have for this either.

As the weekend peered around the corner, the three of us, including Paul - a friend and work colleague of Matty hailing from the gold leafed pavements of Staines in London, rented out a Toyota (the brakes worked, thankfully) and took her for a spin to the wine region of the Hunter Valley. I will always be amused at my previous thoughts on the landscape of Australia, I made grossly mistaken presumptions of arid plains as opposed to the sub alpine woodlands and dense forests amid the swooping plateaus of the region that enveloped the trail to our destination.

This pose was a mistake, the bunch of grapes had a hint of dung

We had hinted that our wine-tasting tour would kick off at sunrise, but instead took a rather more cautious approach towards our day of highlighting our judging skills. By 11am we had inhaled, oxygenated and taken in around ten samples of local produce. The areas famous Semillion taking an early lead in favour of the panel. Amusingly, at Tullochs, one of our first wineries that we held ransom to, we were distracted by a sudden door swing as a man ran into the reception area, out of breath and calling for the Manager. The man, it transpired, was a sweat ridden and sallow eyed groom-to-be who rather desperately bellowed down the hall as to whether today was the day he had booked his afternoon wedding for. Much to his utter relief it was indicated that his ceremony was pencilled in for the following day. The beau, it is hoped, will already be prepared for a pot-holed journey through matrimony.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the legendary Mr. Audrey Wilkinson

We managed to drive by a further six more wineries that afternoon, amassing a treasure chest of jade green bottles as scalps from each. Our inebriated footsteps leading towards a late night barbecue by our villa (by villa, read trailer) accompanied by a surge of warm water rain dampening our chicken kebabs but certainly not our appetite.

The rain had mostly cleared on Sunday, and so we decided to take our worn tyred silver machine to the Northern Beaches. I must say that I feel honoured and privileged to have ambled down the same soft golden sands of Palm Beach as such luminaries as Alf Stewart, Donald Fisher and Pippa, as well as gazing starry eyed at the slight frame of the Summer Bay Surf Club.

The Club Official would be proud

Hunter Valley Song of the Day: The Jackson 5 - I Want You Back

As close as you can get to the perfect pop song. The car erupted in off key harmony as we glided past the wineries and broken down cars of the Hunter Valley. 3T, a band featuring the three sons of Tito, came mighty close to rebuilding the Jackson dynasty, but their success was unfortunately short lived, even after penning the sound track for Free Willy and Free Willy 2 - which ironically was their Uncle's favourite snack at Neverland.

i-Pod Song of the Day: Damien Rice - Dogs
Uncharacteristically Damien sweeps away the vitriol and introduces some sweetness in this little number from the bleak 9 album.

She lives with an orange tree the girl that does yoga / Got a wolf to keep her warm when he comes over / She gives he gets without giving anything to see / And the day it ends / And the day it.. / And the day it ends / And there's no need for me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsW-cVy62pw

Lin Hejing Shares Verse and View

In order to give Rob, Stacy and her Mother (I have this song in my head whenever I speak to her: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVJmwYKy7eM - is that wrong?) a little break from my demanding ways and hurricane tantrums, I decided to take a mid-week trip down to neighbouring city Hangzhou - the capital of the Zhejiang province. Marco Polo visited the city in the 13th Century and described Hangzhou, with its famous West Lake as "beyond dispute the finest and the noblest in the world." Who was I to argue with a man who embarked on a 24 year adventure around Asia compared to my mere thumb print of two months?

With a rare Giant Panda

The initial signs for my break did not inspire confidence. A fellow passenger on my train, a local businessman from Hangzhou, tutted when I explained I would be touring his home city for a number of days. He shook his head and said morbidly under his breath that this was absolutely the wrong season to set foot on earth made only for the blush of Spring and late Summer evenings. After shaking off this open discouragement, on eventually finding my hostel I strolled down to the West Lake whilst battling the bitter temperatures and was eventually captivated by the vivid lilac Lake as still as the Winter air.

I must admit, the next day was rather problematic. I was informed by my friendly West Lake Youth House receptionist that I was a bit of an idiot not to have bought a return ticket back to Shanghai considering we were close to the Chinese New Year which meant that buying them a day before departure, let alone on the day, was out of the question, due to enormous demand. I shrugged and took a bicycle out for the day to take in more of the surroundings, gliding through the Jade Temple and Solitary Hill. The Chinese Poet, Lin Hejing, encapsulated the elusive mood of the tranquility of the Lake when he penned the following verse;

Sparse shadows slant across the clear water shallow,
Subtle fragrance floats serenely in moonlight mellow

Unfortunately, due to the downpour of rain and it being early afternoon, I could not quite gaze completely into Mr. Hejing's dreamlike expression. Interestingly, Mr. Hejing never left Hangzhou, content with planting plum trees and feeding the passing cranes. He never found a lady to settle down with and now tradition states that the plums were his wife and the cranes his children. He can't be pleased with that myth, surely.

Mine and Lin Hejing's seat

As the day drew to a close I realised it was time to obtain a train ticket from the station and get some money out of an ATM. Five visits to independent ATM's and various Banks later I continued to be denied any Yuan for my greedy leather wallet. After a curt call back home, my bank in England provided no reasoning to this rejection. I then had to cycle once again back to my hostel to retrieve the $100 worth of Hong Kong Dollars I had stuffed in my rucksack (worth around ten pounds) which I exchanged at the Bank of China after an hour long queue for the local currency. This meagre 100 Yuan was to see me through for the next two days. Now beginning to be soaked by the descending showers, I attempted to get a bus to the train station to buy my ticket for my Thursday ride back to Shanghai. The bus that I needed to get arrived with delay and once I boarded the reptile like vehicle the driver barked at me in Mandarin to get off, once he realised that he couldn't understand where I wished to get dropped off at. After four taxis ignored my now wrinkled and pale flagging palm, I decided to return back to my luke warm heated dormitory, as rain water found its way through my sodden Batman socks and left via the open toe of my puma trainers.


Huquingyutang Traditional Chinese Medicine Museum

I awoke very early the next morning to quickly get to the train station - armed with a drawing of a train scribbled hurriedly on a creased piece of paper and with the Chinese written form of Shanghai above it which the receptionist kindly wrote down so as to avoid any confusion with the service desk at the station. Somehow I managed to get the last seat on my desired train. The sun gathered it's composure and sat stubbornly in a fair sky as I discovered online that we had beaten City in the Carling Cup semi-final second leg and that Andy Murray was through to the Australian Open Final. What a turn around from the previous day's agonising defeats.

Hangzhou Street Market

For my final few days in Shanghai, I once again helped myself to most of the food in Rob and Stacy's fridge as well as utilising most of their supply of hot water. For my final night we all went out for Rob's brother's birthday drinks along with his brother's Korean work colleagues, who it transpired were a loose bunch of liabilities. The eldest of the Koreans, who must have been around fifty years old was reminiscent of the actor Ken Jeong - famous for his guile and eccentricities as King Argotron in Role Models and as Leslie Chow in The Hangover. Much to my disdain, those guys were overly hospitable with their bottles of whiskey and cups of warm rice wine.

Can't remember this being taken

I left China, and my Asian leg of my travels by stepping on to a Maglev train (also know as a magnetic levitation train, true story) to Pudong Airport. The train roared to 431 km/hour as it twisted like a knife past the stuttering cars below on the freeway and away from the Whore of the Orient that is Shanghai.

Hangzhou Song of the Day: Mr. Big - To Be With You
I've now heard this lost 90's corker three times since working my way up China, is the country that far behind in terms of popular music? Still, they could have chosen worse than this long haired ballad which I suppose is a close relative to Extreme's acoustic More Than Words.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=676483351

i-Pod Song of the Day: The Shins - Turn On Me
On acquiring my new stellar white headphones I am reminded of Natalie Portman's character in Garden State. She listened to The Shins a lot in that movie and now so do I. She's my favourite, but has never looked better than in her debut in Leon.

The song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIRmyfKOAfM

Garden State Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u82n0e1mgmQ&feature=related