Geographically Yours Too

Hello Virginia Beach

2011-07-18T12:47:00.000-07:00

Hard Work: No one will believe this, but 80 days around the world is hard work! The only things that were planned out when I left were my airline destinations (with a few unplanned overland sections) and my first couple of night’s accommodation at the hostel in London. Other arrangements were made on the road or on the spot. I ended up staying in a variety of accommodations: hostels (London, Liverpool, all of Australia and New Zealand), YMCAs (Singapore, Hong Kong, Honolulu), bed-and-breakfasts (England, Chiang Mai), low-end hotels (Delhi), mid-range hotels (Kuala Lumpur, Phuket), and high-end hotels (Mumbai, Bangkok, Malacca). Eating? Rarely did I eat in a real restaurant. The best street food was found in Thailand. The worst food was found in Hong Kong (sorry, I just don’t like Chinese food). To India: thanks for letting me be a vegetarian for two weeks. The best hamburger was found in Wangarei, New Zealand: thanks Frangs. Internet connections? McDonalds and Starbucks offer free wifi; it was like teleporting back to the US when I passed through their doors. My biggest treat was when I found a local café that had free wifi (as on Ponsonby Road).

My favorite place: probably Haridwar, India, though there are other close contenders. My prediction: Haridwar will emerge as the chic new destination in India. Biggest contradiction: loving and hating India at the same time. My least favorite place: probably Phuket in Thailand, where tourism is in the process of destroying the very resources that attract the tourists. However, I am willing to give Phuket a second try. As for traveling alone: it has its advantages and disadvantages. When alone, you are more likely to interact with the locals and other travelers, and there’s no negotiation over where to stay or what to do. Plus, only when alone can you concentrate on photography, which is really my passion on trips like this. It is in the evening when I miss not having someone with me. Also, two people can sometimes mean saving money by sharing accommodations.

Documenting Destinations: I don’t take pictures; I document the physical and cultural character of places around the world. Doesn’t that sound more scholarly? On this trip and all trips, I create primary documents: visual images of people, places, and environments at a particular conjunction of time and space. I hope you have enjoyed my photo blog at:

http://www.geographicallyyours.blogspot.com.

The irony is that an entire day of taking pictures (to the tune of hundreds) might yield two to ten really good ones. It’s the good ones that I post on Geographically Yours. The key to getting good pictures is not being in a hurry, not letting yourself be distracted, and always having your camera at hand. Pick a place, linger, wander around, become a part of the environment, look local (having a local haircut helps in that regard). Do I ask people if I can take their picture? Sometimes. The downside of asking is that people pose and look stiff. When I do ask though, rarely am I refused, and only once on the entire trip did I get a violent reaction from someone I took a picture of (that was in Bangkok, it wasn’t a Thai, and it really didn’t turn violent). When I ask, I try to be as goofy as possible; acting clueless seems to be disarming. Camera? All I have is a Cannon Powershot that fits in my pocket. It was relatively new when I began; it is now worn out. I estimate that I clicked the shutter perhaps 20,000 times on the entire trip; I erased the worst ones. Bottom line: what I enjoy the most is spending a day wandering around taking pictures.

Saying Thank You: I hope you enjoyed following me around the world. I also hope that my Geographically Yours and Geographically Yours Too blogs might continue to be of use to teachers, especially those who teach geography. I want to say Thank You to Five Ponds Press for making this trip possible. They do a wonderful job of making education exciting for young readers, and their books are widely used in Virginia. Look them up on the Internet. At their website, they have a link to this blog: http://fivepondspress.com/

July 18, 2011: One day later than expected, I arrived home at 11 pm. Thanks to my wife and brother-in-law for picking me up at the Norfolk International Airport where the trip began.

Geographically Yours,

D.J.Z.

The Beginning of the End

2011-07-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

It’s Sunday, July 17, and time for me to make my way to Honolulu International Airport for the final leg of my trip. As things worked out, it took me two days to get home, but that’s all part of the adventure.

Recycling: As a place collector, I love keeping track of and thinking about the places I buy clothes and other things. On a trip like this, I cast off and acquire on a continuous basis. Here is how my pack has changed:

Shoes bought in Harrisonburg, Va.; left in Honolulu; replaced with sandals bought in Honolulu. Several pair of socks lost, none acquired.

Long sleeve shirt bought in Camp Hill, Pa.; left in Adelaide; replaced with a short-sleeve collared T from the Bridge Climb in Sydney.

Two short-sleeve Ts, both given to me by my son; one lost in London, one ditched in Melbourne; replaced with a short-sleeve T from Old Vic in Melbourne and a short-sleeve collared T from Malacca.

One leather belt bought in Marrakech, Morocco; ditched in Hong Kong; replaced with a leather belt from Hong Kong.

Two pair of long pants purchased in Salisbury, Md.; one ditched in Hong Kong, one ditched in Auckland; replaced with one pair of new pants from a Hong Kong street market.

One fleece purchased in Camp Hill, Pa., donated to the Heart Association in London; replaced with a winter jacket in Melbourne, donated to the City Mission in Auckland.

One pair of shorts purchased in Greenfield, Mass., and one swim suit I got as a gift; both coming home with me since I couldn’t find replacements.

One pair of boxer shorts found in the YMCA locker room in Hong Kong: finders keepers! Too much information, right?

One Tungsten backpack, purchased in San Francisco in 1999; coming home with me; showing signs of wear but still no new one spotted on the horizon.

Permit Me a Rant: I have been flying on a Round the World ticket issued by American Airlines. Until today, however, most of my flights have been with their OneWorld partners. I have flown British Air, Cathay Pacific, and Qantas. Service could not have been better. My flight from Honolulu to Chicago today, however, ranks as the worst flight I have ever taken. I am ashamed to have the name America attached to this airline, especially in contrast to the service that their international partners deliver. People coming to the US from Asia on Cathay Pacific, from Australia on Qantas, or from Europe on British Air must feel as if they are venturing to a less developed country. The trip took 8 hours; no food was served, not even peanuts or pretzels, not even the tiniest of bags. Furthermore, the only food offered seemed to be sandwiches, for which you had to pay. I will have to admit that the airlines didn’t push food sales; there was one brief announcement at the beginning of the flight and that was it. In fact, after they served everyone a complimentary can of soft drink, the flight attendants disappeared! Quite in contrast to flights on other airlines, we weren’t even offered water to keep us hydrated, though before we landed they gave us orange juice, which was still half frozen and slushy, plus tea or coffee. I can live without food, however, and probably should. But, I could hardly stand the cold. I had a seat in the exit row next to an air conditioning vent, which certainly didn’t help. AA gave us one blanket (full flight, don’t ask for a second!) and everyone around me seemed to be bundled up. I rang the attendant and asked if they could turn the air conditioning down. Never happened. I tried to sleep anyway, but (on this 8 hour flight) they gave us no pillows. I kept my feet warm by putting them in the one bag I had at hand. You see, I made a strategic mistake when I checked in. For the first time in many years, I actually checked my backpack and had no access to any additional layers that could have kept me warmer. Did they charge me to check my backpack? Yes. I reminded them I was on a Round the World ticket. They reminded me that I was back in the US and therefore I had to pay; free baggage only on international flights. Given long flights like this on any airline, I depend on two things to while away the time: sleeping or watching movies. I was too cold to sleep (but did catch a few zzz), and they showed one movie. On an 8 hour flight, they showed just one, one I had seen. Diary of a Wimpy Kid was good, but nothing you would want to watch twice. What’s more, they charge you for the earphones; mine were checked away in my backpack. They did show a few TV reruns, but then the flight map and info slides came on and stayed on for hours. I was seated close to the screen, and even with my eyes closed, the screen-to-screen flashes were annoying. Everyone was trying to sleep, so why didn’t they just turn off the ‘entertainment system’? My only airline hassles the entire trip have been with American. In fact, my AA flight out of Norfolk was cancelled, so they routed me to Philadelphia on USAirways, followed by a London flight on British Air. For my flight back to Norfolk from Honolulu, they didn’t even have my name in the system. As far as they were concerned, I didn’t have a ticket, but that’s another story.

Geographically Yours,

D.J.Z.

2011-07-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

It was a day for the Honolulu Zoo, if for nothing else than to see the Komodo Dragon and the lemurs. We have our own Komodo Dragon in Virginia Beach, and I am becoming aware that these monitor lizards are the rage right now. Even Starbucks has a Komodo Dragon: coffee, that is. As for the lemurs, they are my favorites only because their hands look so human-like. Unfortunately, their cage here doesn’t permit a very close look. There seems to be upgrading and expansion going on, however. The elephants are getting a new habitat that will provide some much needed space. There seems to be much room for expansion since the zoo is located at the foot of Diamond Head and right next to Waikiki Beach. The zoo does a nice job with its native species of birds and geese. Apparently, all of these isolated islands in the Pacific share a common natural history. They were easily reached by birds and marine life, but not by mammals or reptiles. That meant the birds had a heyday; Hawaii was the “Kingdom of Birds” according to one sign at the zoo. Without predators, many lost their ability to fly. Then the earth’s premier predator arrived, homo sapiens, and with him other species that would wipe out many of the indigenous bird species. You’ve heard of the Dodo of New Zealand, for instance. Hawaii had its own Dodo-like birds, and they almost all disappeared when the Polynesians arrived. Now, the zoo and the state are worried about the indigenous Nene goose, Hawaii's state bird. It managed to survive, but its numbers are dwindling.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

More on the Monarchy

2011-07-12T00:29:00.000-07:00

The greatest of the Hawaiian monarchs stands in front of Hawaii’s palatial judiciary building: King Kamehameha I. He united the islands, but that was little more than 200 years ago. Under his centralized rule, the tribes stopped fighting with each other. For this, he is known as ‘The Great.’ I saw his statue today on my venture through Honolulu’s government precinct, next to the CBD (and far from Waikiki). Here, today, King Kamehameha the Great stands in full regalia: on the spot where the abolition of Hawaii’s monarchy was proclaimed in 1893.

Kamehameha began the Hawaiian monarchy; Liliuokalani ended it, but it was under protest. I met her today as well. Her statue stands in front of the state capitol. She seemed more accessible, more human, than Kamehameha. Enforcing that feeling of humanity were two other monuments discovered not far away: both honored the Aloha Oe, the song everyone associates with Hawaii. It was written by Liliuokalani after witnessing a heart-rending goodbye on a ranch she was visiting.

Liliuokolani’s only children were adopted. Remember, it was her niece who was to inherit the thrown. So, is there an heir to the Hawaiian throne? Quite incidentally, two threads came together in Honolulu’s CBD. First, I discovered yet another statue, this one of Robert Kalanihiapo Wilcox. Second, I remembered reading about him yesterday in Barnes and Noble’s Local History section. Here he was on the cultural landscape looking very much the populist hero he is revealed to be in the literature. He was descended from Maui royalty himself, but later in life took a native Hawaiian princess as his bride. She was a direct descendant of Kamehameha’s brother. It is his great granddaughter who is making the best case for being next in line to the Hawaii throne. Side note: Wilcox became Hawaii’s first territorial delegate to the U.S. Congress, where he was marginalized and forced to use separate facilities because he was of mixed race! He served only one term.

Why all of this attention to the Hawaiian monarchs? It’s because I learned in my English composition classes that expository writing is a circular process. Good stories end where they begin. You do remember where I started my 80-day venture. It was in London with the marriage of a Prince in line to the throne of the United Kingdom: may they live happily ever after. Now, here at my last stop, I end my story with a monarchy whose “ever-after” was not so happy. The beginning and the end converge here. I started my trip under the Union Flag in London; I end my journey under the Union Flag in Honolulu. Yes, the British flag, a symbol of the world’s most successful monarchy, still flies here in the canton of Hawaii’s state flag. But, you see it flying always with the Stars and Stripes. The only exception is above the Iolani Palace, the “Buckingham Palace” of its place and time, a visible reminder of monarchical days.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

The Hawaiian Royals

2011-07-11T15:17:00.000-07:00

Most of you know that Hawaii was a kingdom of its own before the U.S. deposed its last monarch, Queen Liliuokalani. Pride in the monarchy still runs deep here, though. There are statues of royals all over Honolulu. Even the Japanese community has erected one to King David Kalakaua, “the father of Japanese immigration to Hawaii.” He concluded the Japan-Hawaii Labor Convention that led to the first arrivals of Japanese coming to work on the sugar plantations in 1885. When was the Japanese tap turned off? In 1923, by the U.S. Congress. The Oriental Exclusion Act applied to U.S. territories as well as states. King Kalakaua’s statue today stands along Kalakaua Avenue. Didn’t you know that was coming? And don’t you love the sounds of these Polynesian names?

King Kalakaua’s niece, Princess Ka’iulani, is commemorated about a mile away. Her statue is along what street? You guessed it: Kaiulani Avenue. Nearby is the Sheraton Princess Kaiulani Hotel, which is built on the site of her estate. She was the last heir to the Hawaiian Throne. She was sent away to school to prepare her for the job, but the overthrow of the monarchy intervened. She returned to her islands afterwards and fought for the restoration of her family’s standing. Her death at age 23 (without progeny), however, made that an even less likely possibility. The last ruling monarch of Hawaii was King Kalakaua’s sister and Princess Kaiulani’s aunt, Queen Liliuokalani, whose reign lasted only a few short years.

The Local History section of Ala Moana’s Barnes and Noble provides a glimpse of the debate that still swirls around the monarchy, its end and its potential restoration. Much has been written about the illegal usurpation of power by haole (foreign) interests. Right there on the shelf was The Betrayal of Liliuokalani by Helena Allen. Next to it was Hawaiian Sovereignty: Do the Facts Matter? by Thurston Twigg-Smith. It was Twigg-Smith’s first name that attracted my attention. Mr. Thurston (and Mr. Dole) was the architect of the Liliuakalani’s overthrow, as I recalled. Sure enough, Mr. Twigg-Smith’s first name betrays his family legacy. And, guess what perspective he brings to the debate: it’s a full and complete justification for the overthrow of the monarchy by one of the island’s foremost journalists whose family actually goes back to the very first missionaries to land on Oahu.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Sunday Times Two

2011-07-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

The Salvation Army: This Sunday it was the Salvation Army for a 10 am worship service. Of course, we have all come in contact with the Salvation Army: most of us have tossed a coin or two into their pots at Christmas time; some of us have seen their bands perform in holiday parades; and a few of us have done some shopping at Salvation Army thrift stores. I’ll bet that very few have attended one of their worship services. It was a first for me. The congregation was large but did not fill their very large sanctuary. Up front on one side was the chorus and on the other side the brass band. No piano, no organ, no altar, no printed program. Hymns and Bible verses were projected on a large screen over the stage, and it was the most effective use of media I have seen. The sermon was on “Why Pray?” There was a call to the front at the end of the service, i.e., a call to the “mercy bench” for anyone who needed to pray. Two people went forward and each was joined by what seemed to be a senior member of the corps. It was very moving. Afterwards, for tea and cookies, we were all invited downstairs, where I spent some time talking to John. He had been a Catholic, but didn’t think the Catholic Church was doing enough to help people, so he joined the Salvation Army. As I recall, that is why the organization broke with the Methodist Church, which was their spiritual home.

Goodbye to Auckland: The airport bus from Auckland’s CBD runs regularly and frequently. The trip was long enough for me to plan my next trip to Kiwi Land. As we skimmed around the base of Mt. Eden, an extinct volcanic cone, I put that on my list for visit number three. I would climb Mt. Eden. I would also catch a ferry, thought I, to unpopulated Rangitoto Island, another volcanic cone, this one in Auckland harbor. And, I might also muster the courage to bungee jump off the Sky Tower, the tallest spire in Auckland. For a city its size, Auckland seems to attract more than its share of visitors. I sure would be up for another visit. Anyone want to join me?

Sunday + Sunday: So, I woke up Sunday morning, went to church, had lunch with fellow hosteler Kirsten, left for the airport, flew out of Auckland at about 4 pm, transferred in Sydney, and arrived in Honolulu about 11 am Sunday morning. Think about it. I arrived in Honolulu before I left Auckland. I had two Sundays, and two hotel bills for staying over the same Sunday night. Time traveled backwards. The explanation lies in the International Date Line, of course. In the 1520s, when the Magellan/Elcano expedition arrived back in Spain after the first circumnavigation of the world, they had lost a day. God makes each day, and they had lost one! It precipitated a crisis in Rome, which meant that the Pope had to figure out what was going on. Major crisis. The general rule for calculating time is: “As you go east, the time doth increase; as you go west, the time doth grow less.” So if you go east and loose an hour all the way around the world, you have lost 24 hours, a complete day. Since that is impossible, there has to be a point where you arbitrarily add that day back into your life. The addition happens at the International Date Line today, but it remained problematic right through the late 1800s. Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days uses the loss of a day to provide a suspenseful twist at the end the novel, and that was written in 1873.

RHT and LHT: I am back in the world of RHT, my home country, the United States of America. RHT? Right-Hand Traffic. Two-thirds of the world’s peoples live in RHT countries, but I have not been in one for the entire trip. Every country I visited has done things ‘backwards,’ beginning with the UK, and continuing with India, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand. (Which one is not a former British colony?) All are in the LHT world. They drive on the left. Moreover, they also put escalators and travelators on the left, and people pass on the left. Actually, when I planned the trip I said to myself: I will visit LHT countries only. Now that I am back in the U.S., I feel disoriented once again. As a pedestrian, I have gotten used to the feel of the “leftist world.”

By the way, travelators are what Australians and New Zealanders (and maybe some others) call those moving sidewalks that you find in airports. Travel + Accelerator = Travelator. Or maybe, the idea is just borrowed from escalator.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

A Special Day

2011-07-09T17:44:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the World, Abigail: It was right here on Ponsonby Road, at the Byzantium Café, where I learned that my new granddaughter had arrived on July 7. My goal for the day was to explore Ponsonby Road, famous in the annals of urban geography for its gentrification. I knew I should be checking my email (not always easy in either Australia or New Zealand) so once the bus got me to Ponsonby, my eyes scanned the horizon for a café. The Byzantium looked inviting. It was opposite Western Park. First, I asked if they had wifi, and they did. I got my usual ‘flat white,’ took a seat by the door, and logged on.

To gmail I went.

A message was waiting.

I read it quick.

And it was elating.

Abby was here.

A cute little darling.

She will need

Some moth’ring and fath’ring.

And later this summer

A little grandparenting.

Seated at the next table were a mother and her [perhaps pregnant] daughter. Of course, I had to share the news with them. Then I told the proprietor, who had a little boy of his own, and showed him the pictures on Facebook. On my way out I told the man working on his Apple at an outside table. He had two grown sons, no grandchildren. Too bad. It was a beautiful, sunny morning in Auckland, perfect for exploring the urban landscapes of Ponsonby Road. Maybe Abigail will have a chance to visit these digs when she gets her travel legs.

Ponsonby Road: Ponsonby is classic. The road follows a ridge that overlooks Auckland. Slopes lead downhill in both directions, one into the city and one into the outer suburbs. In classic urban geography, higher elevations have been preferred by the monied interests of most cities. Sure enough, the first thing that attracted my attention was an old Victorian mansion, now being remodeled and soon to be reoccupied by a non-profit firm. At one time, I am sure, the ridge had a scattering of these palatial residences, each with plenty of land. At some point, though, the street car brought mobility to Auckland’s working class population and helped conquer the limitations of steep terrain. Sure enough, there they were: the Archie-Bunker-like houses, the workingman’s neighborhoods that hemmed in Ponsonby on either side. Many had recently been upgraded and some were in the process. A little later on, with widespread car ownership, the suburbs spread farther out, and Ponsonby went through a downspiral that made properties affordable to bohemian and maybe some unsavory elements of society. Sure enough, there was a fine looking church that was no longer a church; it had lost its parishioners to Auckland’s new suburbs and had closed many years ago. Within the last two decades, a period of gentrification and upgrading began. The downspiral was halted and the yuppies took over. Sure enough, there were the restaurants and boutiques with their fresh coats of paint and upgraded facades. And finally, as a rain shower began, there was the crowning evidence of the yuppified place Ponsonby has become. Beneful, of petfood fame, was sponsoring a dog obedience contest in Western Park, with dogs and owners in their prissiest finest. Everyone who had a dog was there and those who weren’t were jogging in the park.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Walking Along the Hatea

2011-07-07T03:13:00.000-07:00

To Whangarei Falls: It was a day to walk, and there was a river to walk along: the Hatea River, Whangarei’s own. My river walk came with two bonuses. First, the promise of a waterfall (largest on North Island, or so they say) and, second, the gift of a sunny morning (or as sunny as it ever gets here). Whangarei Falls was probably about five miles away and there was a trail, though everyone I stopped to ask for directions or assurance that I was on the right track told me it was too far to walk. One resident at the foot of her driveway, seemed to never have heard of the falls. In fact, I saw only a few walkers and joggers and they may have been doing only a segment of the trail.

My walk began at the Town Basin on the Hatea. On the downstream side of the bridge was the marina and urban waterfront. On the upstream side, biogeography began. My first biome was a mangrove swamp, a fringe of mature and sapling mangroves in a thin band along the river’s shore. The trail left terra firma and carried me out into the mangroves where I could look directly down into the water. I could see the leaves of young trees under the surface doing the job of spreading from the shoreside, protecting the banks of the river, and building land in the process. I knew that as the relief increased, I would leave the mangroves behind. In fact, I very shortly passed into a completely different environment, what I will call a middle latitude rainforest. Ferns were everywhere backed up by New Zealand’s tawa (maybe it’s kaha) trees. Both have become symbols of the country and you can see their influence in Maori design. Plus, there’s lots of moss, plenty of fungus, spider webs everywhere, and thick organic mats under foot. In two or three areas, the trail actually led through or past residential neighborhoods, a good reminder that I was in the city. Suburbs spread all around me, but the folks here have made sure that they have preserved plenty of green space. It is really only an illusion that I am in the New Zealand wilderness. It is not an illusion that these North Islanders have made the wilderness part of the city.

It was a long but not exhausting walk. Some of my favorite moments: seeing Easter lilies growing in the wild, looking into the forest through perfect spider webs, walking across a suspension bridge that gave way with every step, looking up and seeing ferns silhouetted against the blue sky, wondering why I had to pass through two gates but then noticing the meadow muffins and finally the cattle. It was also a thrill to see the mist of Whangarei Falls before the falls themselves came into view. The only other visitor while I was there around the plunge pool was an Asian family whose little girl was coloring at the picnic table while the mist from the falls was getting everybody damp if not soaking wet. The only letdown was when I walked to the top of the falls and found a parking lot. Yes, you can drive here and do the Circular Walk to the bottom and up the other side. I am sure glad, though, that I approached against the current. Natural waterfalls should only be approached by walking along the stream that the falls feed.

Maybe a comment on the trail markers. The trail was identified by a wiggly snake, or so I thought. Should I be on the look-out for creatures I did not want to meet. Every time I came to the sunny edge of a clearing, my senses went on high alert. Later in the day, I started reading some of the pamphlets I picked up. That wasn’t a snake. It was an eel!

Mico-Museum Time: I also had a chance to squeeze in a visit to a small museum, but a unique one in New Zealand. It was Claphams Clock: The National Clock Museum in the Town Basin. The collection (now with 1400 clocks and watches) began with the private collection of Archibald Clapham, a New Zealander who began collecting while a young man. His collection grew and was finally sold to the city for a nominal sum. Now, Whangarei has a museum that must be one of the best in the world when it comes to time keeping. I have visited the Clock Museum in London. It was small, quiet, and stuffy (but did have the most historically significant stash of chronometers). By contrast, Claphams Clocks had more on display, and it was presented with such humor, something Mr. Clapham was known for. Plus, you could hear all the clocks tic-toking away with a chorus of coo coos and chimes now and then.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Being Spontaneous

2011-07-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

No Planning Needed: I am leaving for New Zealand. I have no plans for Kiwiland. I really wanted to visit South Island, but there aren't enough days. All I know is that the plane is bound for Auckland, which I covered rather thoroughly on a previous trip. Right now, I am ready to proclaim myself to be tired of cities and looking for something more pastoral. All day I have been in a totally indecisive state, which has only been heightened by the entry card we got on the plane; it asked what my address was going to be in New Zealand. I had made no arrangements to stay anywhere, but I knew from past experience that leaving the space blank means you get put in the suspicious category; and, you get tagged as doubly suspicious if you are my age and are traveling with only a backpack. On the card, I put down the Auckland Hostel; that would satisfy the border agents. When I cleared immigration, though, I was still trying to decide on a plan of action. Into the airport entry hall I strode, and there in front of me was a rack of tourist brochures. I picked one up, found a map of the country, and asked myself where I could go by bus before day’s end. Since I had traveled south of Auckland on my last trip, I looked north and found the town of Whangarei. After a little searching, I located the visitor desk (and an ATM) and asked whether there were any bus connections to Whangarei (Wh is pronounced as F). Not from the airport, but from the central bus station. A bus left at 4 pm. I had an hour to get into town, not quite enough according to the shuttle driver, but I had already purchased the ticket (yes, right at the airport). I told him to try and off we headed into the city (me and a vanload of others). He made the bus station the second stop, and I boarded my northbound coach with only 4 minutes to spare. It was nerve wracking, but fun.

A bit less than 3 hours later I was in Whangarei. I arrived after nightfall and the rain had started. Actually, it rains on and off in New Zealand all the time. No bus station in this town, just a halt on the city street next to a ticket counter that would open in the morning. The closest illuminated strorefront was a pizza parlor, so I popped in. Not to eat (though I was famished), but to ask how to get to the hostel. The directions seemed pretty clear and the route seemed pretty direct, so I hoofed it across town and over the river until I found the correct left turn. The sidewalk took me up (and up and up) a switch-back road into the residential neighborhood that overlooks town. It did not look like a place for a hostel, and I had numerous second thoughts, but there did not seem to be other options in this town which had basically shut down for the night. Finally, I found it. It was going to be fun to wake up and see what kind of views the hostel offered in the morning. I ended up spending two nights. This night, I headed right back into town, knowing that a down-hill slide in meant a second up-hill climb back. I was feeling energetic and hungry, however, and it was only a bit past 8 pm. Whangarei at night seemed like a movie set: lots of vibe but no actors. I kept walking until I heard music, what sounded like live music coming from a back-lit storefront in the distance. Sure enough, Frang’s bar was open and a live performance was in progress on the patio. My Frang’s Burger was the best hamburger I have had on my entire trip, and maybe the best meal (sorry to say that about a hamburger, but I am just being truthful). Switch-back roads always have vertical short cuts, and I found one back to the hostel; it was steeper but shorter, and it made me feel virtuous for packing my ‘torch,’ which is what they call a flashlight in these realms.

When I got back, I understood why there were no characters on Whangarei’s streets; they were all here at the hostel. With these characters I would share an evening or two: a sociopathic South African who had escaped his home country with his masonry skills and had found temporary employment, a bright-eyed German lad who was doing some solo traveling before beginning his university years, an older woman from Australia who had come to visit her brother in town (only to be kicked out of his house), a Canadian dude from Halifax who cooked for himself and reported that he had twice been denied entry into the U.S. because drug sniffing dogs had detected the ‘past’ presence of weed in his van, and two sisters (one communicative and one not) who had wheels and were traveling together. When I got back from Frang’s I got everyone all riled up because I thought I had seen the Southern Cross in the sky. The rain had stopped. I asked anyone who made an appearance in the common room (except the sociopath) to come outside and see it too. I am convinced that it was exactly what appears on the New Zealand flag, but one of the sisters said she didn’t think so. By sister, I mean sibling, not nun. Still, I am going to say that I saw the Southern Hemisphere’s signature constellation, a discovery that put a smile on my face.

After a long conversation with Karsten, the German lad, off to bed I went: top bunk in a room that slept six, though not all the bunks were occupied. The sociopath kept appearing and disappearing (with his blanket); I think he found different places to sleep, maybe even outside. Toilet and shower were on the other side of the hostel; washer and dryer (which I would use tomorrow) around back; kitchen and great room, a few steps away.

The process of traveling can be so much fun if it is not planned out in advance. Today, it all worked out well; that’s not always the case. But, when it’s not the case, you have more interesting stories to tell.

2011-06-26T16:33:00.000-07:00

Old Vic: I am still suffering from the sticker shock of trying to find a jacket in the CBD and the disorientation of unsuccessfully trying to find a second-hand store in North Melbourne. So, this morning I headed to Old Vic. That’s what locals call the Queen Victoria Market, which dates from 1878. The main market shed, the old meat market, looks just as I remembered it from my last trip. Today, though, it seems to be really a part of the city. My recollection of the 1980s is that Old Vic seemed a bit farther out. Perhaps because the huge skyscrapers that line the nearby horizon did not exist then. Or, perhaps it is because I stayed in North Melbourne then and had to walk past the market into the CBD. No matter, this market is where Melbourne’s spirit of place resides. Save for the fish market, Sydney has none, and Adelaide has only one. Melbourne has three. Now, however, the grocery chains are closing in, but as busy as it was today, I would say the three markets have no worries, yet. Indeed, the prices at Old Vic certainly can’t be beat in the CBD. I prowled around and found some jackets and pullovers for $15 or $20. Perfect, thought I. I bought one. I wonder if it will make it home with me.

Old Welsh: I planned my day around a 3 pm service at the old Welsh Church on LaTrobe Street in Melbourne. Twice a month, the sign said, they had services in Welsh. This was the last Sunday of June, so I expected the church to be open if not packed. I really couldn’t imagine there being much of a demand for a Welsh-language service. Mid-afternoon arrived, but nothing was stirring, not even a mouse, a rare bit of bad luck for me. Fortunately, either the Welsh dragon or St. David must have had my best interest at heart, because the sign assured me that every Sunday there was an English-language service at 5:30 pm. Instead of pouting, I pounded the pavement and prayed that by sundown, the doors of the Welsh church would be open unto me. They were, though it was an unusual Sunday for these non-conformists (in a theological sense). Indeed, the morning service had been cancelled, too, because the entire congregation was in Ballarat helping their sister congregation celebrate their 150^th anniversary. At 5:30, there were only a few of us in attendance for what amounted to a short prayer service. The congregation must be bigger, though, because the church has two ministers, one of whom speaks fluent Welsh (he grew up with it). The other is learning it. Shall I add that “The Scots Church” (the first Presbyterian church in Melbourne) is about two blocks in one direction, and the Church of England about the same distance in another. The folks who founded Melbourne didn’t leave the old country behind; they brought it with them. But, that’s just the way migration works.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

A Walk in the Sunshine

2011-06-25T17:23:00.000-07:00

The Birrarung: In Melbourne, it was a day of sunshine and white puffy clouds after a week that was wintry gray from what I hear. I found the river first, just on the other side of the rail tracks from my hostel. It’s name is the Yarra. Instead of the grimy wharves and shipyards that defined Yarra’s yesterday, the river now forms the spine of a waterfront wonderland of parks and promenades backed up by ‘old’ Melbourne on one side and the new Melbourne of glitzy high rises on the other. The tallest of those high rises reminded me of New York City simply because it is the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere. Along the Yarra, I found a heliport, a giant Ferris wheel, and a circus under the big top. There is also an installation of totems reaching into the sky, quite appropriate along a river with an aboriginal name (though not actually the aboriginal name of the river). The only thing left of old Melbourne’s working waterfront is a row of figureheads looking like they were installed in the 1990s and now await some maintenance. The arches under the rail line have been taken over by boutiques and one of them offers passage into the Melbourne aquarium, which specializes in the Southern Ocean. Oh yes, the aboriginal name of the river was Birrarung.

The CBD: Think of the Charles River in Boston and the Schuylkill in Philadelphia. What comes to mind? The scull races, right? Melboune’s Yarra seemed made for sculling and reminded me of both cities. Later in the day, I also thought of Baltimore. Both of these cities still have their old shot towers, tall brick cylinders used to make shot for guns. The lead was liquid at the top of the tower, solid and spherical by the time it reached the bottom. Melbourne has done the most amazing thing with its old shot tower. The city has put a dome over it and built a circular shopping mall, called Melbourne Central around it. I wish Baltimore’s mayor could see it. The tower is in the heart of the CBD now. And by the way, that is what the Australians call their ‘downtowns’: CBDs. That stands for Central Business District. By 5 pm, the day was but a glow in the western sky (remember: Southern Hemisphere), so I decided the CBD was the place to be: I went to see X-Men: First Class, which took me to back to New York City and the Westchester suburbs. Nothing reminded me of Washington, DC, but other than that the Melbourne experience was papered with megalopolitan memories.

It’s the middle of winter here, but spring-like. An Australian I met in Thailand, however, told that the city had seen snow for the first time ever this year. I know they have snow further inland, though. I was in Ballarat, the gold mining town, more than two decades ago and it snowed. Here it is cool enough for a jacket, though I don’t have one (only a single long-sleeve shirt). I searched for second-hand stores with no luck (far away, I was told), and then checked prices at some CBD department stores. Prices for anything began at $75 (on sale!), and the Australian dollar is now about equal to the US dollar. Things seem very expensive here. Tomorrow, I will look again for a sweater or jacket. I think I will head to Old Vic.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Typhoon

2011-06-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

Cyclone Approaches: This is the day of the typhoon. It started as Level 1 and is now Level 3. I had my morning coffee at Starbucks, a first since I have been in China. Standard fare, but I don’t think the coffee is quite as strong as in the USA. You might also be interested in the way they serve sugar: in syrup form, a clear liquid, presumably from sugar cane. It’s much easier to use and you don’t have the waste of all those individual packets. By the way, there is no artificial sweetener in evidence here at the Dundas Street Starbucks. I dodge the raindrops back to the hotel. I write, rain falls, time passes. Lunchtime is here. I look for something other than Chinese. To the third floor of a street-side mall I wander, finding myself in front of what would seem to be a Japanese restaurant. I ask. No. It’s a sushi restaurant. Do you have soup? The reply is a menu (special one in Chinese and English). Good enough for me. I order ‘udon’ with beef curry. To drink (‘free’)? Watermelon milk. My waitress nods in approval. It soon arrives: watered down skim milk flavored with watermelon and charged with something else. My first thought is blueberries because there are darkish balls visible at the bottom on the glass. I make a mess trying to retrieve one. They are not blueberries; they are gelatin balls with little flavor, but the locals must like how they chew. The oversize straw makes it easy to slurp them up with the milk. It’s a new experience. Yes, I made a mess, which is something the Chinese here in Hong Kong do not do. I know that because there are never any napkins in these restaurants. I looked around: nobody had or needed a napkin. Except me (and it got worse after my soup arrived). Being the experienced traveler that I am, however, I quickly adapted by fishing the handipack of tissues out of my pocket. You realize they were meant as a substitute for something other than napkins, right? A substitute for something else that you don't consistently find in this part of the world. so, what did I think of the soup? I wished I had sat at the bar and fressed on the sushi as it passed by on the conveyor belt. All the Chinese (including many high school students) seemed to be enjoying it. What was I saying about Thai curries?

Frozen Yoghurt: All day the rains came and went. Some pounded. I survived. In the evening, my umbrella and I went walking into the night markets nearby. In fact, the location of this Y makes it perfect for a true Hong Kong shopping experience. I ate ramen noodles and then stopped for something that seemed new here: frozen yogurt. It wasn't as good as Skinny Dip, but almost. The night markets comprise several parallel streets and cross streets. The streets are reserved for pedestrians and stalls materialize on the macadam. Prepared for the rain, they are: scaffolding and hoods over all the street vendors. I bought a pair of pants from a man who had been doing business here for 20 years. If you come to Hong Kong to shop, you should subject yourself to two experiences: (1) the night markets, and (2) the glitzy gallerias.

I am happy to say I survived the cyclone. People on the street call it a typhoon; weather forecasters call it a cyclone. I just wish it had passed directly over Hong Kong instead of targeting Hainan Island further south.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Father's Day Here

2011-06-19T23:04:00.000-07:00

“Happy Father’s Day!” I heard Bob and Megan utter those words half a world away. Bob, of course, had to be reminded, but I have a feeling he will have no difficulty remembering Father’s Day next year. By the way, it’s a holiday here as well as in the United States.

Three Orchard Road: I don’t know why I am so excited to be staying at One Orchard Road. Perhaps it reminds me of all the new fruits I have found in Southeast Asia; perhaps it is the bucolic imagery that seems to fit Singapore; perhaps it is the medallions that are built into the sidewalk; perhaps it is the connection to Von Thunen’s rings; perhaps it is just because I have heard about Orchard Road for so long. And, now to enhance my excitement, guess what is located right next door at Three Orchard Road. Hint: it’s Sunday. Answer: Orchard Road Presbyterian Church, with services in English at 9 am. Do you want to guess what other two languages command services of their own? Indonesian and German; surprisingly, not Chinese. Do you want to guess what expat community this church was planted to serve? Of course, it would be the Scots. The Church of Scotland is the Presbyterian Church. But is has long since outgrown that niche. Now the pews are filled (yes, packed to the gills) with Asians, Europeans, and others. Two new members were admitted today: one Singaporean Chinese and one Brit. Like every institution in Singapore, ORPC preaches the gospel of inclusion. Now, they are facing a leadership challenge. They need a senior pastor, and two prospects have withdrawn their applications before appointment. “What’s wrong with us?”...that seems to be the question they are asking themselves now. (Methodists never have this problem! J) Excellent sermon, I must say. I never realized what a pivotal role Jaffa played in the early history of Christianity. Yes, the sermon was built around a place, Jaffa, and geographers love to filter everything through the map. I was invited to stay for a light lunch in their large social hall next door, but I had a bus to catch and miles to go before day’s end.

Indulgence: I am in the wet tropics, almost on the equator. It’s the biome that produces the world’s cocoa. The irony is that you never eat chocolate candy here in the tropics. It melts. So, it has been an age since I have indulged. At the air-conditioned airport, the drought came to an end. I bought the biggest Reese’s I have ever seen. But, it wasn’t a peanut butter cup; it was a chocolate bar filled with peanut butter. Never have I seen this for sale in the United States. I felt I had to try it and evaluate its possibilities for the American market. Besides, my first teaching job was at Hershey High School, and I passed the Reese’s plant every morning when I came to work. I figured this encounter was meant to be. Plus, I had a pocket full of coins that would do me no good in Hong Kong. In an instant, that bar was mine. Before I dug in, I had a bowl of wonton soup. Then, I went to work. My assessment: delicious, but I still like peanut butter cups better. In fact, I have it on good authority that Heaven’s walls are papered with peanut butter cups.

I flew Cathy Pacific to Hong Kong with a stop in Bangkok. The plane was full leaving Singapore, but I was the only passenger going through to Hong Kong. I don't know what to make of that. I stayed on board and watched the clean-up crew get everything ready for the second leg of our flight. They had it down to a science. Upon arrival in Hong Kong, I caught the Airport Express to Hong Kong Central, then the MTR to Yau Ma Tei. The YMCA was a few steps away. I liked the Y so much in Singapore, I decided to repeat the experience.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Add to Your Bucket List

2011-06-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

This was my day to explore Malacca, fabled home of the Malacca Sultanate in the days before the Portuguese, Dutch, and then English (and for a few years, Japanese) took over. The heyday of the city predates the British. When you look at the size of the tidal creek here you wonder how this could ever have been the Singapore of its day; then you look at all the silt offshore and are even more certain that the British preference for Singapore was well founded. Malacca’s only comparative advantage seems to have been its relative location at the narrowest point on the Strait of Malacca.

The Fort and Nouriah: Archaeological investigations turned up the remains of the Portuguese-cum-Dutch fort on the Malacca River. One corner has been rebuilt to add another attraction to the tourist precinct. Does it look puny! I kept wondering if it was a scale model rather than a recreation. Still, it is one of the anchors of a landscape that has brought Malacca international recognition as a World Heritage City, a prestigious UNESCO designation. (Why does the US have so few World Heritage sites?) So, here it is right in the middle of tourist central, along with a new site: a nouriah, or waterwheel, of the type you see in Syria. This one I couldn’t figure out: didn’t understand whether there had been nouriahs along the creek in the past, didn’t understand why they built this one, didn’t understand what purpose it was to serve. It looked nice, but again puny in comparison with the Syrian wheels and the one I saw in Toledo, Spain. I would hate to think that they built a waterwheel just to look nice even though it seems to be completely out of place and out of time. Didn’t like it. Didn’t seem authentic. I am pleased to report that it doesn’t even work; they can’t seem to get it to turn. More research needed.

Café Geographér: From the clock tower in the historic intramural center of Malacca, I crossed the bridge into the historic residential sector, the area where the Chinese were quartered. Thirsty though I was, I could not take more than a sip or two of the lime juice with licorice that I bought on the other side of the bridge. In fact, I had a bad taste in my mouth until I made the discovery of the day (and maybe the trip): a corner restaurant called Café Geographér. So famous has it become, that it has been featured in Blue Hyppo commercials. Don’t worry, I don’t know what that means either! Of course, I had to have lunch there, so I sat down to a bowl of soup: noodles, bean sprouts, eggplant, green beans, bean curd puffs, lots of great spices, and no MSG (very proud of that). I ate it with chop sticks and one of those deep-dish spoons. Of course, I told them I was a geographer. They smiled, but didn’t seem to be impressed. Still, I took lots of pictures and purchased a Café Geographér shirt. I wonder if I could open a franchise in Virginia Beach. They seem to be doing very well along Jonker Street in the heart of Malacca’s Chinatown.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Lion City

2011-06-15T15:54:00.000-07:00

It was the 8 am bus that almost left without me. I took a taxi to the Malacca bus station, quickly bought a ticket (by being a little pushy), and was the last passenger on board. On my way to the Lion City was I: an express 4-1/2 hours, border crossing included. The cost was about $7.

Arriving in Singapore: Only a short bridge connects Johore, Malaysia, to the Republic of Singapore. Then, a green parkway leads traffic into the city. All I can say is Wow! I wasn’t expecting so much lush vegetation, but for many kilometers we traveled through a forest and past the Singapore Zoo. Then, the high-rises began to appear on the horizon. But, Singapore is not a city (or country, since they are one and the same) of high-rise canyons. They have done more than any city I have seen to create and preserve open space, parks, gardens, greenways, and street buffers. The first thing I saw when I got off the bus was a mahogany forest. Actually, it was less than a dozen mahogany trees (brought from Africa in the 1970s) that provided shade for an urban park. My first observation of the cultural landscape confirmed my supposition that Singapore was an English-speaking country. Signs and billboards seem to be tightly controlled (along with everything else here), but almost all were in English. Three-quarters of the country’s population is Chinese, but they have taken to English, the language of international business, which is what Singapore specializes in.

Orchard Road: The bus dropped us all by the side of the road, not at a station, and I had no map. The driver pointed everyone to a taxi station (so far in the distance I couldn’t see it), but I had a better idea. Coming in, I had identified a metro station (Paya Lebar), so I hoofed it back there and boarded the Circle line to “One Orchard Road.” That was the address of the YMCA, and I just hoped they would have a room for me. They did. I never knew much about the micro-geography of Singapore, but I did know Orchard Road, the city’s main shopping corridor. To me, One Orchard Road sounded like the most prestigious address ever. I wasn’t disappointed. I was amongst the buildings of Singapore Management University, a beautiful urban campus; the commercial corridor began a few blocks away. Like the Malaysians, Singaporeans are in love with shopping malls: that’s what lines Orchard Road, some of the biggest malls you have seen, and all air-conditioned, of course, which has to be one of their attractions. As for its name, the road used to lead from the civic precinct into the orchards that supplied the city with fruits and vegetables, just as Von Thunen would have predicted. Laid into the sidewalk now are medallions commemorating all those wonderful tropical products from mangoes and bananas to star fruit and pomegranates.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Repeat After Me: Orang Asli

2011-06-14T03:57:00.000-07:00

Freeways and Malls: Kuala Lumpur has allowed itself to be gobbled up by freeways. They criss-cross the city in every direction. I can see why mass transit patronage is not as high here as it is in other cities. The Malaysians have taken to the car in a big way. They have also taken to ‘The Mall’ in a big way. It seems like you are never very far from a shopping mall. My comfy little hotel, in an older part of the city, was a block away from ‘The Mall.’ That was its name and it was writ large in English on the side of the building. With it were offices and hotels. This is the form that new development takes in KL: lots of vertical development that seems divorced from its surrounding neighborhoods. In fact, getting from one old neighborhood to the next is a very pedestrian-unfriendly ordeal. The woman I met with her baby in a stroller was not too happy about the difficulty of taking a walk. And as she pointed out to me, motorbikes seem to think it is OK to park on the sidewalk, making her and her stroller descend to the street to get around the blockage.

Street Market: Early this morning, I discovered a street market not far from The Mall. Food for the family, some clothes, a newspaper vendor, and breakfast on the street: all there for the people of Putra. Eating breakfast from a vendor or a sidewalk shop seems to be popular here. This was not Chinatown, but there seemed to be lots of Chinese in the mix. One man told me his family had come from China four generations ago during a time of troubles (I asked what the troubles were about, but got no answer I could understand). He loved being a Malaysian and hated the Communists. He told me Malaysia was a poor country, so I pointed at the skyscrapers only three blocks away and said I disagreed. I am still not sure what he made of that, but I do think he was delighted to be speaking English to an American visitor. The image that will remain longest from my market morning? A live chicken getting his throat slit for a customer. I flinched and looked away.

Orang Asli: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Malaysia may be going through a cycle that all modernizing nations go through if they have an indigenous population. The tentacles of development are taking hold of every part of peninsular Malaysia (Malaya) and strangling the forest peoples out of existence. Of course, this has been going on for at least a century, but now the Malaysian government seems to feel bad about it (my interpretation), so they are anxious to publicize the nobility and wisdom of the Orang Asli (‘original peoples’), the collective term for dozens of different native tribes. I visited the National Museum which had both a permanent exhibit and a special exhibit on the country’s indigenes. The theme of the temporary exhibit was beliefs and traditions; it took you into the Orang Asli’s spiritual world in the setting of a recreated forest village. Animists, they are, but to some extent the earth might be better off if we were all animists: Malaya’s original peoples believe that large rocks and open spaces such as swamps, lakes, and water holes have their spirits and guardians who must be respected and appeased. Western religions have killed off the spirits of nature, and western civilizations have done a fine job of destroying so much of the natural earth. This may apply to eastern civilizations, too. How the Orang Asli see some of the spirits that co-inhabit their world is the subject of much contemporary sculptural art that was on display. It was some of the most creative I have seen. Orang Asli: I just love saying those words!

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

New Day, New Country

2011-06-13T19:28:00.001-07:00

Leaving Thailand: It’s a travel day. I leave Phuket today. I am going to Kuala Lumpur (KL, for short), Malaysia. Air Asia makes winging your way around this part of the world easy and relatively cheap. It’s cheaper if you can buy a ticket online, but I can’t, at least with Air Asia. I have tried several times, but they will not take my credit card information. I asked at the airport and the airline says it’s the credit card company. I email my credit card company and they send a canned response that says it is the airline. It doesn’t really matter, though. At every airport, the airlines all have ticket counters where you can walk up and buy a ticket up to the time of departure. It seemed to me that the prices were only about 15 dollars more expensive. It is mighty convenient, but if you did it in the US you would pay premium fares. Let me say it out loud: US airlines are the least progressive on the planet and spend most of their time thinking up new ways to charge for their tickets and other services. Here’s another example. I might attend a conference in Montreal in the fall. So I went on line (while in Patong) and priced a ticket: over $700. I then sent an email to my travel agent in Virginia: same price. By comparison, I will cross an international boundary flying from Phuket to Kuala Lumpur and pay about $100 (for advance purchase, it is less). How do the US airlines get away with it? My backup plan (if I actually choose to go) is to fly to Burlington, Vermont, and rent a car for the Canadian portion of the trip. Maybe on a slow day soon, I will write more about budget airlines.

I can’t say that Phuket was one of my favorite places, but it has come to feel like home over the past five days. I now have a favorite restaurant, a favorite coffee shop, a favorite ice cream parlor, and a favorite deck chair by the pool. Oh, I shouldn’t have admitted that! Just remember, this is a resort island, so accommodation prices are low. I would certainly return here, but I think tourism is gobbling up the island, which is the very resource that attracts visitors. Some restrictions on development are badly needed. Returning to the airport by taxi (a 50 minute drive), I became even more away of how sprawl has crept along each and every road. The airport, though, is right on the beach; it is very modern and welcoming. I bought my ticket, passed through border control, and waited for my departure. From the air you get a broader view of the Andaman Sea and realize what a tropical paradise it is.

Arriving in Malaysia: A little more than an hour later, we landed in KL. As usual, there was a landing card to fill out. Here is what it said in red caps at the bottom of the card: BE FOREWARNED DEATH FOR DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER MALAYSIAN LAW. I wondered if I should get rid the aspirin in my backpack. I think I arrived at the Budget Airline Terminal, which is separate from the main terminal. And, it did seem a little ‘budget.’ Thirty US dollars to get into the city by taxi. Nix that idea. Where’s the bus? Finally figured out the answer to that one. Price? Less than US $3 to the Central Station (and it's really far away). From the station, I paid about 30 cents (US) to take the train to the part of town where I had identified a place to stay. Of course, everything was priced in Malaysian ringgit. (Yes, the currency used to be the Malaysian dollar, which is what I was expecting.)

I am a card-carrying member of Hostelling International, so for this leg of the trip, I decided to go back to budget accommodations. I checked the HI website and found a place in Kuala Lumpur, and it seemed rather centrally located (a priority for me). It turned out to be a two-star hotel (Wira Hotel). Instead of dormitory quarters, I got a private room and a nice one at that. Price? About $30 US, breakfast included and free wifi, too.

The journey to KL was fun. In fact, it was more fun than usual because when I left the hotel in Thailand, I had neither a plane ticket nor a place to stay in Malaysia. Whenever there are some unknowns in the equation, it makes travel exciting. I have often said that there is nothing more exhilarating that arriving in a city where you have never been with no advance planning. You have to figure it all out from scratch. But, as the ‘unknown’ becomes the ‘known,’ you feel like you have learned so much and another city has been added to your collection. By the end of this trip, I will have visited 37 of the 101 largest cities on the planet. My hobby: collecting places.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Sunday in Patong

2011-06-12T18:29:00.000-07:00

Green Season: We are in what is called the “green season” here. It extends from June to September, and it is the monsoon season. It has just begun. Obviously, it is not the tourist season, but I get the sense that Phuket is doing everything it can to up their visitor totals this time of year. 80,000 people on the island work in the tourist industry. The European languages are heard everywhere; now, it seems the Thais want to encourage more Asian tourism. Here’s a riddle for you: A new Center for Language Skill Development has just opened up here on Phuket. It is offering free language classes to those 80,000 workers. What five languages will initially be offered? (I’ll tell you later.) My assessment is that English is neither well-understood nor well-spoken here. Part of the problem, I think, is that so many languages are spoken by the tourists who populate this island. English, though, is spoken by more than Brits and Australians; it is spoken by everyone else who visits (a slight exaggeration) as a second language. Then, there is the international language of the global corporations which communicate in signs and symbols. They offer a heavy dose of Western culture but often try to tailor it to local sensitivities. What is difference about Ronald here on the beachfront in Patong?

They Fed Me: This was the hardest Sunday for picking a church to attend; in fact, I was first told there were none in Patong (the largest town on the island). I couldn’t believe that, though, so I hit the Internet and found the House of the Lord Church, which advertised itself as an international church. It was close, half a block from the beach in an arcade of shops and restaurants. It had occupied this space for a year, and there was room for maybe 40 people. The service lasted two hours (yes!). In fact, we stood to sing for so long that half the congregants sat down half way through. It was spirit-filled singing with a guitarist and song leader up front. Words were projected onto a video screen (including their English translation). I had a surprise, though. All visitors were called one by one to the microphone to tell a bit about themselves. I was the first. Then the Australian woman, then the Swiss man married to the Brazilian, then the Finns who were on their honeymoon. Then, the Australian man said he would pass; I talked to him later, though, and he told me to call him when I got to Australia. He didn’t seem to be shy. No one seemed to be in a rush, including the preacher. The sermon was on Jehoshaphat, but I caught only bits and pieces. It was delivered in Thai, then translated into English by a Thai man who goes by ‘Joseph.’ This is the first church that handed out lunches (fried rice with fried egg on top) after the service, so we all sat around and talked for a while.

Geographically yours,

2011-06-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

Ascension Day: The Roman Catholic Church seems to be thriving here in Bangkok. I attended the English-language mass at Assumption Cathedral this morning. It was Ascension Day, the 40^th day after Easter Sunday. Even though it was a huge basilica-style church, there was standing room only. Amazing, considering there was no air conditioning, just fans overhead and along the side aisles. The priest sounded like he came from the United States. At other times on Saturday and Sunday, there are also masses in Thai. In addition to the cathedral, there is Assumption College, where children of Bangkok come for an education. Just for your information: in much of the world, the word college means a school you go to before you go to University. The children at Assumption College wear uniforms, but so do all of the kids in government schools.

The Emerald Buddha: On the grounds of the Royal Palace is the temple of the Emerald Buddha. But, the effigy is really made of jade. To confess, I went through this temple and didn’t see a Buddha at all, so I figured I had the wrong building. I checked my map and discovered it was the right one. I went back in and looked up. I had expected to see a figure that was more than life size, but this one isn’t. It is torso-sized and sits atop a pyramid of gold that lifts it almost to the ceiling. For a single piece of jade, however, it is huge. As usual, though, all you get in the official narrative is a bunch of bland facts. So, why is the emerald Buddha the central focus of the monastery that surrounds it and why is it in the royal palace at all? Here is my far more interesting (though hypothetical) story line. The jade image comes from Thailand’s far north. It once graced the royal palaces of the King of Chiang Mai and the King of Laos. Both were conquered by the southern Thai kingdom, and the unique green image of Buddha was installed in the new capital of Bangkok. To me, it is all symbolic. When you conquer territory, you need to advertise how powerful you are. As monarch, you find the most treasured artifacts of the conquered lands, and you bring them in your own capital city. The emerald Buddha is in Bangkok as booty, the spoils of conquest. If you are an Anglophile, think Stone of Scone, now repatriated. But on the part of neither Thailand nor Laos is there a repatriation movement. I see no reason, though, why Laos should not call for a return of their patrimony, since the image resided in Vientiane for 226 years. Besides, asking for your treasures back seems to be a theme of 21^st century cultural geography.

You still don't know why they call this jade Buddha, the emerald Buddha, but that's an interesting story, too. One you will have to look up!

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Socks and Sea Shells

2011-06-03T04:45:00.000-07:00

It was raining this morning and showery this afternoon, so a down day it was. I did accomplish three things, however.

Red Curry: I love Thai food in the United States but the only thing I ever order is red curry. My objective was to compare authentic red curry here with what I can order at home. At noon I stumbled upon a sit-down restaurant serving “authentic” Thai food, so here was my chance. The red curry I ordered had three of the same ingredients I am used to: tomatoes, basil, and bamboo shoots in a coconut-milk broth, served with white rice. Alas, it paled in comparison to Bangkok Gardens in Norfolk! Yes, we have the world’s best Thai restaurant at home. By the way, don’t do what I have just did when you travel: compare everything to what you are used to in the States. It’s very bad practice, very ethnocentric, and not endearing to the locals. But, I sometimes do it anyway. Far better was the hot-and-sour coconut soup I had in the evening. Where? At Jameson’s Irish Pub. Forgive me. I had to eat there because my favorite Celtic band in the United States is “The Fighting Jamesons.” You should look them up on Facebook.

Holey Socks: I guess I am hard on socks because I’ve got some holes appearing. One I had mended in Delhi. Two others I had mended today here. Sidewalk culture is vivid in Bangkok. If you want to start a business, you start on the street and maybe eventually get a shop. Among the entrepreneurs are women who sit at sewing machines (the old Singers with foot pedals) spending their day mending. They usually have a big plastic bag of clothes beside them, but I have no idea where all the mending comes from. I interrupted one seamstress today, presented her with my socks, and in front of my eyes the holes disappeared. She was slick. The difference between Bangkok and Delhi? Man vs. woman. Here, women working in the shops (and elsewhere) are as common as men. The old sewing machines were pretty much the same vintage, however. My regret? That I have to wear socks at all, which means that I have to wear long pants (anathema), so shoes and socks complete the outfit. Short pants just don’t cut it here or in India. In fact, I asked my hotelier in Delhi if he thought I could get away with wearing shorts. “No,” said he in so many words.

Shell Nostalgia: When I was a kid I had a pretty good seashell collection (thanks to my dad). So, I had to visit the Bangkok Seashell Museum, all three floors of it. These micro-museums I often (maybe usually) find more satisfying than the huge showpiece varieties that are de rigueur for tourists. (Remember my trip to the Museum of Garden History in London?) For me, seeing seashells was a trip down memory lane. I had shells from all the major groups I saw today, and can still remember how I struggled to identify them in the days before Web technology. I also remembered that the prettiest ones came from the Indian and southwest Pacific Oceans. So, thought I, Bangkok is the perfect place for such a show. The displays were well proportioned and well lighted, and photography was allowed. My discovery: there is a cone shell called Conus geographus, I guess because the squiggly brown lines reminded Linnaeus of a map. I would adopt it as my personal shell except this cone shoots a poisonous venom into fish and then eats them. Not good symbolism. So, since everyone should have a shell to incorporate into their personal coat of arms, I will keep looking. Conus mercator might be a possibility. No, that one is poisonous, too. Plus, the Mercator projection is a cylindrical projection, not a conic. I also learned how porcelain got its name: it comes form the Roman name for the cowrie shells (porcellana, from the word for pig) that Marco Polo brought back from the East. They were both shiny. My shell collection? I have no idea whatever became of it, and now I feel bad about it.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Canal Lizards

2011-06-02T03:08:00.000-07:00

The Chao Phraya: Bangkok sits on the Chao Phrayha River, opposite the former Thai capital of Thonburi. It was moved there by Rama the Great whose dynasty still rules. You know the fictionalized account of Rama IV, “King of Siam,” and his quarrels with Anna. I had a chance today to see Thonburi on a longtail boat via a khlong (canal) that arcs through the city.

There’s a perplexing array of ferries and private-hire boats that run the Chao Phraya. With a little observation, though, the system becomes legible enough. I stepped onto my boat at its southern-most stop not far from Silom Road and rode it to a stop I had identified as the Flower Market. Here, sidewalks and streetsides are crammed with flower arrangers and wholesale vendors in every direction. Garlands of marigolds and jasmine flowers were being sewn together with needle and thread. (The whole experience made me think of the pathetic flower market in Amsterdam, and how good it could be. Yes, the Dutch should come to Thailand to see how to fluoresce in flowers.) Here in Thailand, there is a good climate for flowers, cheap labor for growing them, and a ready market for selling them. Although Thais seem not to have much money, there always seems to be plenty for posies. It reminded me of an old Persian proverb: ‘If you have two pennies, spend one for the body and with the other buy hyacinths for the soul.’ Indeed, in Thailand, a large segment of the flower market seems to be for salving for the soul. All over the city are temples, shrines, and spirit houses at which people stop to pray. To them, they often bring offerings, and flowers are the most popular. Thus, around every big temple, there is a small flower market, and these small flower markets make their wholesale buys at the central market I visited today. It is one block away from the Chao Phraya, and I understand that many of the stalls are operated by people who come by boat from Thonburi on the left bank. To me, it looks like the original flower market was not along the street but on the sois (a soi is a side street) and the interiors of blocks. That space now is taken by the wholesale produce market, which is also a fascinating operation, to which everyone comes to buy their fresh fruits and vegetables in large quantities. Here’s the pattern: main streets: flowers; side streets and block interiors: fruits and vegetables. All streets: packed with people. In fact, because there are so many people, street food is available everywhere: from fruits and drinks to hot foods in kettles and on the grill. I just wish I knew the names of these palate pleasers. If labeled at all, the names are in Thai, and most of these vendors do not speak English. I discovered a way to figure out fruit names, though: go into a modern supermarket, find the same fruits, and read the English names. One of the most intriguing fruits was one I wished I knew the name of. Using my supermarket technique, I discovered it was the Vietnamese Dragon Fruit. Don’t you just love that name? It reminds me of Virginia Beach and its very own dragon – but more on that later.

From the oh-so-interesting wholesale markets I ventured into the Bangkok’s temple precinct and tourist mecca, the quarter where you find the Royal Palace and Emerald Buddha, the museums, and government offices. Very beautiful, but I feel sorry for tourists who make this their only view of Bangkok. I will go another day. But another market was flourishing outside the temple precinct: the market in Buddhist amulets, little charms whose popularity is associated with a monk whose temple is across the river.

In my attempt to find my way back home, I asked a man waiting with me to cross the street where the Metro was. Take the ferry back was his advice. But we got talking and then spent the rest of the afternoon together. He teaches sociology at a secondary school associated with one of the temples. He was a former Buddhist monk (for about 10 years, until age 22), and is still intent on practicing Buddhism, not just ritualizing it. Most Thais, he hold me, don’t really apply Buddhist teachings to their lives; they just go through the motions. Same everywhere, said I. He was quite proud of the city, especially of its over 200 temples, and suggested I go on a canal ‘cruise’ that would take me through the oldest parts of Thonburi. If I didn’t do it in the afternoon, the flood-control gates would close and the boats would not be able to get in. Did he want to go with me? Yes, he did, so off we went on a huge boat, and just for us.

The canal-side built environment is deteriorating; it’s an historical preservation project just waiting to happen. Perhaps it has already started, as a few new teak houses have sprouted up along its shore, but most of the housing is badly deteriorated. What isn’t deteriorated are the temples, of which there were too many to count and so many different styles. We stopped at a majestic and colorful one I would characterize as a “mixed-use” community center. There was a multitude of individual shrines, a troop of boy scouts sitting for lessons, a pair of crematoriums for disposing of the dead (but save a bone fragment). One boxed-body was in repose and in a pavilion next door a prayer vigil was being kept. This goes on for a few days, and then the body is cremated. There were other boats in the canal, but not as many as I expected, though I did buy a small model from one of the boat women. What my friend reveled in pointing out were the monitor lizards that lived along the canal: huge ones! It made me nostalgic for my home in Virginia Beach, where we have our own Komodo Dragon, and for my favorite Starbucks where Komodo Dragon is my favorite coffee.

The Cute Mute: Without saying a word today, I bought a small silk print showing three elephants. I usually don’t buy such things, but the man who sold it to me was a mute (and maybe deaf). He did all his bargaining with body language supplemented with pad and pencil. His cart (all kinds of silk prints) was all by itself, he had no customers, and he provided the most interesting side show of the day. Once we settled on a [too high] price, I gave him a big bill for a small purchase; he took it and ran (of course, without saying a word). He had to get change. It is the universal story in most of the world: nobody has change! I figured I had his cart as collateral. Had anyone been nearby, I would have tried to sell them something. I got my change, but was reminded of the time in Morocco when I wasn’t so lucky. That vendor knew that all he had to do was be off with my big bill and stay until the bus I was riding departed.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Temples and Spirit Houses

2011-05-31T18:07:00.000-07:00

A modern rail line connects the airport with center city Bangkok: Oh, that Washington could come here and feel the shame of not having the Metro extend out to Dulles!

Silom Road: This section of Bangkok used to be on the outskirts of the city, its landscape that of canals, rice fields and wind mills. Now, it is the financial quarter of modern Bangkok. One of the sights of Silom Road is the Hindu temple called Wat Khaek Silom. It was built by south Indians (specifically, Tamils) and looks nothing like the north Indian temples I have been seeing in India. It is intricate and colorful both outside and in, but it does have a typical tapering top. On the streets all around are vendors selling flowers and other offerings for those who plan to pray. Thailand is not a Hindu nation, but migrants from India have been arriving for centuries. Plus, I am discovering that the line between Hinduism and Buddhism is very blurry. The deity of the spirit houses in this neighborhood all look like Hindu gods to me. They are, someone told me, but they have equivalents in Buddhism. The four-faced Hindu god is the same as the four-faced Buddha. Boundary lines don’t seem to matter much here. In fact, within a few hundred meters of the temple is a masjid (a.k.a., mosque) for Muslims (Mirasuddeen mosque) and a church for Christians. Bangkok is actually more diverse than I thought it would be, but my view may be biased by the thin slice of the city I have seen thus far, just Silom Road, which has always been a focus of foreign businesses

Outside almost every condominium, office complex, and hotel is a spirit house where prayers are offered and offerings left. Flowers are the most popular, but also a glass of juice or something else just purchased from the local 7-11. Yes, 7-11. I wandered into a small grocery store to buy something to drink (very hot here), and when I went to check out I discovered it was a 7-11. That was after I just arrived, and now I see 7-11s everywhere. Do you think it is a US chain? Think again. It was bought by a Japanese company, so it is really more at home here in Thailand than in the U.S. The original one, though, was in Dallas as I recall. By the way, Tesco (so common in London) is also here in large numbers, and Boots is, too.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

IndiGO

2011-05-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

The Gateway of India: This arch is where India begins. Doesn’t it just look European and imperial? It was built to commemorate the state visit of King George V to his Indian dominions in the early 20^th century. Despite its colonial baggage, the Indian people flock to it during their holidays (which is what it is right now; most schools are not in session). Wherever people are gathered, opportunities to make money present themselves. Providing food and thirst quenchers are the most obvious; booklets and postcards, too. I had a huge cucumber, peeled and quartered. It was as sweet as the one in Egypt that made me sick years ago (still vivid in my memory, but that one I picked in a field along the Nile and ate it). It’s amazing how cooling a cucumber can be. Why do we only eat them in salads? Hawking photographs may be the most lucrative business here and at India’s other heritage sites, however. Photographers have invested in good digital cameras and they carry portable color printers with them. It’s a slick operation. Harbor cruises are also on sale here.

Back to Delhi: I had a productive few days in Mumbai. At least, I got some “office work” done. You see I brought lots of tasks from home to do on my trip. I left my very nice Ramada Inn on Juhu Beach and arrived at the airport around 9:30 am for an 11:20 flight on SpiceJet. Delayed for an hour. Delayed for two hours. Delayed for four hours. I finally arrived in Delhi around 6 pm, but on an Indigo (IndiGO) Airbus. Spices and Indigo: what clever semantics for drawing the world into India. They already have brand recognition. These two airlines, along with several others, are the budget carriers of the subcontinent and they are thriving.

Geographically yours,

2011-05-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

I had much to do today to get ready for my departure, and I made it. I arrived at Heathrow exactly two hours before my 5:35 pm take-off on British Air. The eight hour flight means that I will wake up the next morning in India. That's me before descending into the Tube station at Swiss Cottage. What's in the pack, you ask? Here's the list.

Packing as a Minimalist Activity: All you need for any length of trip is a backpack or small bag (though traveling in winter does complicate matters a bit). I took inventory as I repacked this morning and this is what I am carrying with me. The list excludes what I am wearing.

1 pair long pants

2 shorts: regular and gym

1 swimming trunks

2 T-shirts

5 pairs of underwear

7 pairs of socks

1 long sleeve shirt

2 short sleeve shirts

1 ball cap

1 umbrella

1 microfiber towel

2 locks

2 books

1 kindle

1 camera

1 netbook

Various electrical converters

Various toiletries

Assorted documents

I often take old cloths with me and cast them off as I wear them. This is what I shed in London:

1 pullover (donated to the British Heart Association!)

1 pair of pants

1 long-sleeve shirt

1 pair of socks

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Transport for London

2011-05-18T23:37:00.000-07:00

The advantage of returning to a city again and again is that you get to see how the urban landscape changes over time. Since my visit to London over a year ago, two new items have appeared all over the city: Borris Bikes and new street maps.

Borris Bikes: In London, bicycles are available for anyone to use in every neighborhood, on all the major thoroughfares, and in many parks. Officially, the docking stations are called Barclay's Cycle Hire. But, they have been nicknamed Borris Bikes after the flamboyant mayor of London, Borris Johnson. When the program began, membership was required, but a few months later it became open to anyone, even those with not a quid to their name. The first 30 minutes are free; an hour is one pound, and up from there you go. You take the bike from one docking station and leave it at another. They are extremely popular. Where did this idea come from? Deep in the recesses of my memory I thought about something we studied about the Netherlands when I was in junior high school. The Dutch have always loved their bikes and in the period after World War II (I think) you would ride your bike to the train station, be on your way, and take any bike there when you got back. All the bikes were essentially the same, so it didn't matter which one you got. Can anyone confirm this? You can see the problems that would arise with a scheme like this, but we now have the technology to revisit a good idea in the form of ICT. The whole Borris Bike system is computer driven.

In London and all of England, so much thought goes into transportation. In the United States, we have only one thought about transportation: buy a car, I really don't know why anyone would want a car in London. In fact, drivers in Central London pay a Congestion Charge (which can be remitted by cell phone), London's way of trying to reduce traffic on the streets. The Congestion Charging started in 2003, and I can tell you that it has made a difference. London is more pedestrian friendly and 'greener.'

Way Finding: I don't know whether the cycle hire and the new maps were part of a single program, but they seem to have appeared at the same time, and many of the docking stations have a map of the neighborhood. The picture shows a couple of shoppers in Covent Garden consulting the map,which shows everything within about a 15 minute walk. Instead of using a traditional scale, they use a circle with a radius of 15 minutes of time, measuring geographical distance in time-space. They are very attractive and easily read. (Just a note on other maps I have encountered here: the TV weather maps are the worst I have seen, or maybe I am spoiled by the great job the American networks have done in using maps to report the weather).

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Crossing the Solent

2011-05-17T01:03:00.000-07:00

From Sandown to Ryde by bus; from Ryde to Portsmouth by ferry; from Portsmouth to Southampton by coach (intercity bus): that's today's story.

New Place Names: I like place names and always enjoy learning new ones. 'The Solent' was a new one to me. It is what I would call a marinym: a marine name. The Solent is a strait: the band of water between the Isle of Wight and the English mainland. The tides and currents in the Solent interact in complex ways typical of the English Channel. Numerous ferries, hovercraft, and catamarans cross the Solent to the Isle of Wight; some proceed on to France. On the north shore of the Solent is the county of Hampshire. The major cities of Hampshire are Portsmouth and Southampton (home of Southampton Solent University), the anchor of the metropolitan region. Opposite Portsmouth is Gosport.

Commonwealth Connections: Virginians recognized many of these names. We have them in southeastern Virginia: Portsmouth, Gosport, Southampton County, and Isle of Wight County. Some of the Jamestown setters came from this area of England. They made the new continent feel like home by bringing their place names with them. In fact, Southampton-Portsmouth feels a lot like Hamtpon Roads and is even comparable in population size. Both are interdigitations of land and water, both are capitals of the country's naval forces, and both are major ports. After the Norman Conquest in 1066 AD, Southampton was perhaps the most important port in England because it had a sheltered position on a tidal river with convenient passage to Normandy. Inland from Southampton was England's Norman capital, Winchester. Southampton served as Winchester's port. Proximity to Normandy made the Hampshire coast essential to the D-Day invasion as well. In fact, here in Southampton I stayed in a B&B that was on the site where US D-Day forces bivouacked before the invasion. The end of World War II in Europe began in Portsmouth and Southampton.

Geographically,
D.J.Z.

The Ise of Wight

2011-05-16T00:41:00.000-07:00

Vectis: The Romans called this island Vectis, and I presume that is where Wight come from. The people here still find the word useful for naming bus lines and home businesses. After a ‘full English breakfast’ I headed to the nearby Southern Vectis bus stop, paid for a day pass, and spent the next 10 hours wandering around the island. This piece of real estate is actually bigger than you think, and I didn’t cover nearly as much territory as I wanted. It wasn't just distance that slowed me down. I decided to do some walking. It seemed like the island was made for walking, the walking festival (really!) had just ended, and walking paths (bridle trails, too) zig-zag all over the island. I rode the bus to just beyond a very special little village called Freshwater.

From there, I walked to the western tip of the island to see “The Needles.” I needed a little physical geography, I suppose. What element of physical geography comes immediately to mind when I say English Channel? Chalk cliffs, I hope. Remember we are not far from the 'white cliffs of Dover.’ That chalk formation extends all along the south coast of England. I walked to the top of those cliffs here on the Isle of Wight and from there viewed a series of small sea stacks at the end of the peninsula. Yes, they looked like needles. The disappointing side of the story was the human geography. Naively, I thought I was going to hike to the end of Wight and have the territory all to myself. Instead, fleets of buses kept disgorging passengers at the tourist souk that lined the way to the beach far below. There were steps that led down, but after that long walk, I decided to take the chair lift. Plus, it looked like fun and I got some really good views. I then hopped on a Vectus bus back to Freshwater, where I wrote some postcards over a cup of soup at the only restaurant in town, the Hong Kong Express.

Two-decker Buses on Two-lane Roads: On the Isle of Wight, there are only 2-lane roads, something very typical of rural England. The large, double-decker buses, however, were not designed for such carriageways. You have city-sized buses on country-size roads. That’s what we call a scale issue. The bus drivers did a magnificent job, but other drivers often had to stop, pull over, or even back up. Still, the buses were well used. I caught a bus about 9:25 am, and at each bus stop after mine long lines of people boarded. It seems that pensioners get free rides after 9:30, and at each stop they were waiting. I suspect this might be a popular retirement island. For tourists it is nice to have a top deck. The views are great: newly plowed fields, grazing sheep, medieval villages, country churches, thatched roofs, chalk downs, hedge rows, flowering shrubs, walking paths, coastal vistas, tree tunnels. The only frustration with bus travel is that you can’t stop and take pictures whenever and wherever you want.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Another Ferry Ride

2011-05-15T03:22:00.000-07:00

The Unitarian Church: A third Sunday, a third church service. I guess you see the pattern. One of my goals is to use Sunday mornings to cut deeper into the culture. This Sunday, I stumbled upon the John Pounds Memorial Unitarian Church in Portsmouth. Its pews could comfortably hold about a hundred people, and the minister (who came to the faith via the Baptist tradition) greeted me at the entrance. The Unitarians (note: not ‘trinitarians’) have a tradition all their own: that tradition was reflected in the sanctuary, the sermon, and the hymns. First, the sanctuary had an altar with a chalice and flame (that’s the Unitarian symbol) rather than a cross or a communion chalice. There was a cross in one of the side windows, but in the other windows were symbols of the other great religious traditions of the world: a sitting Buddha, a star of David, a Hindu medallion and others. Second, the sermon was about light and darkness. The message transcended the boundaries between faiths. One idea that seems to cut across all faiths is the equation of light with goodness and dark with threat. We must all, therefore, strive to be “people of the light” (the title of the sermon). On light, the Hebrew Bible, the Gospels, and the Koran were all quoted: how similar they sounded. Third, the hymns were decidedly ecumenical. We sang four, including ‘Morning has Broken,’ perfect for the brilliant sunshine that was filtering in through the translucent (but not stained glass) windows. Many secular philosophers are also revered and made a part of the church service. We heard a poem by Dylan Thomas. It reminded me of the first time I attended a Unitarian-Universalist church (in Barre, Vermont) many years ago: poetry by Robert Frost was read.

Do Unitarians believe in Jesus? Because there is no creed in the faith, many have the same view of Jesus as trinitarian Christians; others do not. Unitarians do seem to believe that ‘good works’ are important though, as they had just received a think you letter from some of the Japanese students in Portsmouth who appreciated the money they had collected for easing the pain of the earthquake and tsunami.

As for John Pounds, their benefactor: he has a fascinating history and it is on display here. His workshop and grave are behind the church. If you want to know more, Google him. According to one report I read, the people named John Pounds Portsmouth’s ‘man of millennium’ in 2000.

Wightlink: Portsmouth is the main embarkation point for the Isle of Wight, and I couldn’t resist adding another ferry ride to my list:

Portsmouth-Isle of Wight Ferry (UK)

Once I made up that list, I decided I would be a ferry collector. The Isle of Wight is a real island, which means it has not been connected to the mainland by a bridge or causeway. As a real island, you must come by boat, however, rather than fly in. The passage forces you to leave something behind and to expect something new. On every island a new beginning awaits. From the ferry deck, it’s fun to watch the dream of a new place materialize on the horizon.

The ride ended and I found myself in Ryde. I stepped off the ferry, onto a train, and back into the mid-20^th century. Ever wonder what happens to old Underground carriages when London decides to replace them. Here they are on the Isle of Wight. One rail line runs from Ryde southward to the resorts on the English Channel. Soon I was in Sandown looking for accommodations. Queen Victoria looked for accommodations here once, but she bought a country retreat. In one sense the Isle of Wight became the capital of the British Empire every summer. With that, the island’s tourism industry boomed and the Victorian era treated the island well. Today, vacationers still come, but the bloom is off the rose. Cheaper and cheaper air fares have drawn the vast middle class to the warm waters of Europe’s Mediterranean south coast rather than the frigid waters of the English Channel.

The landscape of Sandown is a bit tattered, the chains haven’t moved in, and money hasn’t been invested in the resort’s infrastructure. This seems only to have been exacerbated in the past few years by the brutal British economy. The Isle of Wight has closed all of its tourist offices (libraries are next they tell me), for instance, which is one reason why I am meandering around Sandown looking for a place to stay rather than at the ferry terminal in Ryde. Nevertheless, many of the hotels and B&Bs were “fully booked,” though there were still plenty to choose from. I wanted one with free Internet, but there was nothing, so I finally ended up at what I think may be the best B&B in town. It is called the Belmore and is run by a Church of Scotland Minister (assigned to the Royal Navy) and his wife. His role model, he told me was a Scottish minister that emigrated to the U.S., served as chaplain of the U.S. Senate, and became one of the most famous ministers of the 20^th century. If you are of a certain age, you might remember Peter Marshall.

Believe it or not, today is the first time I have taken a full meal at a real restaurant. What a treat. It was right on the esplanade. I sat on the deck and watched the day draw to a close. I suppose, though, that I ruined it because I ordered what the English would call fast food: fish and chips. They were served with mushy peas, which were delicious! Really, I am not kidding. Restaurant’s name: The Reef.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Staying in Hostels

2011-05-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

I left home with too much on my plate, so I have spent most of the week working in the library and various Internet hot spots. But, I have had fun staying in hostels on my travels.

What’s a Youth Hostel? A place to stay, but not a hotel. Accommodations are in dorm rooms, generally in bunk beds, of which there could be anywhere from 4 to 14. I try to avoid “mixed dorms” (male-female) but sometimes it is impossible. The price per night might be anywhere from $15 (low-end) to $50 (for smaller rooms in big cities). Two things to know: (1) youth hostels are for the young at heart not just the chronologically young, and (2) youth hostels are not hostile, rather just the opposite. So far on this trip I have stayed in three different hostels and one B&B (since there wasn’t a hostel on the Isle of Man).

In London: I had my bed reserved when I arrived in London. From Heathrow I took the tube right to Oxford Circus and walked a few blocks to the London Central Hostel, located in one of London’s best neighborhoods: Fitzrovia. They were ready for me, but I couldn’t check in until mid-afternoon. Graciously, they offered me a chance to store my pack in the basement. There were six of us staying in the room that night (pre-nuptial night). Spent night one there, zonked by travel and wedding walking. On night two, I got back a little Iate, entered the dark room, and sat down on the edge of my lower bunk. Yikes! Someone was sleeping in it. Never mind, I told him. The top bunk was empty, so I took it. Turned out he was an American who arrived the day before without a reservations and found no rooms available anywhere, so he had been up for many hours and was jet-lagged to boot.

In Liverpool: Like London Central, the hostel in Liverpool is a member of the YHA (Youth Hostel Association), of which I am a card-carrying member. YHA generally provides top-end hostels, but they charge for all the extras like breakfast and Internet wifi (which should be free!), Liverpool was not busy and was very conveniently located not far from the waterfront. There, one of my hostel mates was Tim, who was a serious traveler from the USA. He had gotten out of the Navy and was travelling, planned to be gone until December, return to his Pennsylvania home for Christmas, apply for graduate school acceptance, and then head out again until September. We shared destination stories and I encouraged him to visit the Isle of Man, since he was headed to Ireland on the next morning’s ferry from a town south of Liverpool, then to Scotland. He had spent a prolonged time in France studying French and really wanted to go trekking in the Himalayas. He had a program all lined up, but was suffering with a wrenched ankle and wasn’t sure he was going to make it. He told me I was going to love Thailand. These are the types of travelers I like to meet. Their stories keep me going.

In London: The other hostel where I stayed in London is called Palmers Lodge, located in Swiss Cottage on the Jubilee Line. I am there now. It is actually my favorite, and they include free breakfast and have free wifi in the great room. It also has historical character, not a purpose-built hostel but a converted Victorian mansion overlooking the “north way” out of London. There has been a very large German group (came in a big bus) staying here. I am struck by how much they interact with each other and how little they interact with others at the hostel. I recommend travelling solo or in small groups; you then have to develop an outward orientation.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Sunday and the Sun is Back

2011-05-08T11:43:00.000-07:00

Trinity Methodist Church: The Manx are Anglicans and Methodists, although I hear the proportion of Methodists is decreasing. It seems, though, as if there is any ample number of Methodist churches, large and small, on the island. I learned, in fact, that John Wesley himself sermonized on the market square in Castletown, which was the capital of the island during his lifetime. Since I was staying in Douglas, the capital since 1877, I attended a Methodist church that was only 4 blocks away (but straight uphill) from seaside where I was staying. Trinity Methodist Church is celebrating its 125^th anniversary, and we had a guest preacher, one who served the church in the early 1970s and is now retired: good sermon on Christians as the Easter People. When I met the regular pastor during coffeetime afterwards, I had a surprise. She was a native of Minnesota. Seemed like an energetic pastor and I told her that my home Methodist church had a woman pastor for the first time. Trinity was one of the those large urban churches with a brag-worthy pipe organ filling the front of the church and a pulpit that made the entire congregation (seated in box-like wooden pews) look up to the preacher. The Methodist hymnal in Britain has words only, something that suits anyone like me who doesn’t read music. We even sang a hymn by Charles Wesley. The neatest thing about the service was the end of the children’s sermon. They all got up and left, which was the first time I realized how many there were. The pastor later told me that youth ministry has been a priority for the church and one that can draw on a special endowment for Isle of Man children’s ministries. My pew mate Stephen asked me why I was on the island. All I could think to say was: Because I haven’t been here before.

Castletown:There are two castles on the island. I saw the bigger one yesterday in Peel. Today, I headed to the town that developed around the second castle fortification in the 1200s. The town is still called Castletown. Right next door to the castle is the House of Keys, the place where the Manx legislature met between the time it left the castle and the time it moved to Douglas. The island is proud of its democratic heritage and claims that the Tynwald is the oldest continuous legislative body in the world, dating back to Viking times.

Flags et Cetera: I was finally struck today by something obvious. I have seen almost no UK flags since I arrived, but tons of Manx flags with their signature "three-legs of Man." Symbolically, the best flag assembly was along the promenade in Douglas. The Manx flag was joined by the flags of England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and the EU – but no UK flag! I am sure there is no serious consideration of independence on the Isle of Man, but they must be looking at the new Scottish Nationalist Party majority in the Scottish Parliament and wondering what the future of the UK is for the Celtic countries. Like their Celtic cousins across the sea, the Manx are taking pains to revive their language. All school children study it and there is one primary school where all subjects are taught in Manx. Like Scotland, the Isle of Man has its own currency (sort of). They have bills and coins issued by the Isle of Man Bank, but everything is fully interchangeable with British currency (though with considerable difficulty). They get to design the currency themselves, however. Every time you pay for something you confront one of the symbols of Manx nationhood. Likewise, at the Post Office, you buy stamps issued by the Isle of Man government, though they all bear the seal of Elizabeth II. As for Manx cats, I didn’t see any and was told they were becoming very rare.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z

On and Off the Bus

2011-05-07T01:37:00.000-07:00

The four main towns in the country are Douglas, Ramsey, Peel, and Castletown, and my goal is visit all of them before I leave. Saturday started off sunny, so I jumped on one of the island buses and headed for Ramsey on the north end of the island.

Douglas Borough Cemetery: Before I got out of Douglas, however, we passed a huge and ornate cemetery, so I had to jump off and go exploring. (All day bus passes are liberating, aren’t they? They let you be spontaneous.) This was not an old cemetery (a bit more than a century in age), but it reflected the culture of the island perfectly, especially the motor culture. There were the graves of those who had died competing in the TT or MOP (Manx Grand Prix) races: most very young, but all “living their dreams.” Tear-jerker messages on the headstones perpetuated their memories: The Pesky Kid, for instance, “died tragically living his dream, gone from our home but never our hearts.” He was 21. Lee David Pullman was killed at 25: “He lived, he loved, he laughed.” Both headstones, and many more, carried the etchings of their bikes. “One of the greatest risks is never daring to risk,” was the motto on the memorial wall that seemed to capture the view of what it means to live in the motorsports capital of the UK, and maybe a good motto for life. The Douglas Borough Cemetery certainly provided an ideal venue for thinking about the push of governments all over the world to make life risk-free by regulating every aspect of being alive. Without risk, though, would life be any fun? Should we be given the right to manage our own risks, or should governments intervene and do it for us? In today’s world, nothing seems like it will attract funds more easily than promising people that their governments will keep them safe. So, why did Man become such a motor mecca? In the early 20^th century when internal combustion engines first began to give people automobility, the authorities in the UK began to establish speed limits on roads. The Isle of Man operated under its own authority and chose not to go along with the decision.

A Manxman: I had yet to meet a Manxman. But right outside the cemetery I saw man wearing a hat, which I had to take a picture of. That hat was on the head of Allan Looney, a life-long resident of the island. He spoke only a few words of Manx because the language was suppressed when he was growing up. He was glad to see the push to bring it back, however. He was proud of his name, Looney, a Manx name and asked me if I remembered an American by that name: Shelley Looney. She had medaled twice in ice hockey at the winter Olympics. The Manx are everywhere! But today, the island attracts many Brits and, interestingly, returning Brits from southern Africa (met several from South Africa and Zambia).

Ramsey: By the time I got to the north end of the island, it was raining. The lesson: take your umbrella everywhere because this is the typical weather pattern of the British Isles. I hadn’t, so I dodged the sprinkles for hours as I tromped around town. I met a bowling pin I couldn’t resist talking to. He was directing people to the new bowling alley that was having its opening day. I should go, he said. So, I did. In fact, I had a hamburger there. The building used to house the town swimming pool, but a new pool had been built. After standing empty, the old natatorium was finally converted into a bowling alley and recreation center.

After Ramsey, still raining, I caught the bus to Peel, just in time to catch the end of the Manx Telecom Rally.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

It Should be the Manx Sea

2011-05-06T04:23:00.000-07:00

Across the Irish Sea: This morning at 11:30, I caught the Manannan, the largest catamaran operating in the Irish Sea, to the Isle of Man, which so far has not been renamed the Isle of Human by the politically correct. Just the name of the firm that runs the ferry is a throw-back in time: The Isle of Man Steam Packet Company. If you show up at the docks on the morning the ferry departs, you pay top dollar (top pound) for a ticket. What all transport services want these days is for people to use the Internet and pay with a credit card. In fact, they have Internet connections in the ferry terminals here, and the company asks that you use them even though the ticket counters are but a few steps away. "You get a lower price" they tell me. Even before we leave the dock, the attraction of the island becomes apparent. There are pods of motor cyclists waiting in line to board with their bikes. The Isle of Man has become the motorsports capital of the UK, a tradition that goes back to the early 20^th century. I wonder why and hope to find out.

It’s a 2-1/2 hour journey from Liverpool to Douglas on the island. With very low visibility, there was little to see of the Irish Sea. So, I bought a Daily Mail and read it, then a copy of the Manx Independent, one of two newspapers that seem to cover the island’s newsworthy events. Two newspapers for 80,000 isn’t bad. With time left until docking, I began to think about all the ferry rides (and mail boats) I had taken in my lifetime, so I made a list. Here it is. As I think of others I may come back and add, but already there are over three dozen passages on the list.

Melbourne-Devonport Ferry
Taronga Zoo Ferry in Sydney
Watson’s Bay Ferry in Sydney
Suez Canal Ferry (Egypt)
Arwad Island Ferry (Syria)
Bosporus Ferries (Turkey)
Canakkale Ferry (Turkey)
Yalova Ferry (Turkey)
Montreal Ferry (St. Lawrence River)
Toronto Islands Ferry (Canada)
Bar Harbor-Yarmouth Ferry (US-Canada)
Liverpool-Isle of Man Ferry (UK)
Dover-Ostende Ferry (UK-Belgium)
Terschelling Ferry (Netherlands)
Oresund Ferry (Denmark-Sweden)
Lubeck Ferry to Denmark
Gozo Ferry (Malta)
Piraeus Ferry to Islands (Greece)
Norfolk-Portsmouth Ferry (VA)
Tangier Island Ferry (VA)
Sunnybrook Ferry (VA)
White’s Ferry, Potomac River (VA-MD)
White Haven Ferry (MD)
Knott's Island-Currituck Ferry (NC)
Oregon Inlet Ferry (NC) (when bridge was out)
Ocracoke Ferry (NC)
Portsmouth Island "Ferry" (NC)
Cedar Island Ferry (NC)
U.S.S. Arizona Ferries (Honolulu)
Algiers Ferry (New Orleans)
Mukilteo Ferry (WA)
Lewes-Cape May Ferry (DE-NJ)
Staten Island Ferry (NY)
Liberty-Ellis Island Ferry (NY)
Glastonbury Ferry (Connecticut River)
Block Island Ferry (RI)
Martha’s Vinyard Ferry (MA)
Monhegan Island Ferry (ME)
Cranberry Islands Ferry (ME)

Welcome to Douglas: Douglas is the national capital of the Isle of Man. That’s the way they think of it: as a national capital. I was glad to see a welcome sign and photographed it for my collection. Predictably, it welcomed me in both English and Manx Gaelic. Since I had no hotel reservation (and had already determined there were no hostels), I headed for the tourism office in the ferry terminal. To the Berkeley Hotel they sent me. Cindy had a room available and breakfast if I wanted it. The "red hotel" was right on the esplanade overlooking Douglas Bay. Wifi was available in the television room. Guess who was occupying most of the rooms in the hotel. More motorcyclists.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

On to Liverpool

2011-05-05T00:30:00.000-07:00

Weather: Today, our five-day blast of sunshine ended, maybe the longest stretch of fair skies I have seen in England. On wedding day, the clouds made you feel like London was snuggled under a blanket. But Saturday through Wednesday were beautiful. And because we are so far north here, the day lasts until almost 9 pm.

The New York Times: At home, the NYT is delivered every morning early enough for me to enjoy with my morning coffee. As part of my subscription, I get the New York Times Reader (i.e., full stories) on my notebook. I have always ignored it, preferring to peruse the paper copy. When I suspended my subscription for this trip, they kindly told me that I would continue to enjoy access to the electronic version. After less than a week, I have come to love it. In fact, when I return home, I may not go back to paper. The Reader draws a signal from ‘the cloud.’ Right now, I am on a London Midland train to Liverpool gliding across the English countryside, and I have full access. Here is the down side: I am now reading an American paper; whereas, in the past I would buy a local paper instead. I don’t want to be so tightly tethered to the U.S., but I now find it hard to justify even a few quid for the various London papers. However, I did buy a copy of the Guardian on April 29.

Liverpool: Lime Street Station awaited my arrival, about 3 pm. I dropped my pack at the hostel, grabbed my umbrella, and fit in a quick visit to the International Slavery Museum at Albert Dock. It would be a perfect field trip for the Virginia SOLs, since the Middle Passage of the Triangular Trade is featured. Why here in Liverpool? Because this city was one of the busiest ports in all of Europe when demand for tobacco, rice, and cotton stimulated the growth of plantations in the Americas. An interesting statistic: In the 1600s, the plantations around the Chesapeake Bay accounted for 60% of the enslaved population of North America, and those slaves included boatmen, watermen, and crabpickers as well as field hands and house slaves. Since it was the Triangular Trade, I think the International Museum of Slavery should have three campuses, including one in Virginia. Whatever happened to the museum of slavery that was to be in Richmond, Williamsburg, or Alexandria? Then, a third campus could be at Goree Island in Senegal. Actually, you need a fourth campus in Barbados, don't you think? Where did the Mary Rose exhibit end up? The museum here in Liverpool reminded me of seeing the Mary Rose artifacts at Nauticus in Norfolk (could that have been in the 90s?). But there was added value at this museum: it reminded us that slavery has not been relegated to the realm of history; it exists today, especially for women and children.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Swiss Cottage

2011-05-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

Swiss Cottage: I left home with various tasks incomplete, so today became a complete workday. I found Camden Borough’s central library just a few blocks from where I am staying. There I occupied a table for a few hours in the morning and returned in the afternoon. This library was part of a larger community center; it should be a model for the U.S. where we continue to build free-standing libraries rather than making them part of mixed-use, pedestrian friendly environments. With plenty of space and a good wifi connection, I had a very productive day.

It was my lunch break that was most memorable, though. On Wednesdays, a small plaza next to the Tube station hosts a farmers’ market. Artisanal farmers from the southeast set up shop and trading begins. The fresh produce is all organic. Here is what I had for lunch: a lamb burger (grilled in front of my eyes) on a freshly baked roll with fruity chutney, a pint of whole, raw buffalo milk (any raw milk is difficult to find in the U.S.), and a large bottle of "pressed apple juice" right from the orchards. I ate my lunch where everyone else ate theirs, outside in the sunshine, on a grassy lawn that sloped down to a "water field" fountain. I actually spent the entire day in Swiss Cottage (northwest London), and regretted it not a bit. In the evening I went to the theatre.

Hampstead Theatre: London’s West End is the theatre district, the equivalent of Broadway in New York. A performance at Hampstead Theatre (at Swiss Cottage) is the equivalent of "off-Broadway." There, I saw last night a new play called "Little Eagles." Sounds almost American doesn’t it? But, no, it is a play about the Russian cosmonauts and the chief designer who put them into space. His name is Koroliev and he called the cosmonauts his "little eagles." Few Americans care to remember that last month was an important anniversary: fifty years since Yuri Gegarin became the first man in space, put there by Koroliev. The play was spellbinding, the acting superb (Royal Shakespeare Company), the theatre small enough to be intimate (I had a second row seat), and the price of admission a bargain (22L). For those who grew up during the early Cold War years, you will recognize all the characters; for those who didn’t, the story is still excellent. I am sure this play will pop up on the West End and maybe even Broadway; it was really that good. And next to me sat a ‘fit Brit’ (maybe a few years younger than me) who had bicycled across the United States coast to coast: makes flying around the world look like nothing.

Just in case you were wondering: there is a Swiss cottage at Swiss Cottage.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Visa Problems

2011-05-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

Intervening Obstacles: Finally a business day here in England. By now, I am in a semi-panic because I have a plane ticket to India from London, but no Indian visa. Yes, I knew I needed a visa before I left the States, but the instructions on the Internet seemed far too complicated and I just didn’t have time to deal with it all. Today’s mission: get that visa. It took me most of the day, and now I must wait for at least 7 days and maybe 15. That means I have no US Passport for the duration and am confined to the UK. Still, there’s lots I haven’t seen here.

If you want to know the details (if not: stop), here goes. I was going to find the Indian Embassy, but then I thought that India must have a tourism office in London. I found it right off New Bond Street. Not very helpful, but they gave me the information I needed, which amounted to nothing more than an Internet URL. There I needed to fill out a form and print it out. Under the BT Tower I found a small shop with printer-capable computers in the back room (run by Indians from Africa, Uganda to be specific). The form required lots of information and even questioned whether my parents (names required) were married. With four pages in hand, I found my way to the nameless office near Victoria Station where it was to be submitted. Without the printouts the guard at the entrance would not have let me in. Upstairs I went, took a number (like the DMV in Virginia), and waited just a bit until called. I explained I was an American in London on my way to India. The woman let out something half way between a gasp and a groan: minimum of 10-15 days. Fine, I said, I am not leaving until the 19^th. Maybe longer she said. But, we went to work. First thing she did was insist I had to have an address in India where I was staying. Why would I make a reservation if I didn’t have a visa? asked I. She seemed to get it and finally gave me the name of a hotel in Delhi to put in the blank on the form. Second thing she did was rip my picture off the form (I always travel with spare passport pictures) because the measurements were incorrect (didn’t I read the instructions?). At least they had a carnival-style photobooth in the room and 4L later I had two visa pictures. Third thing she said, after some more give and take, was: $66L. I really wanted to pay cash, but was not expecting it to be that much and came up short. I gave her my trusty American credit card, and problems ensued. Europeans use a new chip technology which [anachronistic] American banks won’t have any part of. On the fourth try on a different machine, the transaction finally went through. Off I went with a receipt, a code, and a directive: check on the Internet in seven days and see if your passport is ready to pick up. Fifteen minutes before the office closed (at 2:30 pm), I departed. Mission: not accomplished but on the way.

The Houses of Parliament: The day had been wasted, but the sun was still shining. ‘Southbank’ popped into my head and I found a bus that took me to Lambeth Bridge across the Thames. The bridge was perfect for pictures of Parliament, Big Ben, and the London Eye, the Ferris wheel that has become another icon of London.

The Garden Museum: On the south bank of the river stood an old church, St. Mary’s, that had been turned into a Garden Museum in the 1970s. Its parish had emptied and so had its pews. There was nothing to do but close it down and replace it with much-needed parking. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. The church was saved thanks to two of its famous parishioners from the 1600s: John Tradescant and his son John Tradescant. They were the premier plant hunters of the era, forerunners of our own John Bartram in the US. Their lives inspired a 20^th century idea: starting a garden museum that would be England’s first and now one of the jewels of small museums in London. The churchyard has been turned into a garden (surviving and resurrected tombs incorporated into it), small but fresh and sunny. Inside the church (interior remodeled in 2007), there were some museum-quality garden tools, some local historical artifacts, educational space, a café, and a shop. One of the new stained glass windows had been given over to a history of the English Garden. I saw a “thumb jug” with holes in the bottom that was probably the forerunner of the sprinkling can. About the other tools, I have this to say: they look a lot like the ones we use today. By the way, next door is Lambeth Palace, residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Geographically yours,

D. J. Z.

Revolutions in the Middle East

2011-05-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

Street Ramblings: The most interesting experience I had today was hearing the chants of a protest going on even though I was a block away. Off I headed toward the sound of excitement. I ended up at the London office of the Arab League, a block off Bond Street. (Sherlock Holmes was my inspiration for being curious.) There were the Syrians, among the freest Syrians in the world simply because they were not in Syria. In fact, I was told that some of them can never return to Syria. Here they were condemning Bashar by name, comparing him to his father, and regretting that the high hopes they had for him had come to naught. “I am Syrian. Let me be. Give me freedom. Don’t kill me.”

Why in front of the Arab League? Because it’s Monday. Saturday is the day for protesting in front of the Syrian Embassy. They can’t understand why the Arab League backs the UN and coalition forces in trying to rid Libya of Qaddafi, but cares nothing about the brutalities that are taking place in Syria. Of course, I had to tell them that I lived in Syria for three months, loved the Syrian people (just as the Syrian people love Americans), and that I hoped political change would come to their country soon. That was the same thing I told the Syrians who were gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House last month when I was in Washington, D.C.

Travel Tidbits: (1) Baguette sandwiches are good, cheap (2L to 3L), and available. (2) All McDonald’s offer free wifi connections. (3) Anyone staying more than a day should buy an Oyster Card to touch-in and ride the Underground and buses. (4) Unless you are in a hurry, ride the buses; you see more, especially from the top deck.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.