tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23974957328437059362024-03-14T10:54:33.206-07:00White Man Walking"One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things." Henry MillerKen Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-45391631554421146262019-12-23T20:16:00.000-08:002019-12-23T20:16:13.153-08:00Christmas Memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
More than any other, Christmas is the one holiday that fills
my cup with memories. Perhaps, this is the same for you. I have very fond and vivid
memories of Christmas as a child. The scent of a fir, strings of lights and the
taste of sweets. A house warmed by family and a bounty of colour beneath the
tree on Christmas morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBSdAd2D-0okpXDlbKjr7d044WQgQ-gmLTvH3I7VuMufle1KO5MORJT7W3iKIFIRuFZpECtHGqUF9-Pq8Y2lUxMggPNZJem2ZjXwZRXEKDbygOdEm69hjgCABb8DVQb_8UIbJRWlYBH_sf/s1600/christmas-scrabbles-bokeh-photography-728458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1600" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBSdAd2D-0okpXDlbKjr7d044WQgQ-gmLTvH3I7VuMufle1KO5MORJT7W3iKIFIRuFZpECtHGqUF9-Pq8Y2lUxMggPNZJem2ZjXwZRXEKDbygOdEm69hjgCABb8DVQb_8UIbJRWlYBH_sf/s400/christmas-scrabbles-bokeh-photography-728458.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is one Christmas I will never forget. It was 32 years
ago. And each December, the memories of that Christmas seem as fresh as if it
was just last year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Christmas Eve 1987, and with my parents and sister, I
visited my grandfather in the hospital. Lawrence, or Larry, as he was known was
78. He wore plaid plants better than most, and he taught me to spell
Mississippi. MI - double S - I - double S - I - double P – I. I can hear his
voice, as I write these words. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it was time to leave, I walked toward the door.
Everyone else had left. I looked over at my grandfather, and with my eyes getting
wet, I waved goodbye. There was an undeniable feeling that I was saying goodbye
forever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents took my sister and I home before driving back to
the hospital in Duncan. Wanting to be at home with us on Christmas morning, my
parents left the hospital late in the night. I only remember one gift that
year. It was a rectangular box wrapped in colourful paper. I had left the gift
from my grandparents unopened. After breakfast, my parents left and returned to the
hospital.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was afternoon when I finally decided to unwrap my last gift.
Tears streamed down my face, as I gently pulled the paper apart at each end of
the box. Inside was a cream and brown sweater. It held so much meaning at that moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my parents still at the hospital, it was just my sister
and I at home for Christmas dinner. My grandfather died that evening. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I hear Maroon 5’s latest song, <i>Memories</i>, I think
of Christmas and I think of my grandfather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toast to the ones here today.<br />
Toast to the ones that we lost on the way. <br />
‘Cause the drinks bring back all the memories<br />
And the memories bring back, memories bring back you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="level__left">
<i>
</i><div class="level__item">
<i>
</i><div class="js-copy-attribute-content photo-page__adp-cta__container__attribution">
<i>Photo by <strong>
<a href="https://www.pexels.com/@nietjuh?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels">
Ylanite Koppens
</a>
</strong> from </i><strong><i>
<a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/christmas-scrabbles-bokeh-photography-728458/?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels">
Pexels
</a></i>
</strong></div>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-45358437052043151082018-11-12T14:53:00.000-08:002018-11-12T14:53:57.428-08:00Shanghai Surprise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was early evening when I exited the East Nanjing Road metro
station. I was tossed into a disorienting mass of people. Like extras in movie
flitting about, I found myself being swept along by people going in every
direction; only they seemed to know where they were going. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in the middle of a pedestrian mall in one of
Shanghai’s busiest shopping areas. Clutched in my hand was a terribly blurry
map of where my hotel was in relation to the metro station, but the challenge
was knowing which direction to go. It all made sense when I printed it at home, but
less so now that I was standing in the map. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t pick out any landmarks
that would guide me, so I wandered down one street, and down another. After
some time, I asked a police officer, who gestured in a direction but offered little
more. It had been close to an hour of walking around and I realized that it was
possible I’d never find my hotel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkkEmT2UTYoXvW_fVgBEZKddsC86Dnzy3GLS0FufNEfIE3z6Zkt5ExMPSNLZUomItIcmwfqWujGxNg9JfN22nUqM-9sdMuCWju66CGgyoinsjG5KvaksPOSC2_GtR-dvmSGGovLD0jKBu/s1600/shanghai%2540night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1000" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkkEmT2UTYoXvW_fVgBEZKddsC86Dnzy3GLS0FufNEfIE3z6Zkt5ExMPSNLZUomItIcmwfqWujGxNg9JfN22nUqM-9sdMuCWju66CGgyoinsjG5KvaksPOSC2_GtR-dvmSGGovLD0jKBu/s400/shanghai%2540night.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanghai at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came up to the concierge of a hotel that I had considered booking. It was highly ironic. I showed him my now crumpled map. He entered the name of the hotel in his phone and showed me the
direction. I took a photo of his screen just in case. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I toured the darkened streets in search of my hotel, it was surprisingly quiet. A few bicycles and scooters passed by. And even when I
chose to walk on the street instead of navigating the bumpy, brick sidewalks
with my suitcase, I kept looking over my shoulder fearing I’d be hit by a race
of cars, but the few that did pass me seemed to be in slow motion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down a small alley, I finally found my place of rest, and dropping my bags, I made my way to the Huangpu
River and the Bund area of Shanghai. The brightly coloured lights and the
futuristic, Jetson’s-like building on the Pudong side of the river dazzled. Several
newlyweds had their pictures taken with the iconic skyline of the city as a backdrop.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was up early the next morning and set off again for the riverside.
There was a surreal quiet to the city. Bicycles, many with baskets attached to
the front drifted along without effort. And in a country scorned for its
pollution, progress was being made, I thought, as electric scooters passed by
in silence. The low cloud that masked the tops of the skyscrapers seemed to
dampen the city’s exuberance. Shanghai felt more like a provincial town than
one of the world’s largest cities. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking along the river, I passed scores of people doing their morning exercises. To some, the old, stone buildings along the Bund might have had the look of melancholy, but to me there was just a restful quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a side of Shanghai I hadn’t expected. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeoy0xdFAFiGJ2NttTnM4aYuWDBL_Rppa330i0qukAIQczI0dDygEsrKCHvCRLWM3iwCZjHnYhJk3QoI3f1iee9MtWT53yaE2HS9-6Y0C5DIGbmjtRh6NQ9CoEmvGfXBBw6SnbZ75mgRP/s1600/IMG_9581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeoy0xdFAFiGJ2NttTnM4aYuWDBL_Rppa330i0qukAIQczI0dDygEsrKCHvCRLWM3iwCZjHnYhJk3QoI3f1iee9MtWT53yaE2HS9-6Y0C5DIGbmjtRh6NQ9CoEmvGfXBBw6SnbZ75mgRP/s400/IMG_9581.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHyS0idemreWWlkq05Ex-9SnQazSa58_8fyTcSwlKut3e3NfBXi7NnOv_3VBB7QeMSD5lxbDZz3NpYS8yxdmdQpAMHFKnLQTOo9KRTTQ78eW-UdgKv8orC9dXErnicoQmsgb5lB5pDQ22/s1600/IMG_9582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHyS0idemreWWlkq05Ex-9SnQazSa58_8fyTcSwlKut3e3NfBXi7NnOv_3VBB7QeMSD5lxbDZz3NpYS8yxdmdQpAMHFKnLQTOo9KRTTQ78eW-UdgKv8orC9dXErnicoQmsgb5lB5pDQ22/s400/IMG_9582.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-65280362869987814032017-08-14T20:54:00.000-07:002017-08-14T20:54:28.174-07:00An old salt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8h7wAZpl8WteaUraG0m5LpPdYurWcR2rCWaw3_d9ku2ZTUqe-hSMrYHwEyVXVVes0Fp6tQVea0xsL-151xc9HmE57Ik7wXrYKGrwPGVSMUGH7JNsWZn4D_u6SyqJ0wWiuW5tW2ewC_i3L/s1600/carrig+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8h7wAZpl8WteaUraG0m5LpPdYurWcR2rCWaw3_d9ku2ZTUqe-hSMrYHwEyVXVVes0Fp6tQVea0xsL-151xc9HmE57Ik7wXrYKGrwPGVSMUGH7JNsWZn4D_u6SyqJ0wWiuW5tW2ewC_i3L/s400/carrig+small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Near the Irish village
of Leenaun, in the Connemara region, our hungry stomachs stumbled upon the
Carraig Pub, with its puncy red and white sign. We stepped inside the small and
inviting pub, and were warmly greeted by a man, who I first thought was the owner.
Philip was his name. He wore a white beard and a weathered-look that gave the
appearance of an old salt. I figured he’d spent his entire 80 years living in
this village, next to the sea. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Like a layer of
freshly fallen snow, dandruff flakes covered the collar of his black suit
jacket, which I imagined was the only one he owned. Part of his striped dress
shirt was untucked. Behind him was the barman, a trunk of a man, who I gathered
to be in his late 60s. I pictured him knocking down people on the rugby pitch
in younger years. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUQYC7f4FwSD5cLQzXQ4RfGQcHYawJ6INUikMB_sjmaKLB1PzIVO02Y9_rpL4JABiGlJ5RJadvgL5DuKAqRwAm58RYSuL7PZpPAeF9nRCD-DULpTr1_Fv-tYOwTjBfIdNVBe2rEYU9SgI/s1600/philip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUQYC7f4FwSD5cLQzXQ4RfGQcHYawJ6INUikMB_sjmaKLB1PzIVO02Y9_rpL4JABiGlJ5RJadvgL5DuKAqRwAm58RYSuL7PZpPAeF9nRCD-DULpTr1_Fv-tYOwTjBfIdNVBe2rEYU9SgI/s400/philip.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In a way that is
comforting, the menu was unpretentious. The kind of meal your grandmother would
make. I ordered a tuna sandwich. My mother and sister, the vegetable soup. Someone,
who I guessed to be the barman’s wife took the order slip and walked back to
what looked like the family’s living area. An Irish or English soap opera—I
wasn’t sure—played distractingly on a TV in the corner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After Philip took a
few sips of what I could only imagine was a noon-time nip of Irish whiskey, he
came back over, and we started up a conversation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I was wrong about him
spending his entire life in the village. With little prospect for work, he, like
so many millions of other Irish before him, left Ireland on a ship and went to
New York in 1962. He worked hard for 40 years in America for a good pension, as
he put it, and then followed his heart back to Ireland. “You never know when it
will end,” he said, looking skyward. It was a bit of poetry. He wished for the
beginning and end of his life story to play out right here in this small
village, where pleasures are simple and friends gather round and swap old
tales. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If you ever find
yourself in Leenaun, stop in at the Carraig, and say, hello to Philip. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-38006888281795726722016-12-21T14:18:00.000-08:002016-12-21T14:22:10.092-08:00Christmas in July<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A part of my brain knows that it is December, but another
part has tricked me into believing it is July. It turned to summer yesterday and the
temperature outside confirms it. Surely, Christmas can’t be days away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In an
area known as Sydney’s northern beaches, I took an early morning walk along
Narabeen lagoon and on to a nearby shopping centre. Inside, a small area was
reserved for Santa Claus. He wasn’t there, and so I imagined they had simply
left Santa’s house up all year, because in
my shorts, t-shirt and sandals it must
be July. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For 46 years my brain has been conditioned to know what
December looks and feels like, and this isn’t it. In the part of the world I live,
December is dark and cool and typically punctuated with dreary, gray skies filled
with rain, and sometimes snow. People hibernate under blankets in front of the
fireplace with a warm cup of cocoa or spiced apple cider.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Migrating south of the equator for three weeks has tricked
my brain. Here, on my patio I seek shelter from the sun, which arrives early
each day and lingers late into the day. The palms and Norfolk pines move lazily
in the warm breeze. Colourful birds sing and jump from tree to tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose when you’re on vacation days and months mean little, so while I know the calendar says December, it’s July to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just hope Santa will still come. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQHzu6rdb153NzljttKvWm2t9sauRguL8N3jvuNrjj342QgJqx2ro1xdm4rSR0DWXDb7dceZnSAg9pH1mMjNAvOHxtxQJma5z07C96TVbsuss32OoRRT8xkqmtGZblBsQrxG9Hcoa34_w/s1600/20161220_181230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQHzu6rdb153NzljttKvWm2t9sauRguL8N3jvuNrjj342QgJqx2ro1xdm4rSR0DWXDb7dceZnSAg9pH1mMjNAvOHxtxQJma5z07C96TVbsuss32OoRRT8xkqmtGZblBsQrxG9Hcoa34_w/s640/20161220_181230.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-3079334231549135002016-10-12T21:57:00.004-07:002016-10-12T21:57:24.623-07:00The Path of Ancients<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was just before five in the morning and I was navigating
a scooter through the dark, bumpy roads of Bagan. I swerved around a cow that
sauntered in front of me. I was travelling toward Old Bagan to watch the sun
rise. I had only a vague sense of where I was going. The world looks different
in the black of morning, as the light on my scooter struggled to light a path
in front of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A motorcycle pulled up next to me, and a young guy asked, “Are
you going to watch the sunrise? I know the best spot…follow me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t say anything to him but followed along. I knew that
the cost of his help would be listening to his sales pitch for his paintings,
like a time-share hawker in Hawaii. I have quickly learned that everyone is a
painter in Bagan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We turned off at a temple just next to the main road. He
lead me up a narrow passageway of stone steps with the light from his mobile
phone. As I climbed up through the tight space I felt like Indiana Jones,
except I was wearing a ball cap instead of a fedora. And I didn't have a whip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We popped out onto a small terrace and then climbed higher
pulling ourselves up the outside of the temple, placing our feet carefully on ledges
that were only half-a-brick wide. There were about six others already staking
out a perch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-nSqKaduKt1rdUAygMUyvi18xFcIZUP9OCeoMuCsjUMiAOfNRlgQOkPwUiOc6p1m96koVsYbaZ_pZ1ToyX2mGOPVxlYolNOriWJsPp3Plq53gxefhWK441wZxr4zVepd0twlmhg7DfQy/s1600/firstsun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-nSqKaduKt1rdUAygMUyvi18xFcIZUP9OCeoMuCsjUMiAOfNRlgQOkPwUiOc6p1m96koVsYbaZ_pZ1ToyX2mGOPVxlYolNOriWJsPp3Plq53gxefhWK441wZxr4zVepd0twlmhg7DfQy/s400/firstsun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_s6hTw7OctD7wl51llqe5EvQVT8IsBHe3RIAylH6hjXNl5ZpAO6pi_S1a2KKiKPA-mbUpMsgp4h218wow1RWQbrhn3ipARI-lUKoHp-EQ4yN3hI2XoEdHLaK51sb9QK1EREqidT1nraAe/s1600/sunrise2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_s6hTw7OctD7wl51llqe5EvQVT8IsBHe3RIAylH6hjXNl5ZpAO6pi_S1a2KKiKPA-mbUpMsgp4h218wow1RWQbrhn3ipARI-lUKoHp-EQ4yN3hI2XoEdHLaK51sb9QK1EREqidT1nraAe/s400/sunrise2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over Bagan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0Q1iOXeZChdzbQShRAkciGAKhRTmVxyBbiwzsoMC0_27YPampBdGpdh6gl-cV4-k0nyZsMSb2oYcupc0pqMb8sW2KF67MvFMwZCh1pkFke8iFaGFRcPIJK0EDcAJvQrdzEf1zoVnMCMb/s1600/me2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0Q1iOXeZChdzbQShRAkciGAKhRTmVxyBbiwzsoMC0_27YPampBdGpdh6gl-cV4-k0nyZsMSb2oYcupc0pqMb8sW2KF67MvFMwZCh1pkFke8iFaGFRcPIJK0EDcAJvQrdzEf1zoVnMCMb/s400/me2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From atop a temple to watch the sunrise</td></tr>
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The sky began to lighten, as the sun prepared its grand
entrance. Then slowly, like a shy child, the big ball of fire slowly rose above
the horizon, colouring the vast plain that is Bagan. It is here, a thousand
years ago, where more than 10,000 temples and pagodas were constructed.
Impressively, there are still more than 2,000 left standing. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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With the sun now warming the air, I climbed back down, and
after listening to a pitch for some art, I hopped back on my scooter, and rode
to nowhere. Curious, I turned down a dirt track, which a short way along had narrowed
and was muddy. I turned the throttle to give the bike more power, so I wouldn’t
get stuck, and put my feet close to the ground, so I wouldn’t fall over. Mud splashed
up on my sandal clad feet. </div>
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Carrying on, I realized no one was around and I didn’t
have a map with me. What’s an adventure if you know where you’re going. A short
distance away was a large temple. I climbed off my bike and started across a
grassy field. Then I stopped and wondered if there were any harmful critters
lurking in the grass. </div>
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I thought of snakes. The first one to come to mind was a
Burmese python. It took me a second to compute. Myanmar used to be called
Burma, and so yes perhaps a Burmese python might be slithering nearby waiting
to swallow or strangle me. I looked in the tree next to me and in the grass
ahead of me. I didn’t see anything, but I listened to my overactive imagination
and retreated. I drove my scooter through the bumpy field, thinking that if I
had to I could outgun a python chasing me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-39198783852244010462016-10-10T02:00:00.000-07:002016-10-10T02:00:27.979-07:00Arms wide open in Yangon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US">Morning is
the best time to explore a city. The promise of a new day washes off its
slumber. It was just before six in the morning in Yangon, Myanmar’s largest
city, and once its capital. The sun was struggling to get up when I stepped
outside my hotel. Taxi! Taxi!, was the chorus that greeted me. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I wanted my feet
to do the exploring, so I carried on up Sule Pagoda Road toward the aptly named
Sule Pagoda, with its gold covered Stupa rising up in the middle of a traffic
circle. I passed weathered colonial buildings that spoke of past grandeur now fading
into history. “Welcome to Luxury,” read the large sign on a building under
construction. The promise of a new grandeur, perhaps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtuiLpUjyJ4uvkreBvVkp1rLULF-p5rUyiAVRAFFijL3ACnhL56V65eYXfu2B3juVtRFQdd2g6XV5TklSlfuoWzkaMsVbMMVLi9NkiOQeGSbAFmwgs5NdjUxp0LGdWvaLYrH8VoJ-IRcI/s1600/sulepagoda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtuiLpUjyJ4uvkreBvVkp1rLULF-p5rUyiAVRAFFijL3ACnhL56V65eYXfu2B3juVtRFQdd2g6XV5TklSlfuoWzkaMsVbMMVLi9NkiOQeGSbAFmwgs5NdjUxp0LGdWvaLYrH8VoJ-IRcI/s400/sulepagoda.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sule Pagoda</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US">Next to the
Pagoda, a few buses idled while their conductors called out like auctioneers looking
for new fares. Close by, I came to the square-shaped Maha Bandoola Garden,
named after a war hero, who fought the British in the first Anglo-Burmese War
in the 1820s. In one part of the park a large group of people were doing aerobics,
moving to the sound of music that drifted from a portable music player. Others
were doing tai chi, while others still were sitting in quiet reflection. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In the
middle of the park was a tall obelisk commemorating Burmese independence from
Britain in 1948. Apparently, it replaced a statue of Queen Victoria. Sitting at
the base of the obelisk was a young man. When he saw me, he smiled and said
good morning. I reached out and shook his hand. He told me his name was Ko. I
complemented him on his good English. He said he learned it from tourists. This
is when I expected him to hit me with a hard sales pitch to be my tour guide,
or sell me some postcards or lead me to his uncle’s shop. But he never went
there. We talked some more and then just as I about to walk away, he smiled and
said. “In a while crocodile.” A phrase no doubt learned from the tourists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCGzK74hMUZ_v4hj8yzA-L5UCZGz7cOcLtaQlgz-5y5rP0wxJOU0P7mW4T-S7tcVq-kUCnpJ2Do3wt9IR0Em_4qFgXUdWLJHdHnGjkIFcc9VYSuY-tnyIUGG0MDPAq7pF43rcQXg0zol1/s1600/coco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCGzK74hMUZ_v4hj8yzA-L5UCZGz7cOcLtaQlgz-5y5rP0wxJOU0P7mW4T-S7tcVq-kUCnpJ2Do3wt9IR0Em_4qFgXUdWLJHdHnGjkIFcc9VYSuY-tnyIUGG0MDPAq7pF43rcQXg0zol1/s400/coco.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ko Ko</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDrhuXfczR-_qWCX80u1iuTU8JX5485UradpbT8wJTa50rV4SFyWt8u10LeS_IuEo_9badDxxGyaEoYTwgWAkUjICP0yF8ohsWyBGTmFUBjBH0S2eG1Vzk_GgXaJjGPLM7KAt-lSZ1-JN/s1600/coco2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDrhuXfczR-_qWCX80u1iuTU8JX5485UradpbT8wJTa50rV4SFyWt8u10LeS_IuEo_9badDxxGyaEoYTwgWAkUjICP0yF8ohsWyBGTmFUBjBH0S2eG1Vzk_GgXaJjGPLM7KAt-lSZ1-JN/s400/coco2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ko Ko</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US">I stopped
to talk to three other men. They pointed at the tall moment and spoke of
independence from Britain. There didn’t seem to be any hard feelings. They were
complimentary of the British, saying of them that they are very disciplined. The
men come here many mornings and walk around the park. Very disciplined themselves,
I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">On my way
out of the park, a man, who could be a paler twin of James Earl Jones, wished
me a good morning, as did a woman. How
could it be, I wondered, that such a kind people could have been subjected to a
regime for decades that was repressively the antithesis of kind. It seemed cruelly
unfair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">There’s a welcoming
spirit in Myanmar, and its arms are wide open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvIsr1zf7uV616yILpYeiPjpsUcUR-t-Xl6YSr4JYJ7PleRiBPOagOD7goAA6o-38bIDhupsgORpipX-gRyvH1y-rQR8j2fMDaj1zlZc4hr9VZ8SOLW1_NtEZ0f06e0hupmxIONdq4Fxx/s1600/abandonment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvIsr1zf7uV616yILpYeiPjpsUcUR-t-Xl6YSr4JYJ7PleRiBPOagOD7goAA6o-38bIDhupsgORpipX-gRyvH1y-rQR8j2fMDaj1zlZc4hr9VZ8SOLW1_NtEZ0f06e0hupmxIONdq4Fxx/s400/abandonment.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yangon is home to the largest number of colonial buildings in southeast Asia. Many of them have been abandoned. Here nature is reclaiming itself<br />
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-57614595042689384602015-09-24T05:03:00.001-07:002015-09-24T05:03:26.572-07:00Taiwan on two wheels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I left the city behind, and travelled 40 minutes northwest of
Taipei, on the MRT train, to Tamsui, which lies next to the river of the same
name. Strategically located, both the Spanish and Dutch had their hands on this
area. It is here where the river empties into the Taiwan Strait.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From the Tamsui train station, I’d need to take a taxi to my
hotel. Anticipating that the driver wouldn’t speak English, and with my Chinese
limited to hello and thank you, I wrote the Chinese characters for the hotel’s
address on a piece of paper. All I could hear in my mind was my wife saying,
“Your printing in English is crappy and illegible, I can only imagine how your
Chinese will be.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After arriving in Tamsui, I ambled over to the taxi stand,
and said the English name of my hotel to the first driver. He stared blankly at
me. No worries, I thought pulling out the piece of paper in which I wrote the
address in Chinese. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know what this says,” he said, looking curiously at
my scribble. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It says No. 27 Shalun Road,” I replied earnestly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shook his head, no. Now I hear my wife in my mind saying,
“told you so!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked down the taxi queue and found a driver that spoke English.
I showed him the paper, and he read the English…<i>No. 27 Shalun Road,</i> and relayed that to my driver. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once at the hotel, I borrowed a bicycle and set off for the
Golden Riverside Bicycle Path. It was a three-speed, with an ill-fitting seat
and brown basket on the front. Freed
from the burden of time or having to be some place, I hit the path with
abandon. I had no destination in mind, just the freedom to go in any direction
that pulled me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASqG8WNcwMJInNHFK1yKNcicP-I1ozyoI8pcPiVWiZhsT4m6X53vdnwD5ZzuYyeSmIAd3qx47eVgHqXJ9B1JLwcwMVPG_uP2_AYGl9BR19_JIJeoaxGGbRlP-llQKocdSAxbWEgX7LqUM/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASqG8WNcwMJInNHFK1yKNcicP-I1ozyoI8pcPiVWiZhsT4m6X53vdnwD5ZzuYyeSmIAd3qx47eVgHqXJ9B1JLwcwMVPG_uP2_AYGl9BR19_JIJeoaxGGbRlP-llQKocdSAxbWEgX7LqUM/s400/bike.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My wheels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air was hot and heavy with the smell of the sea. It felt
like I was riding through a sauna. Most of the path was paved, but I came to a
section of boardwalk, making music with the wheels of the bike, as they rolled over the
loose boards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rode past banana trees, bamboo, and stretches of swampy
green mangroves, punctuated by bright purple flowers. Egrets bobbed their heads
in the sand, while patient fishers gazed out on to river. With its distinctive
red arches, I saw the Guandu Bridge in the distance. On the other side was a small
town called Bali. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsGr4AxYvFh8zf2PFjfizszETUveOMvEOnqyhKTZF6WLCigzSEfLx9vMuzOtrc7rPGbMtQlDQm5rrKAes50J8D18Sye_mHkofUo3IFtMdcp_u3fJs6sGQfexl-SJ7KQwwMa43j_fwkaby/s1600/IMG_9198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsGr4AxYvFh8zf2PFjfizszETUveOMvEOnqyhKTZF6WLCigzSEfLx9vMuzOtrc7rPGbMtQlDQm5rrKAes50J8D18Sye_mHkofUo3IFtMdcp_u3fJs6sGQfexl-SJ7KQwwMa43j_fwkaby/s400/IMG_9198.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfLLI9lBHR0mLjwbfA7lPkSbITvJbcxvKGgBin8zMXdc6CC6bUqTzFUa9cpwcEcKHZG2J7oCEvkOpnkwewEKHKJpg2jkJi0cdQ7c5ibgrbMJAzU2wdRIRqauJrIVQw7PQkzGqvfNzCTM2/s1600/IMG_9199+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfLLI9lBHR0mLjwbfA7lPkSbITvJbcxvKGgBin8zMXdc6CC6bUqTzFUa9cpwcEcKHZG2J7oCEvkOpnkwewEKHKJpg2jkJi0cdQ7c5ibgrbMJAzU2wdRIRqauJrIVQw7PQkzGqvfNzCTM2/s400/IMG_9199+%25282%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwImGAWfyPrfOJfGTi1VeW-V3A1e8LgAyrg_X2TzZbY-RYp0g0LWJD72WoEaxwllyzqSzCXDEee3xBcuri9z2NOV_6JHsj8EpE-LI8b3wn0464i-qqArUIddh_zUi-tlSw_Hsd0oqGCJI/s1600/IMG_9203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwImGAWfyPrfOJfGTi1VeW-V3A1e8LgAyrg_X2TzZbY-RYp0g0LWJD72WoEaxwllyzqSzCXDEee3xBcuri9z2NOV_6JHsj8EpE-LI8b3wn0464i-qqArUIddh_zUi-tlSw_Hsd0oqGCJI/s400/IMG_9203.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRqcFbl-ijR1EtzJzOJazYbT6ggCBnE46u2muf4iiokzYP-fQsKnUD8sVRSGyk68ZjuXJrFzR6jE64MWVEKUTZAO0eUIQEhO1e8HI8Xh5PPmUf_G9qY78I8AI22_PJRxxDCKLXgbaxx5gu/s1600/IMG_9213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRqcFbl-ijR1EtzJzOJazYbT6ggCBnE46u2muf4iiokzYP-fQsKnUD8sVRSGyk68ZjuXJrFzR6jE64MWVEKUTZAO0eUIQEhO1e8HI8Xh5PPmUf_G9qY78I8AI22_PJRxxDCKLXgbaxx5gu/s400/IMG_9213.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Every once in a while another cyclist or walker would smile
and chuckle as they passed me. I wasn’t sure if it was because they don’t see
many white guys cruising along the bike path, or because I looked positively
hilarious on my bike with a big black helmet stuck to my head. A bit of both,
perhaps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I neared the Guandu Bridge, and the clouds across the river
had formed into a dark, menacing scowl. It was as if guardians of the bridge,
they were daring me to cross. Would I be met by a fury of rain on the other
side, I wondered? Tempted to turn and run, I thumbed my nose at nature instead and crossed the river. The clouds spat a few drops of rain on me. I
sought shelter in a convenience store, sitting on a stool next to the window,
and cooled my insides with a Coke. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRTDDF-xCpIRAVaKgCpEP4ue5mG3hGCPT4cP4-YnttEp9JGOE0gh5VacCvxAtggLdnbaBSFKh8bkp3e-VoE7ChRQ_kIkTldXYDPz_fmx1C6TPLCQWyIvNTLWx-jeHd1wv7pSTTI0DbDWv/s1600/IMG_9215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRTDDF-xCpIRAVaKgCpEP4ue5mG3hGCPT4cP4-YnttEp9JGOE0gh5VacCvxAtggLdnbaBSFKh8bkp3e-VoE7ChRQ_kIkTldXYDPz_fmx1C6TPLCQWyIvNTLWx-jeHd1wv7pSTTI0DbDWv/s400/IMG_9215.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Having ridden for more than 10 kilometres, I decided to
return to my hotel. As I got back to the Guandu Bridge, a gloom of low cloud covered
my route. Halfway across the bridge, the warm rain lashed against me. The
only protection was my helmet. Within minutes my shirt and shorts were soaked. I
still had several kilometres to go. There was no place to hide, so I pushed on,
my hands wrinkled from the water pouring from the sky. Adventure, by its very
nature can be difficult, I thought, as rivulets of water and sweat ran down my
face. Sometimes you just have to give yourself to it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>**********</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>People gather each evening on Tamsui's Lover's Bridge to watch the sun set. The clouds parted long enough to provide a nice end to the day. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTMpfYFLU5FWHnCfyskJSxQ3WRLp4bZIOGVquBfDpVcauWPIBqymUJyJZJUhMKdh4y1TVmiZxpmeQqFw2bODxYMXDmZvWNEj7Lwu8tEvli1j3oVeS2deuQruJSZtHS-kM3KiO68AQtN4Wr/s1600/IMG_9218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTMpfYFLU5FWHnCfyskJSxQ3WRLp4bZIOGVquBfDpVcauWPIBqymUJyJZJUhMKdh4y1TVmiZxpmeQqFw2bODxYMXDmZvWNEj7Lwu8tEvli1j3oVeS2deuQruJSZtHS-kM3KiO68AQtN4Wr/s400/IMG_9218.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-46944998520985035552015-09-11T23:22:00.001-07:002015-09-11T23:22:43.800-07:00Cuba's a beauty beyond the beach<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Oh my, so much time has passed since my last post. <br />
<br />
15 years ago, in a galaxy far far away (before kids), my wife and I visited Cuba. We wanted it to be more than just a beach vacation. We wanted to experience as much of the Cuban culture as we could, so we spent five days staying with a family in Havana. It still ranks as one of our fondest vacations. <br />
<br />
I wrote about our experience after returning home, but didn't do much with the piece. Fast forward more than a decade and with the U.S. reopening its embassy in Havana, I dusted off the piece and the Vancouver Sun is publishing the article. <br />
<br />
You can read the online version: <a href="http://www.vancouversun.com/travel/Cuba+beauty+beyond+beach/11356957/story.html">http://www.vancouversun.com/travel/Cuba+beauty+beyond+beach/11356957/story.html</a><br />
<br />
My wife, Carrie, took the photos that accompany the article.<br />
<br />
Enjoy...<br />
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-53323167947715570012014-05-12T07:30:00.002-07:002014-05-12T07:30:41.158-07:00Inspired by Iceland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After landing at Iceland’s Keflavik Airport, I hopped in a bright
green rental car and hit the road. Before getting too far I wanted to stop at a
grocery store. From the road, I spied a store called Husasmidjan, which looked
like a grocery store. I got out of my car and went in, only to realize it was a
home improvement store. Why didn’t I study Icelandic when I was in school. I
looked at the sign again and it now made sense. Hus, is Icelandic for House.
Not far away I did find a supermarket.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My destination that first evening was Vik, a small village
about 200 km southeast of the airport. But what should have been a two hour
drive turned into four hours, as I kept stopping along the way to marvel at the
scenery. Iceland is like that beautiful woman you see that doesn’t wear makeup.
Brimming with confidence, the country invites you to enjoy its natural beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Iceland is known for its waterfalls and it took just an hour
to spot my first one. Located beside the main road that circles the island,
Seljalandfoss (foss means falls in Icelandic) looked majestic from a distance.
It was even more impressive close up. The water pours over an overhang, so it’s
possible to walk behind the falls. A unique view to be sure (good to have your
rain jacket handy). </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JIBLdsJTSDz2ik7Cp9AsAGp8zaBSLur9pZmFojFO_S6OLQYgArCQGX5c6-PuG8F0O-L-UHvHPfpgN9js1OOh6N4YvHp2L2RHKtt1LLB3NZERWMixmeh6qKnMlF94XrUb3rqGySGBsagT/s1600/swaterfall_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JIBLdsJTSDz2ik7Cp9AsAGp8zaBSLur9pZmFojFO_S6OLQYgArCQGX5c6-PuG8F0O-L-UHvHPfpgN9js1OOh6N4YvHp2L2RHKtt1LLB3NZERWMixmeh6qKnMlF94XrUb3rqGySGBsagT/s1600/swaterfall_sm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seljalandfoss is visible from a distance on the Ring Road heading east</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTRexkQtmqO-iJruSIzVeA8rTDqFITF8Nl1DIkzf8qAJXU8tGyzLO3TT8J73gG25XbyhmGwxVMnhl5yz68HHw1agtG5kdKIbmeTNot9djUHAgWjzYlL1BCMz9VxmIvOJ8sqzreg82hZL3/s1600/swaterfall2sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTRexkQtmqO-iJruSIzVeA8rTDqFITF8Nl1DIkzf8qAJXU8tGyzLO3TT8J73gG25XbyhmGwxVMnhl5yz68HHw1agtG5kdKIbmeTNot9djUHAgWjzYlL1BCMz9VxmIvOJ8sqzreg82hZL3/s1600/swaterfall2sm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The overhang of the falls allowsvisitors to walk behind for a different perspective</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Driving on, I saw more waterfalls. How magical this land, I
thought. The large Skogarfoss begged me to get out of my car. I wasn’t
disappointed, especially after climbing the hundreds of stairs (I started
counting but lost track) to the top of falls, where you can watch the river
being forced over the edge. The view from the bottom is equally breathtaking. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-GEkyhvWkVir-kTDUZECgzvdCeEwmOi-WGiPqz7gCxtCvqCQko1zZOJHSfB1NV7e436mXlGLw9BTOQEvqPLX0GOiwUNbjOUEP4wppSRuiQI2Ab6YW4lNZAxZYDdbhAZwCQwMvbsKMxtd/s1600/skogarfoss3sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-GEkyhvWkVir-kTDUZECgzvdCeEwmOi-WGiPqz7gCxtCvqCQko1zZOJHSfB1NV7e436mXlGLw9BTOQEvqPLX0GOiwUNbjOUEP4wppSRuiQI2Ab6YW4lNZAxZYDdbhAZwCQwMvbsKMxtd/s1600/skogarfoss3sm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skogarfoss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During my travels throughout the country, I noticed that
some people had even built their homes next to waterfalls. Who needs to buy a
water feature when you’ve got a natural one in your back yard.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was almost 9:00 PM when I got to Vik, the southernmost village
in Iceland. A lone white church, its roof covered in red, sits on a bluff
overlooking the village. It’s the one on the cover of my guidebook, so I tried
to recreate the image (minus the wildflowers that hadn’t yet bloomed) with my
camera. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gIeAjzkCPS27vZdRbB4YpvAea6Q7Pf-VJz9BafD0D99jfpJMAPKK8SvQsL66zlwXQI7G641tT6itgX14ySVhZlAHzKNKXE4nlEdCTAnbjd9sZnxRwkNw_HXevPww-g-kgZgDIPyd-rjr/s1600/book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gIeAjzkCPS27vZdRbB4YpvAea6Q7Pf-VJz9BafD0D99jfpJMAPKK8SvQsL66zlwXQI7G641tT6itgX14ySVhZlAHzKNKXE4nlEdCTAnbjd9sZnxRwkNw_HXevPww-g-kgZgDIPyd-rjr/s1600/book.jpg" height="400" width="245" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq_mYc_TB8KlONF-95Iyc4dWc1Fj4D1NSOQl5O3svbHMdsEzrDgOJ6AoLygNHA4_CxuS_yTuc3aIldLBeLwauoy2zCxtCtP675DeA311UuQGDGwh_qyh7d4qXOCnYYWYuKzfwL4cwDmnh/s1600/Vik+Churchsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq_mYc_TB8KlONF-95Iyc4dWc1Fj4D1NSOQl5O3svbHMdsEzrDgOJ6AoLygNHA4_CxuS_yTuc3aIldLBeLwauoy2zCxtCtP675DeA311UuQGDGwh_qyh7d4qXOCnYYWYuKzfwL4cwDmnh/s1600/Vik+Churchsm.jpg" height="400" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a bad recreation of the scene on the cover of the guidebook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning, I continued driving along the Ring Road to
Jokullsarlon, an iceberg lagoon, about 200 kilometres away. I hadn’t gone more
than five minutes down the road when I turned off and drove a short distance
along a farm path before getting out to admire another waterfall. This was much
smaller than others I had seen, yet still significant enough to deserve a look.
I climbed a wooden step ladder that had been placed over the barbed wire fence,
and stood for a moment at the base of the falls revelling in the fact that I
was the only one around. It was quiet except for the sound of the water falling
into a small pool before being carried away to the ocean. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a population of just 350,000, and almost two-thirds
living in the capital, Reykjavik, there are times you’ll feel like you have the
whole country to yourself. There were often long stretches of road where it was
just me. I’d stop the car in the middle of the road, get out to take a photo
and drive on.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9o7dLn42BBAVVgriDj1Xay8sDhk45lTQb6zemwuKyKHNT581n6GWOTo-H6HgrQdFft073L3PAoricBYxG9W-nupQPEvhjW27uN5v-EZnNYQsMa0MoXTDSmCoXtsDM-IXJDNAvJAS378hV/s1600/desolate+road2sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9o7dLn42BBAVVgriDj1Xay8sDhk45lTQb6zemwuKyKHNT581n6GWOTo-H6HgrQdFft073L3PAoricBYxG9W-nupQPEvhjW27uN5v-EZnNYQsMa0MoXTDSmCoXtsDM-IXJDNAvJAS378hV/s1600/desolate+road2sm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With Icelandic pop songs filling the car, I drove on,
mesmerized by the vast lava fields covered with green moss. I half expected to find
a group of trolls living amongst the rocks. On further inspection, I didn’t see
any trolls, but the pillowy-soft moss was surprisingly several inches thick. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziHAbrnT7VvyyPF-VWOLvFXaA1as76sxwgHNRjAKvZ-atv6XXt-adBYtLKlqrJ7eb6_qVpOzSFES7M4nq5Dd1kCZ78Pu9r4Vcv_P2yEevj7vKEXKLicERCN84hyphenhyphenXNt3Xa0y71EnwuSU-S/s1600/mossy+fieldssm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziHAbrnT7VvyyPF-VWOLvFXaA1as76sxwgHNRjAKvZ-atv6XXt-adBYtLKlqrJ7eb6_qVpOzSFES7M4nq5Dd1kCZ78Pu9r4Vcv_P2yEevj7vKEXKLicERCN84hyphenhyphenXNt3Xa0y71EnwuSU-S/s1600/mossy+fieldssm.jpg" height="283" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moss covered lava fields</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwO_f-qTC8u_6Fmohbo8R0FL7pG0kwpXJwq8oWHH_BaAXPRHmbF0cOjt9Tqnb-P70mDVagOwh3T8Eh25HbFVWP8KtZRtePQ1zjtBVaUJBh2jR89qdLe9I3ExORw0HLOHj96tyzpZbOUUzz/s1600/reflectionsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwO_f-qTC8u_6Fmohbo8R0FL7pG0kwpXJwq8oWHH_BaAXPRHmbF0cOjt9Tqnb-P70mDVagOwh3T8Eh25HbFVWP8KtZRtePQ1zjtBVaUJBh2jR89qdLe9I3ExORw0HLOHj96tyzpZbOUUzz/s1600/reflectionsm.jpg" height="256" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scenery is ever changing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Several hours after leaving Vik, I pulled into the parking
lot at Jokullsarlon. The glacier has receded seven kilometres over the past
hundred years, leaving behind a lagoon filled with icebergs. When ice breaks
away from the glaciers, it will either stay in the lagoon and melt or float out
to the ocean. A herd of seals inhabits the lagoon and can often be seen swimming
in the water or basking atop one of the icebergs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I joined a handful of others for a boat ride through the
lagoon. The power of nature was on display here as we looked at ice that was
formed a thousand years ago, some of which contains volcanic rock and dirt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnDchI7SmbcdPa9DONYd-qJ6McFtgOpmTC5V4HP8Y9u-ULC_D_rqnczUBROhM7X9h4agfciWLnaxS0KLq20BAWfi5MFYOn36TISB-f4MAyoydNAZWANcPzaANIVLiPnz4rLcgKRlsqhiz/s1600/seal+lagoonsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnDchI7SmbcdPa9DONYd-qJ6McFtgOpmTC5V4HP8Y9u-ULC_D_rqnczUBROhM7X9h4agfciWLnaxS0KLq20BAWfi5MFYOn36TISB-f4MAyoydNAZWANcPzaANIVLiPnz4rLcgKRlsqhiz/s1600/seal+lagoonsm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Difficult to spot maybe, but there is a seal in the middle of the photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuG9kVnBByhCNx4EbMyzZRbFRDvdgTv_KH-BXBzRHTtSKV1nQumtkdB3NRX2uiIb6kgnAGK7D0t78td1xLmX7z3s1EkvIZZSziPglOGUS5m0gdb_wbS9UJrCDCBPlN0B4Hbgsq6SPX4O7/s1600/iceclosesm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuG9kVnBByhCNx4EbMyzZRbFRDvdgTv_KH-BXBzRHTtSKV1nQumtkdB3NRX2uiIb6kgnAGK7D0t78td1xLmX7z3s1EkvIZZSziPglOGUS5m0gdb_wbS9UJrCDCBPlN0B4Hbgsq6SPX4O7/s1600/iceclosesm.jpg" height="277" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7dqGaCjI8oo8N3lmRHzJmHBiBjawC1jKbEe1pindjwXsK1imxN-15mF3ZPo9yHnqREe9An9C2ZZh8laveZKZYsRTulkvt4vkkuPVov7mWDVmYppKAazIn4NnNTctG5Bx67tmqVi7fm-j/s1600/icesm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7dqGaCjI8oo8N3lmRHzJmHBiBjawC1jKbEe1pindjwXsK1imxN-15mF3ZPo9yHnqREe9An9C2ZZh8laveZKZYsRTulkvt4vkkuPVov7mWDVmYppKAazIn4NnNTctG5Bx67tmqVi7fm-j/s1600/icesm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back in my car for the drive back to Vik, and with only a
quarter tank of gas, I began worrying that I might run out of gas. Why should I
have been surprised? I had already driven 400 km. On the way, I had only seen
one gas station between here and Vik and a pump next to an abandoned building,
which I figured wouldn’t be operational. I started doing the math in my head to
see if I could make it back to Vik (200 km) with a quarter tank. Not likely, I
surmised. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I drove a little slower hoping to nurse the fuel I had left.
About 20 minutes down the road, I spotted the abandoned building with a gas
pump out front. To my surprise (and relief) it worked. What a fantastic system.
Who needs a gas station with an attendant when all you need is a pump in the
middle of nowhere. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a full tank of gas, I continued on to Vik, marvelling
at the ever changing scenery. Above me I saw the contrails of passing plane,
presumably on its way to North America from Europe. They don’t know what they’re
missing, I couldn’t help but think. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inspired by Iceland. That’s the latest marketing slogan to
promote tourism. These are more than just empty words slapped on a brochure or
website. It’s not hard to feel inspired by everything this country has to
offer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">View more of my <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/16622261@N07/sets/72157644602282825/" target="_blank">Iceland photos</a></span></span></div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-2727831868834293972014-05-09T13:42:00.001-07:002014-05-09T13:42:07.688-07:00Dhaka: as real as it gets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After breakfast on my second day in Dhaka, I slipped out the
front door of my hotel hoping that Salim wouldn’t be waiting. He seemed nice
enough and I know he was trying to earn some money, but I yearned for the
freedom to just walk, and not be paraded from place to place. I looked around
and didn’t see him. Fantastic, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had only got half a block, when I heard someone calling
behind me. I turned and saw Salim pedalling his rickshaw toward me. </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I take you today. Where do you go?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told him I just wanted to walk, but I could see that it
was hard for him to understand. He was probably wondering why this white guy
would want to walk around a chaotic city in such hot and humid conditions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I take you and then you can do walking,” he pressed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told him not today and carried on.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I came to a large intersection and stood in the middle for a
short time on a raised platform a few feet off the ground. I was in awe at the feverish
pace of the traffic that was moving in every direction. Oddly it seemed
choreographed, but as one local told me about the traffic: “It’s a big problem.
There is no discipline.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The challenge now was for me to get to the other side of the
road without getting hit. I watched others standing next to me take the plunge
and start crossing. I hesitated too much and missed the opportunity. For a
fleeting moment, I wished I hadn’t spurned Salim. It would have been much
easier sitting in his rickshaw. But travel isn’t supposed to be easy, I told
myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Armed with that bit of philosophy, I made my move and
stepped into the traffic. Never before had I felt so nakedly vulnerable, as I
did in that moment. It was frightful watching buses, cars, motorcycles, and
rickshaws coming at you like precision guided missiles. Keep walking. Keep
walking. I kept reassuring myself. Relieved was I, knowing that I had survived.
To be sure, Dhaka is not for the timid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em>[take a look for yourself. </em><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/vhyx8g2s9l7ljcp/20140504_203551%20%281%29.mp4" target="_blank"><em>Some video I took at this particular intersection</em></a><em>]</em> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My intended destination was a slum settlement in the area of
Kawran Bazaar, where small dwellings no more than five or six feet high had
been scrapped together on either side of the railway tracks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before setting off I
had written down the streets I needed to get this area, which was about four
kilometres away. Find VIP Road, then right on Hare Road, which turns into
Minto, then a right on Kazi Nasrul Islam. Sounded easy enough until I started
walking and realized there were no street signs. I knew to keep Ramma Park on
my left, but then I came to a major intersection and all was lost. I went up to
a traffic officer and asked if he knew what street this was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Kazi Nasrul Islam Street,” he said. “Where are you going?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Kawran Bazaar,” I replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’re going there on foot,” he questioned, incredulously?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He pointed to the general direction. I thanked him and
pushed on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwipfnj82V7zDS65mIBlnbupm4EE14SirWPrsEI5TTglsu6uJNNuZro6CDDkDOI6P2ERil2HwNioF5S1DnAYvsuGYgcmLFRZnv9Ilp6s4SDuNvBz42I-92s5jfjRnGENscfAfUs9WhbtB1/s1600/shanty2sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwipfnj82V7zDS65mIBlnbupm4EE14SirWPrsEI5TTglsu6uJNNuZro6CDDkDOI6P2ERil2HwNioF5S1DnAYvsuGYgcmLFRZnv9Ilp6s4SDuNvBz42I-92s5jfjRnGENscfAfUs9WhbtB1/s1600/shanty2sm.jpg" height="261" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hard life next to the tracks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I finally came to a set of railway tracks, and sure enough
there were rows of small shack-like homes. There were no trees to offer
protection from the sun. No electricity. No running water. I could only imagine
what it would be like when the monsoon rains came. At first, I felt like an
uninvited guest but that was short lived as people came up to me without
hesitation. Not to beg for money, but out of curiosity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everyone was very welcoming. Some asked where I was from,
while others reached out to shake hands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymCummaiPcyTy2P7DpkEMhY99JURIeXPUVjXF051KkI4Xj1ImBwD-la6EKnfJowNmJ9zHFtdb_xlnQHkVnu_EqEXIEqFOTXdgF5Dd7f55rwm_h4vg3DwCCNz8CiwLhA2lJUDfBdji7_Xq/s1600/train2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymCummaiPcyTy2P7DpkEMhY99JURIeXPUVjXF051KkI4Xj1ImBwD-la6EKnfJowNmJ9zHFtdb_xlnQHkVnu_EqEXIEqFOTXdgF5Dd7f55rwm_h4vg3DwCCNz8CiwLhA2lJUDfBdji7_Xq/s1600/train2.jpg" height="306" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trains run regularly through the slum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUZ2UUfmcE35710y-ep3CXYNZMWMWRPizABve7rlhmXnEpZ7fg-hxNKJOCS3MFM4DhG1DgdR8kLQRulwUA8L3rdTIo2DaO-zr9T_B0CS7ZVkTPMNkxskB3e3fE5IX-Oz-wjtw0Ufd9bwE/s1600/bananassm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUZ2UUfmcE35710y-ep3CXYNZMWMWRPizABve7rlhmXnEpZ7fg-hxNKJOCS3MFM4DhG1DgdR8kLQRulwUA8L3rdTIo2DaO-zr9T_B0CS7ZVkTPMNkxskB3e3fE5IX-Oz-wjtw0Ufd9bwE/s1600/bananassm.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZ6c4-gmEuuOoeN8EGfsxtMF3kHFGUyPk9e6rq4JVCBWWp2Jfs7B7r6iVh5xNS5ffX3muPH-MEd5NX8IqjzKCwjnZyPcVbRP68mk1keumNUSV7e1A8NbbyVecBPxRdDERvrFAJqapF2PS/s1600/boypinksm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZ6c4-gmEuuOoeN8EGfsxtMF3kHFGUyPk9e6rq4JVCBWWp2Jfs7B7r6iVh5xNS5ffX3muPH-MEd5NX8IqjzKCwjnZyPcVbRP68mk1keumNUSV7e1A8NbbyVecBPxRdDERvrFAJqapF2PS/s1600/boypinksm.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One young guy, who I suspected to be in his early twenties,
followed me as I walked along the tracks. He warned me a train would be coming
soon. In fact, trains pass through regularly during the day mere feet from these
people’s homes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not surprising disease lives here. I could see it in the
cloudy eyes of many people, yet despite the terrible environment in which they live,
they all had such warm smiles. I saw this too when I was in Jakarta, Indonesia
[the place that gave rise to the White Man Walking moniker]. What is it about
people who have so little, yet have such a bright spirit? They have every reason
to finger the world and yet they choose to smile instead. There’s a lesson
there for all of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I noticed a young girl cooking over a small fire. I knelt
down to take her picture and she opened herself up with a shy smile. Further
on, a group of children posed for a photo and clamoured around me trying to see
their faces on the screen. This is as real as travel gets. This isn’t the
fiction of an all-inclusive in Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Walking back to my hotel, I noticed a section of brightly colourful
flowers planted along the sidewalk. I touched them and realized they were
artificial. It was the only thing I encountered in the city that was fake. Warts
and all, Dhaka is as real as it gets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/16622261@N07/sets/72157644553692942/" target="_blank">View all the Day 2 Dhaka photos</a> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-50848043532173034692014-05-07T11:44:00.000-07:002014-05-07T11:44:31.435-07:00Madness in Dhaka<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TjzZ42sh3B04fRsGbq7JfKW_ETODupASYm9GQet9QLl3RJwN5Yfddku9pKhvUuDIJ4qD2OV9xvQ_SJL_EkqberV_Wl-abIDjey-Ec6cm1W_0khT3X2TWovljXPV08Bbn0UMVm2cnaOCY/s1600/boatman4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was close to one o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived
at my hotel in central Dhaka. I felt like collapsing onto the small bed, and
recover from the 27 hours of travel, but I knew that to do so would be
folly. Needing to stay awake and shake off the jetlag, I washed up and hit the
streets. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stepping outside the hotel, a rickshaw driver approached me.
“Where you go? I take you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I waved him off and kept walking not really too sure which
direction I was going, but I thought if I keep moving I might lose this guy whose
I saw was still trailing behind. I soon realized that I had better stop and
look around for some landmarks or I might not be able to find my way back to
the hotel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where you go?” I heard as the rickshaw driver was now standing
next to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I just wanted to wander. I wanted the freedom for my feet to
take me wherever. The one place I knew I wanted to see was Sadarghat, the
city’s frenetic riverfront port. It is here that multi-decked ferries, century-old
Rocket Steamers, barges, and small wooden boats ferry people on the Buriganga River.
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The driver said he’d take me to Sadarghat, but before he’d
also take me to the National Museum, Lalbagh Fort, and a host of other places
that I couldn’t understand what he was saying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How much money,” I relented,
tired of the chase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You no worry about money,” he said, reassuringly. “If you
like, you pay 100 Takas, or 300 or 700. Your choice. You<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>no worry.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqNaPIUpgk3K74XfAAEeERzfnFYZUv1rwUn4QqkmS7xSqaF4wPR4SkUyCC-FSx2dpacxEpGA0lgIYnD6RKfzXbK3nwzeRGSTxQ9b6_R2M2YhzNLH1vmX5xp-EcQ46pTAYr73riZAuM42L/s1600/salimsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqNaPIUpgk3K74XfAAEeERzfnFYZUv1rwUn4QqkmS7xSqaF4wPR4SkUyCC-FSx2dpacxEpGA0lgIYnD6RKfzXbK3nwzeRGSTxQ9b6_R2M2YhzNLH1vmX5xp-EcQ46pTAYr73riZAuM42L/s1600/salimsmall.jpg" height="295" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salim and my wheels in Dhaka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He spun the rickshaw around, and pedalled out into the notoriously
crazy traffic. It was like gladiator on wheels as everything that moved—colourful
rickshaws, small three-wheeled motorized taxis called CNGs motorcycles, cars,
trucks, buses, and even people walking on the road—fought for every bit of open
space. And the incessant honking and ringing of rickshaw bells. Everyone appears
to have accepted the madness. I even saw a cow standing in the middle of the
road seemingly oblivious to the chaos. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salim had short cropped black hair, sprinkled with grey, and
a similarly coloured beard. He wore a short sleeved red shirt and a lungi, a traditional
long tube-like skirt similar to a sarong. This was the dress of every rickshaw
driver in Dhaka. It’s estimated there are more than half a million rickshaws
rolling through the streets of Dhaka, and each is colourfully painted. Like
many rickshaw drivers, Salim’s teeth and gums are stained bright red. This from
chewing a green leafy plant called Qat, a mild stimulant. After chewing for a
short time one’s saliva turns bright red. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yYAxjzrLBnFcOzhaiimP7IOjKF0fK568U-KuwQQ_XRRN6QUWA23BpGl8hCNJcUCoZtHh2aUnw0A2b0Cw6xLOllKKMMWnY57_HW8klxCTJKnahdMBHLjMDuUeraBQ_34QcQSThHC4LBkO/s1600/buses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yYAxjzrLBnFcOzhaiimP7IOjKF0fK568U-KuwQQ_XRRN6QUWA23BpGl8hCNJcUCoZtHh2aUnw0A2b0Cw6xLOllKKMMWnY57_HW8klxCTJKnahdMBHLjMDuUeraBQ_34QcQSThHC4LBkO/s1600/buses.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central Dhaka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yYAxjzrLBnFcOzhaiimP7IOjKF0fK568U-KuwQQ_XRRN6QUWA23BpGl8hCNJcUCoZtHh2aUnw0A2b0Cw6xLOllKKMMWnY57_HW8klxCTJKnahdMBHLjMDuUeraBQ_34QcQSThHC4LBkO/s1600/buses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yYAxjzrLBnFcOzhaiimP7IOjKF0fK568U-KuwQQ_XRRN6QUWA23BpGl8hCNJcUCoZtHh2aUnw0A2b0Cw6xLOllKKMMWnY57_HW8klxCTJKnahdMBHLjMDuUeraBQ_34QcQSThHC4LBkO/s1600/buses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salim pulled up in front of the National Museum and got off
his bike. He came back a minute or so later and told me the museum is closed. I
didn’t tell him, but I was glad. Apologies to curators worldwide, I find most
museums intensely boring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We pushed on, and Salim pointed to a monument a short
distance away telling me it marks the 1971 war with Pakistan. He would point
out two others. Bangladesh, like Pakistan, used to be part of India. When India
was partitioned in 1947, the division was primarily made based on religion, so
the predominantly Muslim areas became known as West and East Pakistan. But
religion aside, the two regions had little in common. The geographic and
cultural divide led to war, and the birth of a new nation, known today as
Bangladesh. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O7QY-MAv8aZozV9B5M5nfJRq2MdN4so9T4D5gAD4nOlVK86wrdLYLoQUX0DJWhGXlJHsznCXKhIE67L02zTG7epUo7x2qX_q2LElkoGOGMrixiXfJH3fkt2WCChR0VR9yxfF7s9K2ac9/s1600/crowdsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O7QY-MAv8aZozV9B5M5nfJRq2MdN4so9T4D5gAD4nOlVK86wrdLYLoQUX0DJWhGXlJHsznCXKhIE67L02zTG7epUo7x2qX_q2LElkoGOGMrixiXfJH3fkt2WCChR0VR9yxfF7s9K2ac9/s1600/crowdsm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowded streets in old Dhaka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The air was hot, humid and heavy from the grime and
pollution that washes over this city. At times, I was assaulted by the pungent
smell from heaps of rotting garbage. Stopped in traffic, Salim turned to me and
asked my religion. I always find it awkward to answer in such pious places,
because people don’t understand that it’s possible (and quite okay) to not
worship a God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not wanting to complicate
matters, I told him I’m Christian. It’s not entirely a lie I suppose, given
that I was baptized. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Minutes later he brought me to a small Armenian Church. It
was locked, but someone went away and came back with a key to let me in. The
church dates from the late 1700s, and services are usually held just twice a
year. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having been to church, I climbed back onto the rickshaw and
we wended our way through old Dhaka. The streets are narrow and crowded with
people, cars, rickshaws and vendors. On one street, several tailors had set up
their sewing machines and were doing a brisk business on the side of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkk1twC7wpU6Qo_DF0zEhFjWqRN2nq5g_Rlo-bCxKnuq8g1ok45Hkt56J5s0zLB2-zJKTjK977PLiRMO4msN_V9s-5Yt6wOwIeV-Bgwdwc-Rz_hjo8q_lZ22np90wVCtawzu0rqg8wf5As/s1600/boatssm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkk1twC7wpU6Qo_DF0zEhFjWqRN2nq5g_Rlo-bCxKnuq8g1ok45Hkt56J5s0zLB2-zJKTjK977PLiRMO4msN_V9s-5Yt6wOwIeV-Bgwdwc-Rz_hjo8q_lZ22np90wVCtawzu0rqg8wf5As/s1600/boatssm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Popular mode of transportation to cross the river</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JeFshudLRatSErua9i8irhGmjocLoZBfRQH9G5m_c-Fn_JDXeQWpJxlVSRcOdOZ8eOT5yE6USZHGeC0wpxmNphxPzu7PEiYBDjTDlhQQZ8jcZsMg3uKBCPDCScxGk3whGhNMBVj84zSv/s1600/waterboysm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JeFshudLRatSErua9i8irhGmjocLoZBfRQH9G5m_c-Fn_JDXeQWpJxlVSRcOdOZ8eOT5yE6USZHGeC0wpxmNphxPzu7PEiYBDjTDlhQQZ8jcZsMg3uKBCPDCScxGk3whGhNMBVj84zSv/s1600/waterboysm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We finally came to the Buriganga River. I gave Salim a bit
of money, and he headed off to negotiate with the many operators of small
wooden boats for a tour of the river. A single oar at the back of the boat cut
through the coal black water, pushing aside the garbage that littered the
river. We crossed to the other side and with the leftover money I had given
Salim, he bought a large bottle of Coke and some biscuits. He had found two
discarded plastic bottles in which he poured some of the Coke for him and the
guy that operated the boat. He handed the rest of the soda over to me, and in
the afternoon heat, it went down easily. It was magical being on the river as
the sun was setting. A perfect way to end the day, I thought. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4R3eoGsiFfYC23mAOKols7j9V4g5vR9eNwgHOUmYl9CuZs3_Cfifd9KDCQDB9W93-G2WMsPtAltaQZigp8zXMtjuRBOBkHtETvZEZxUky4cphqClwncxAM5Hk5S9ol7T_q21RtFdT2X-j/s1600/lifeonthewatersm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4R3eoGsiFfYC23mAOKols7j9V4g5vR9eNwgHOUmYl9CuZs3_Cfifd9KDCQDB9W93-G2WMsPtAltaQZigp8zXMtjuRBOBkHtETvZEZxUky4cphqClwncxAM5Hk5S9ol7T_q21RtFdT2X-j/s1600/lifeonthewatersm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life on the river</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TjzZ42sh3B04fRsGbq7JfKW_ETODupASYm9GQet9QLl3RJwN5Yfddku9pKhvUuDIJ4qD2OV9xvQ_SJL_EkqberV_Wl-abIDjey-Ec6cm1W_0khT3X2TWovljXPV08Bbn0UMVm2cnaOCY/s1600/boatman4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TjzZ42sh3B04fRsGbq7JfKW_ETODupASYm9GQet9QLl3RJwN5Yfddku9pKhvUuDIJ4qD2OV9xvQ_SJL_EkqberV_Wl-abIDjey-Ec6cm1W_0khT3X2TWovljXPV08Bbn0UMVm2cnaOCY/s1600/boatman4.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvNnyrWGQ9KDpzJwK2yh7nq1WGncL0cbxUY8yyUtluNEVqPS2a3bqk3ElgNtUjDOw4rrqi-WdM8ty3Ht-3O0sR6RCXZUu-xz5I3v_WFyklrR7KgPj5AfkPWTrEwexnObhAIEsZ5Ln3mK1/s1600/sunset2sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvNnyrWGQ9KDpzJwK2yh7nq1WGncL0cbxUY8yyUtluNEVqPS2a3bqk3ElgNtUjDOw4rrqi-WdM8ty3Ht-3O0sR6RCXZUu-xz5I3v_WFyklrR7KgPj5AfkPWTrEwexnObhAIEsZ5Ln3mK1/s1600/sunset2sm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset on the Buriganga River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We go now to Hindu temple,” Salim said, back at his
rickshaw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told him I’d rather go back to my hotel. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He pedaled through the chaos on the streets, and every few
blocks turned to me and said, “I take you now to Hindu temple.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trying to mask my annoyance, I told it had been a long day
and I’d like to go to my hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ok,” he said, “but tomorrow I take you to national
Parliament and zoo (which always sounded like </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jew when he said it).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It had turned out to be a good afternoon, but I had no
interest in going to the zoo or anywhere else with Salim. I ached for the
freedom to explore on my own. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Four hours after leaving I was back outside my hotel. I gave
Salim 1,000 Takas, about $15. He rolled his head back and forth and said ok. We
both knew that it was more money than he’d make most days, but given that he had
ridden me across the city for hours, I thought it was fair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I wait for you tomorrow and take you around to see zoo and
national parliament,” I heard Salim say as I walked into my hotel.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JeFshudLRatSErua9i8irhGmjocLoZBfRQH9G5m_c-Fn_JDXeQWpJxlVSRcOdOZ8eOT5yE6USZHGeC0wpxmNphxPzu7PEiYBDjTDlhQQZ8jcZsMg3uKBCPDCScxGk3whGhNMBVj84zSv/s1600/waterboysm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">View more photos from </span><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/16622261@N07/sets/72157644578414763/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">day one in Dhaka</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Next Post: White man in Dhaka</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlhdMDQMe9IjlamGPhl5ebDimUcO9cuVrzAYu6x_6mzPUtY9ENoIii6DYFWt_y0cNM1rDjAA1GDM0FAAoGTe-UDEZihOS6Eg0Gp_CVKKKDeUhD3Tgsl3q-NUNZgf6xKLsrd9VOqOwFIc8/s1600/crowdsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-12430721294924977452014-05-04T19:58:00.002-07:002014-05-04T19:58:55.644-07:00Contrasting travels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m on my way to Bangladesh and Iceland. An odd combination
I concede. Like syrup and ketchup, two destinations that couldn’t be more
unlike. Obscurity is the only thing these two places have in common.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bangladesh is hot, humid and flat like a pancake. The country
acts like a sieve to two great rivers—the Ganges and the Brahmaputra—before
they spill into the ocean. Like my two young sons trying to pour a glass of water
from a heavy jug, the yearly monsoons overflow these rivers, flooding villages
and cities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In contrast, Iceland
is punctuated by volcanoes, glaciers, and the rivers in Iceland seem to flow down
to the sea in a graceful manner showing off with magnificent waterfalls. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a population of more than 150 million, Bangladesh is
one of the most densely populated countries in the world. It’s also one of the
poorest and its people have suffered at the hands of poor government and
corruption. Anything that moves in the country's capital, Dhaka—people, rickshaws, buses, cars, boats
and even the cockroaches—are in a constant fight for space in this teeming
city. The difference in Iceland couldn’t be starker. While it’s estimated that
there are more than 600,000 bicycle rickshaws in Dhaka, Iceland’s population is
a mere 350,000, giving way to wide open spaces and natural wonders. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if in Bangladesh the earth moves beneath
the feet of millions of people, in Iceland geothermal and volcanic activity
keep things bubbling underground. Here’s another stat for you. Iceland’s per
capital GDP is $36,000 compared to just $2,000 in Bangladesh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CaVnZCyfKT0fchyphenhyphenINuMONr0VO9Vmi-mY-WSq4vw4R7NmJS4x-D-ZBoKtE__wxJqE9jxqpQohPdOnE6Vad2OGSB49nTpLG3-A3WAjoOztBl6YBtRSJBEkcyoXHT9gSh7ZSLpSPWsrE1-E/s1600/flight+attendant+sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CaVnZCyfKT0fchyphenhyphenINuMONr0VO9Vmi-mY-WSq4vw4R7NmJS4x-D-ZBoKtE__wxJqE9jxqpQohPdOnE6Vad2OGSB49nTpLG3-A3WAjoOztBl6YBtRSJBEkcyoXHT9gSh7ZSLpSPWsrE1-E/s1600/flight+attendant+sm.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bilkis, a gracious Bangladeshi cabin attendant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking out the window of an airplane, I’ve always thought
that one could be anywhere. The quiet of the airplane’s cabin masks the noise
and chaos below. I thought this flying over the green Bangladesh countryside,
where meandering rivers have their way with the landscape and run where they
like. It could almost be a fill in for the English countryside or parts of
Europe. Then peering out the window as we neared the airport in Dhaka, I
thought of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz… “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in
Kansas anymore.” And I’m guessing it doesn’t look like Iceland, either. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrival into Dhaka</td></tr>
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-88211974409679307792013-06-02T20:07:00.001-07:002013-06-02T20:07:48.175-07:00Royal Brunei: not the kind of experience I expected<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was midnight when I arrived back in Dubai, after spending the day visiting friends in Qatar. I had two hours until my Royal Brunei flight to London. More than enough time I thought to change terminals. I went to the connections desk as instructed and told a woman there I was transferring to a flight to London. She pointed me to another counter a short distance away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I replayed my story about needing to transfer to terminal 1 for a flight to London. She began filling out some paperwork. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where is your boarding pass for your flight to Qatar?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told her it was in my suitcase, unsure why it was needed, considering I took that flight earlier in the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I need it,” she said, while the clock was ticking toward my departing flight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Really,” I replied, shooting her one of those looks that didn’t disguise my displeasure at this unnecessary bureaucracy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I flipped through some emails on my phone until I found the boarding pass and showed it to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I need you to email it to me,” she said, while her two colleagues sat and looked on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I obliged, despite the frustration building inside of me. I wondered if they too saw the ridiculousness in this charade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After finishing with the papers, she told me I needed to return to the first counter I had gone to. A short line now appeared. I handed over the ream of papers and told the woman again that I needed to transfer to terminal 1. I started getting a little anxious. It was now 1:00 am, and I had been here for an hour. My flight to London was leaving in 50 minutes, and I hadn’t yet checked in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A transfer bus will now take you to the other terminal,” I was told. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How long will I have to wait...my flight leaves in less than an hour?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">About five minutes was the reply. I kept looking at my watch. It was as if the second hand was going faster than normal as the minutes ticked away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bus finally arrived, but it just sat idling. “Can we go soon,” I blurted out to the driver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It took an excruciating 20 minutes to cross the airport and get to terminal 1. Red lights. Slow-moving baggage carts in front of us. It was as if everything was conspiring against me. Finally at the terminal, I jumped off the bus, ran inside and sprinted up the stairs to the transfer desk. The plane was scheduled to leave in 30 minutes and I still needed to check in. My wife says that I would only worry if a gun was pointed at my head (even then I’d think there’s still a chance), but now I felt the tension twisting inside of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the woman at the counter asked me what airline I was flying, nothing came out of my mouth. My brain was saying…Royal Brunei, but the anxiety had rendered me speechless. It took a moment to compose myself before I could tell her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hoping that time would stand still, I looked at my watch, while she tapped away at her computer. Without saying anything to me she called her supervisor over, and then both stared blankly at the monitor. “We don’t have a reservation for you in the system,” the man said, looking up at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The airline had arranged a sponsored ticket, and I had a print out of my reservation. Because the airline’s communications department didn’t fill me with confidence, I purposely connected with my contact at Royal Brunei earlier in the day to confirm that everything was okay with my reservation, as I didn’t want to encounter any issues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man escorted me to the gate, where passengers were now boarding. I told the gate agents that I was writing a magazine article and would be profiling their airline. I produced my reservation, and even showed them the email from the airline’s head office confirming my seat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To no avail. Without a reservation in the system, I could not board. Anxiety had now turned to anger. I couldn’t afford to be stuck in Dubai to sort this out. My connections the next two days in London and Brussels were tight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My only option was to purchase a ticket for 2,800 dirhams, or $800. If I didn’t want this flight, they said I could purchase a ticket on British Airways or Emirates. But my only chance at getting a refund was flying on Royal Brunei. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just before boarding the aircraft with 10 minutes to go before departure, the station manager told me that my bag was still over at terminal 2, and that it wouldn’t be coming with me on this flight. He assured me that they would get it on an Emirates flight leaving shortly, and I could retrieve it in London. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ever the patient one, I never raised my voice with anyone. But seething, and overflowing with anger, I plunked myself down in seat 51H. I can’t remember ever feeling this way. And when I discovered that they put me in a broken seat that wouldn’t recline, I just shook my head. I looked around at other passengers who were now sprawled across extra seats, as we settled into our seven-and-a-half hour overnight flight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep, I just wanted to close my eyes and try to relax. But the man across the aisle from me, who had claimed four seats, was snoring. Maybe any other time, I would have been able to block it out, but not now with my heightened state of mind. I leaned over and kicked his seat hoping it would jolt him enough that he’d stop snoring. It didn’t work. I kicked the seat again. He didn’t move. With few other options left, I reached over and pulled the pillow from out under his head and tossed it on him. He sat up and looked around. After a short time, he went back to sleep, but this time he put his head on the other side of the airplane from me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Upon landing in London, the airline’s ground staff informed me that my bag would arrive in an hour’s time. The woman at the immigration counter was interested in my ‘round the world adventure, and asked how Royal Brunei was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hesitated before telling her that I expected it to be better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-77733854433610264962013-05-29T20:58:00.000-07:002013-05-29T20:58:00.915-07:00Will I miss this flight: Part 1<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>I often have dreams that I miss a flight. It usually involves me running toward the airport. <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I checked in for my Kenya Airways flight from Hong Kong to Dubai with a little more than two hours before it was scheduled to depart. I handed the agent my passport. He poked at his computer. Then he looked up at me and asked if I had a visa for the United Arab Emirates (UAE), of which Dubai is a part of.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ll get one of arrival,” I said </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He looked at his computer, and replied that Canada wasn’t one of the countries listed that could get a visa on arrival, and he wouldn’t be able to check me in for the flight unless I had a visa. Even though I remember reading online somewhere that I could get a visa on arrival, my heart dropped to the floor. My schedule couldn’t afford to be stuck in Hong Kong. Besides, Kenya Airways only operated to Hong Kong three times a week, so even if I could get a visa the next day, I’d still have to wait for the next flight in a few days’ time. Was that dream coming true?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the Internet trying to find anything that could bolster my case. I found a news article that reported that Canada and the UAE had patched up their diplomatic spat, and the UAE agreed to lift their visa restriction on Canadian citizens. The news piece didn’t matter much to the check-in agent, because he could only approve what his list said. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the airline’s station manager arrived, and with me still on the Internet, he started making calls on my behalf. By now, an hour had passed and the flight was scheduled to leave in an hour. It was like staring at an hour glass. Time was running out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How could this be? I was sure I’d read that I could get a visa on arrival. Knowing that I would only be in Dubai just long enough for an overnight stay, I typed into my phone…Dubai transit visa on arrival. Reading the screen was like winning a game of bingo. I held up the screen of my phone, like I would have a bingo card, and told the agent that I could get a transit visa on arrival. He looked at the information on my phone then went back to his computer. I gave him my onward flight details and he gave me a boarding pass. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a flight lasting more than eight hours, I arrived bleary eyed in Dubai at two o’clock in the morning. I was told I needed to go the Marhaba desk to obtain a transit visa. Ignored for a short time, a woman finally asked me what I needed. I told her that I would only be in Dubai for less than nine hours, as I had a flight to Qatar leaving at 1100, and I needed a transit visa. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Go to the immigration office,” she said pointing to a door a short distance away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I walked into a large room, where about seven young guys were seated, all wearing a Thawb, the long, white, traditional Arab garment worn my men. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What do you want?” one asked without getting out of his chair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told him the same story I had just relayed to the other woman a few minutes ago. “So, what do you want to do?” he asked, still making no effort to get out of his chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I just want to go to my hotel and get some sleep,” I said, sounding exhausted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Go get a visa from the Arabian Adventure desk,” he said motioning me to the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wandered to over to yet another desk and told the couple sitting there that I needed a transit visa. They took my passport and told me it would be $155.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A hundred and fifty five dollars?” I questioned. “In my country, we’d call that’s highway robbery.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No it’s not,” the woman replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who’s making all the money?” I questioned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We are,” they both responded smugly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman looked at me and said, “You have a choice. You can either pay and get a visa or you can stay in the airport.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An expensive stamp</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was now three in the morning, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I handed over my credit card. Once at my hotel, I put my head on the pillow at 4:00 am, having just set my phone to wake me four hours later. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-76913842173233539672013-05-26T01:29:00.000-07:002013-05-26T01:29:20.054-07:00Lost in Translation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Amusing always are signs that have been translated into English. I found these in Japan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWU846iPs2Gi2gMSEm6CxBwYbNpM3zyKTllI1YGdNT014shR2EkUqtsoGr8-OMJIITSkCvuEvrzNevp_YtPRdWynzctHT0ygXwTFOkwJ3GXS5-9__0GDlb1fApRx48E90-EvQW3lfe9fF/s1600/human+transport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWU846iPs2Gi2gMSEm6CxBwYbNpM3zyKTllI1YGdNT014shR2EkUqtsoGr8-OMJIITSkCvuEvrzNevp_YtPRdWynzctHT0ygXwTFOkwJ3GXS5-9__0GDlb1fApRx48E90-EvQW3lfe9fF/s1600/human+transport.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Human Transport? I thought that was what buses were for</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLYxGCAIzxa38Q9h5P6O64ZBfH160TtnpqYTVLJ6VbFFy0-TGsp5-ftBU-SxM7Cl-9NQI5Ym17ZdF-iUE2LWYFgv6ws1llHQxWzwakGFdw3Fy71jQQI5PEd5N2oE70MdWu6tH9XIQWj5F/s1600/graveyard+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLYxGCAIzxa38Q9h5P6O64ZBfH160TtnpqYTVLJ6VbFFy0-TGsp5-ftBU-SxM7Cl-9NQI5Ym17ZdF-iUE2LWYFgv6ws1llHQxWzwakGFdw3Fy71jQQI5PEd5N2oE70MdWu6tH9XIQWj5F/s1600/graveyard+sign.jpg" height="210" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJEOJFegnn4DVGYB9s6wXyS2xRrOnuZZWKOT20n2Oid0gqskbzBaejN5UfNC5_ztcd7StAFw8o37jhHVfXxtvWenXfcruedi7iCh8N9rhzWqtzzranIwxKmj3L8Dc9G2OhNm_x8CM098a/s1600/toilet+instructions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJEOJFegnn4DVGYB9s6wXyS2xRrOnuZZWKOT20n2Oid0gqskbzBaejN5UfNC5_ztcd7StAFw8o37jhHVfXxtvWenXfcruedi7iCh8N9rhzWqtzzranIwxKmj3L8Dc9G2OhNm_x8CM098a/s1600/toilet+instructions.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Instructions on toilets scare me. It shouldn't be complicated, should it? This one was in my hotel room. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUB4rrk4yVXvwzQeo-EnqzQpI4_cFj3nQExSSqgWFfbP8XbNWhARiWpmku1yrzT4mxUt-HJn_d5rWxiOHm1NMNqw7ORpdJlAb-F2zPJXJcXmix-UUntLVhzssnLD2h_yx3Fu_rP0cge6Q_/s1600/front+robby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUB4rrk4yVXvwzQeo-EnqzQpI4_cFj3nQExSSqgWFfbP8XbNWhARiWpmku1yrzT4mxUt-HJn_d5rWxiOHm1NMNqw7ORpdJlAb-F2zPJXJcXmix-UUntLVhzssnLD2h_yx3Fu_rP0cge6Q_/s1600/front+robby.jpg" height="66" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was a sign in the elevator of my hotel. Looks as if they had Scooby Doo doing the editing. That or Robby works the front desk.<br />
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-6063620677130177642013-05-24T05:05:00.000-07:002013-05-24T05:05:12.216-07:00Still lovin' Hong Kong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hong Kong Island</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Few cities have a hold on me like Hong Kong does. And so I
was looking forwarding to visiting, even if just for a day. I’m not sure what
it is. Maybe it’s the familiarity of having been several times before, visiting
with friends. Maybe it’s the dramatic topography—lush hills carpeted in green
rising up like the body of a dragon. Maybe it’s the comfort of the city’s many English
names—Victoria Harbour, Stanley, Aberdeen, and Salisbury Road—blended with a
tinge of the exotic—Kowloon and Tsim Sha Tsui. It’s a city with a pulse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For more than 100 years, the Star Ferries have crossed Victoria Harbour</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hong Kong is warm and humid. It gets into your pores and
tugs at your heart, luring you back. It’s a city of contrasts where unimaginable
extravagance, like the Peninsula hotel’s $2200 (one-way) helicopter shuttle
from the hotel to Hong Kong airport, brushes up against gritty and
tired-looking apartment blocks home to cramped flats. Or where the remedy to
the city’s frenzied pace is just a short ferry ride away to one of the many small
and quaint islands nearby. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I exited the subway station at Tsim Sha Tsui and fell into
the bustle of the city. I first walked to the harbour for a view across to Hong
Kong Island, where the dazzling glass monuments to commerce crowd each for
space against the backdrop of Victoria Peak. To be sure, more buildings have
gone up since I was last here, but the view is as I remember. Stunning still
even on a gray day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The guy on this boat was scooping up trash from the harbour</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like others around me, I captured the moment in my camera
and then walked a short distance to Nathan Road, one of the city’s popular
shopping areas. In some cities the touts harass you for hookers and camel
rides. In Hong Kong, it’s about fake Rolex watches and suits. It didn’t take
long for them to accost me. I kept walking, swatting them away like flies. One
trailed after me, talking as I pushed on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good suit for you...high quality, hundred and fifty
dollars. We make nice shirts too.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept walking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You know you’re looking for something,” he said before giving
up on me and returning to the street corner chasing sales. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought about the profoundness of what he said. It’s true
we are all looking for something. That day it just wasn’t a suit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I turned down a side street, and then another before walking
to the Star Ferry terminal, where I hopped on one of the iconic green and white
ferries for the short trip across Victoria Harbour. At 2.50 HKD (33 cents),
it’s surely the best bargain in Hong Kong. Even cheaper would have been the
lower deck fare. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Star ferries have been plying this busy route for more
than 100 years. Decades ago, the only way to cross the harbour to Hong Kong
Island would have been by boat. But even with underwater vehicle and train
tunnels, the Star Ferry is still popular. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wooden decks and wood varnished bulkheads give the little
ferries that old world charm. I found a seat at the front, the humid air
entered freely through the open windows. Nearby a young boy gazed out onto the
harbour. I hoped that when he grew older he’d still look out upon Hong Kong with
the same sense of wonderment. </span></div>
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Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-19256023862860024272013-05-20T02:05:00.002-07:002013-05-20T02:05:33.295-07:00Tranquil Kyoto
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jetlag is a funny thing. It’ll get you up and knock you down
at the worst times. Such was my first morning in Kyoto when I woke at 5:00am.
While jetlag can be a bane mostly, it can sometimes provide an opportunity. By
six I hit the streets and meandered down to the Kamo River, a wide open space
with walking paths on either side. The river moved swiftly despite being ankle
deep in most places. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnk4RJTS6SDk1Z354_kH6gQ6EHM_eBNWXyG-tMeoSDlpUucqVDd2-YOSBCLXdrN7Rqmi51OpGxUT0FGMzM96BSi6ZjDZWV_66T8sdpwBSMBA5beRHM_jH5taVv-lGWXYssS4VNLOhwmqA/s1600/Kamo+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnk4RJTS6SDk1Z354_kH6gQ6EHM_eBNWXyG-tMeoSDlpUucqVDd2-YOSBCLXdrN7Rqmi51OpGxUT0FGMzM96BSi6ZjDZWV_66T8sdpwBSMBA5beRHM_jH5taVv-lGWXYssS4VNLOhwmqA/s400/Kamo+River.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kamo River</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The city was peacefully quiet. There were few cars on the
road. It was as if this city of 1.5 million was still asleep (indeed, most
probably were). Along the river, a handful of people jogged passed me, while on
the other side a group of school children clad in white shirts and purple
shorts. The morning sun made quick work of clearing up the cloud that drifted
in overnight. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pushed on for close to an hour before deciding to turn
away from the river. By chance, I came upon Imperial Palace Park, a rectangular
space in the centre of the city that runs north to south for 1.5 km. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the middle of this oasis, surrounded by
gardens and trees, is the former Imperial Palace (the Emperor’s head office moved
to Tokyo in the 1880s). The palace is walled away from early morning intruders
like me, so I walked throughout the park revelling in its beauty. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnIvwMy9D4ihTOMuCvy67AdVmceSDXxKQQ7sdfK_Pjo0ZVW0hCtf2E2FFt6gAQnbJexCxOTOB9FR7eDtTc76z0V4davD4zhRALCaxfQYumZqdJlqHXXiTRz31UapfHBF63H-GahKPA1Yn/s1600/early+morning+Imperial+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnIvwMy9D4ihTOMuCvy67AdVmceSDXxKQQ7sdfK_Pjo0ZVW0hCtf2E2FFt6gAQnbJexCxOTOB9FR7eDtTc76z0V4davD4zhRALCaxfQYumZqdJlqHXXiTRz31UapfHBF63H-GahKPA1Yn/s400/early+morning+Imperial+Park.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to Imperial Palace Park...many people on bicycles in the city</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCH8D_PImg5EDVsz6erx25DH1EjUh0Vl0Vylcpbni23RbJGvdlWvCNFm14hiulXMDmLRG5IBK8El8k1sHVJAXRBVc7feWYf-eIaD1skzzZkkKKrilnfvvAba5uLdnRNvXkC4grXBtDsoHZ/s1600/Gate+to+Imperial+Palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCH8D_PImg5EDVsz6erx25DH1EjUh0Vl0Vylcpbni23RbJGvdlWvCNFm14hiulXMDmLRG5IBK8El8k1sHVJAXRBVc7feWYf-eIaD1skzzZkkKKrilnfvvAba5uLdnRNvXkC4grXBtDsoHZ/s400/Gate+to+Imperial+Palace.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eastern Gate of Imperial Palace</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibauD8Cv3pTK5l3cbRNAmh2a2fRIk_JRcDQWe4R-PQ4ZAKjBxi65L5nFaVkjCEZoC3Ec8YEMSYzVRT2p2ZpyRsxc11rjfAQza3_Rj8dIGfP1kqGjlCUPyFPxLNWnvSuh83aABhkAnwawIQ/s1600/Imperial+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibauD8Cv3pTK5l3cbRNAmh2a2fRIk_JRcDQWe4R-PQ4ZAKjBxi65L5nFaVkjCEZoC3Ec8YEMSYzVRT2p2ZpyRsxc11rjfAQza3_Rj8dIGfP1kqGjlCUPyFPxLNWnvSuh83aABhkAnwawIQ/s400/Imperial+Park.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imperial Palace Park</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1efonrgPl78KQu7BuFn43UU8fHfXfd-Hai22auX0PC32Sgr0t6NWpkRgYTDxlRhpq8X98JDWgJF1PgV2-OgZkAMo4urK8_1C0Vq3ekGFAVy0b6-g1YekXZtqEZTtU2vAX4CuEtxgMh2_Z/s1600/Madusa-like+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1efonrgPl78KQu7BuFn43UU8fHfXfd-Hai22auX0PC32Sgr0t6NWpkRgYTDxlRhpq8X98JDWgJF1PgV2-OgZkAMo4urK8_1C0Vq3ekGFAVy0b6-g1YekXZtqEZTtU2vAX4CuEtxgMh2_Z/s400/Madusa-like+tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fabulous collection of trees. One was more than 300 hundred years old, and wooden supports to keep it from falling down. I think if I was 300 years old I'd need some support to hold me up</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVDQADF18QOWkXkjbfsg4toR0Mxd3XWXu0_V4iqx1_Ksi1F4gbPfYcOX_3-fiM1u7V8iOlVjcFL4BxsjK_BTRkjWGQahF1U-HAN5q63_j-q1AxJOdFjkvS65UeJDhsNgAJzbg0DW9pPxc/s1600/Spring+in+Kyoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVDQADF18QOWkXkjbfsg4toR0Mxd3XWXu0_V4iqx1_Ksi1F4gbPfYcOX_3-fiM1u7V8iOlVjcFL4BxsjK_BTRkjWGQahF1U-HAN5q63_j-q1AxJOdFjkvS65UeJDhsNgAJzbg0DW9pPxc/s400/Spring+in+Kyoto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzq-CWqTE8ci3Ll-CRRPUSnTOr9ZtsnfAip05JjAiUYUYKM-G89AuSBwi6ZFhbuQB3jBQ0ef9vERlp11vGI968bWQoqTWR_ezoFA7PPIivDyo1gjtbS4cC7G_-fXVMMsTPpctsPk3JGOCU/s1600/morning+stretch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzq-CWqTE8ci3Ll-CRRPUSnTOr9ZtsnfAip05JjAiUYUYKM-G89AuSBwi6ZFhbuQB3jBQ0ef9vERlp11vGI968bWQoqTWR_ezoFA7PPIivDyo1gjtbS4cC7G_-fXVMMsTPpctsPk3JGOCU/s400/morning+stretch.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning stretch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I came upon a Shinto temple and watched quietly as a man
performed his rituals. When he was done, I tried asking about the symbolism of
his actions, but he told me his English was not very good. He led me to a
poster tacked on a wall. The only thing I could read were the numbers “5” and “18”.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is today,” he said. “At the North Gate from 5:00–6:00
PM.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seemed to be a celebration of sorts. I realized that the
numbers were the date. It was May 18<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>. I made a note to return. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After having walked for about three hours I returned to my
hotel for breakfast—rice, noodles covered in a red sauce that resembled
spaghetti, but tasted different, and some fish. And to remind me of home a
flaky bun with strawberry jam. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a short rest, I was out on the streets again. This
time I headed west to Nijo Castle, built in 1626. It was the first time I had
seen so many tourists. Despite having missed the cherry blossoms by a month,
the gardens and grounds were still spectacular. In one tree, were a number of
gardeners perched on branches pruning by hand. </span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6X8vWCprHEf2kXJAZUOcdTzYaHsJgM4c0qgb-5mHbzdk5knMYsZi_TwgbctqUpFKvibkHw8ZwRToRF5PoJHCNCiq3vEQr9kjgnWfY2FJar-_bcpfQA4Db73fJ1tufahJqHOwmDOpN9Ct/s1600/Castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6X8vWCprHEf2kXJAZUOcdTzYaHsJgM4c0qgb-5mHbzdk5knMYsZi_TwgbctqUpFKvibkHw8ZwRToRF5PoJHCNCiq3vEQr9kjgnWfY2FJar-_bcpfQA4Db73fJ1tufahJqHOwmDOpN9Ct/s400/Castle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nijo Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiO_jWf3bf9ytNV6WiZzHweF4G7s_7tIaKnKX9bS4Fhdzizw1kD3r3dbuTTfS_Iqu-6wBCZyfoTOqdo9OVhGKRC-AyyL9Bc1injNwyfjbYxdnCdF5MKjx_5xTtU09T-ikHns3NJCrHUuTc/s1600/Nijo+Castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiO_jWf3bf9ytNV6WiZzHweF4G7s_7tIaKnKX9bS4Fhdzizw1kD3r3dbuTTfS_Iqu-6wBCZyfoTOqdo9OVhGKRC-AyyL9Bc1injNwyfjbYxdnCdF5MKjx_5xTtU09T-ikHns3NJCrHUuTc/s400/Nijo+Castle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of spring blossoms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW15nnFTmZwNtjOJnATiwVY9QaMh3LKJf02kYXRssyO4rvXqa7ADoqM57zsBDcrMJb7OZcbZ3rsdEaSdsjwXTStc_kOw-zdGRaUx59WRL5gC0Z7vpMg4KLuLt2Cz_MiR-Pc5AarynOCYxN/s1600/nijo+castle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW15nnFTmZwNtjOJnATiwVY9QaMh3LKJf02kYXRssyO4rvXqa7ADoqM57zsBDcrMJb7OZcbZ3rsdEaSdsjwXTStc_kOw-zdGRaUx59WRL5gC0Z7vpMg4KLuLt2Cz_MiR-Pc5AarynOCYxN/s400/nijo+castle2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nijo Castle, a collection of five different buildings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOg47vmKsudeoDKyU-QtZPeinlFZZniBGPFwEvt4Av9u3hDmlRIG37FHtBzafSGEZ-se6nWJQqgfL3RuO-FZD_Qn0zLIp8GMTn6M5bnb9G8INpO8YgWyob-yQLl9HPvvAto9Cwsov1AoWy/s1600/lanterns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOg47vmKsudeoDKyU-QtZPeinlFZZniBGPFwEvt4Av9u3hDmlRIG37FHtBzafSGEZ-se6nWJQqgfL3RuO-FZD_Qn0zLIp8GMTn6M5bnb9G8INpO8YgWyob-yQLl9HPvvAto9Cwsov1AoWy/s400/lanterns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxRKDHl9HquP_iR99FFLFnhT1NVPsDgXf6b1sTSHq2sBe7LKE9y1dJMGI6La-HuiyyIOXS2fBu_9hq1Se2lotCB1946Ba2qN5ioPpP7Z3S6WAIwm-OFF7T3rfC8tS51T7mrSBY8unAeeS/s1600/springtime+%2540+Nijo+Castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxRKDHl9HquP_iR99FFLFnhT1NVPsDgXf6b1sTSHq2sBe7LKE9y1dJMGI6La-HuiyyIOXS2fBu_9hq1Se2lotCB1946Ba2qN5ioPpP7Z3S6WAIwm-OFF7T3rfC8tS51T7mrSBY8unAeeS/s400/springtime+%2540+Nijo+Castle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gardens at Nijo Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Leaving the castle, I looked at my watch and decided to make
my way over to the Imperial Palace for the celebration that was to start at
5:00PM. I turned the wrong and spent some time walking in the wrong direction
before realizing my error.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned back
finding the Park, where a large crowd had gathered at the North Gate. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A woman, I presumed from the U.S. (or Canada), came up to me
and asked if I knew what was going on. I said I didn’t. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I keep thinking it’s Angelina Jolie,” she offered. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s not,” I shot back sounding as if I really knew what
was happening and trying not to let her know how ridiculous I thought her
suggestion was.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sullen sound of a lone beating drum signalled the start
of a long parade that included people dressed in traditional clothing. I stayed
for some time, but left before the rituals and activities began. Outside the
park, I looked at my watch and figured that I’d spent more than seven hours
walking. I gave in to modern convenience and took the subway back to my hotel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CYVmawgYvTcK3jkBbaMXGlZTbi42VOhIxOF55QAfW5w6CVn-uB3YdmeG5OyPSjO5UtROCXFdTaYk40z25raaSOkik4nU_AcrCTETCk6bgfEJZLHZQWszmJK5jMM4y0wXBgs6Acu7B7po/s1600/Shinto+celebration3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CYVmawgYvTcK3jkBbaMXGlZTbi42VOhIxOF55QAfW5w6CVn-uB3YdmeG5OyPSjO5UtROCXFdTaYk40z25raaSOkik4nU_AcrCTETCk6bgfEJZLHZQWszmJK5jMM4y0wXBgs6Acu7B7po/s400/Shinto+celebration3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It aint Angelina Jolie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCN1jc-WW2Pahf_vi2bkMNMePwYt2lE-ENb6QjHAuAttPE2N7DnG8Y0wWWg4RNRXv8F4V_Lvi7jHBtOs_WqMAtvfKtgf-tkhMUaLn6GWyO4e2UJPhx4nr91fj2N3w0nKygExKmtje5kvcg/s1600/Shinto+celebration+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCN1jc-WW2Pahf_vi2bkMNMePwYt2lE-ENb6QjHAuAttPE2N7DnG8Y0wWWg4RNRXv8F4V_Lvi7jHBtOs_WqMAtvfKtgf-tkhMUaLn6GWyO4e2UJPhx4nr91fj2N3w0nKygExKmtje5kvcg/s640/Shinto+celebration+2.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaD1V2T1MztBduE7xwkiKN6OzYEcrrE7wOr5rMoVf9e9mNBaEH7r6Bkd0WWvuqvzRo6CFO8KocJVnYh4gzQncAXItfSrqglOw5OSuQeq7blJzAb6cwZSUBDEYh5GZ2c8L-TBwZ_PSv2Jhz/s1600/one+of+many+temples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaD1V2T1MztBduE7xwkiKN6OzYEcrrE7wOr5rMoVf9e9mNBaEH7r6Bkd0WWvuqvzRo6CFO8KocJVnYh4gzQncAXItfSrqglOw5OSuQeq7blJzAb6cwZSUBDEYh5GZ2c8L-TBwZ_PSv2Jhz/s400/one+of+many+temples.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many temples throughout the city</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-28980402758473227032013-05-19T16:30:00.002-07:002013-05-19T16:30:31.511-07:00Jetting to the other side of the world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6krXIHy_DTUd2o8395JhLDXD17Mve7P6rnF8eF9Hrrda579fd02ZWCmvz10TKlij1YqEdZQtoMUdMiK3fsWhlDZ8V0wFBrrQULqktpNjXHcQqecWXcDdFeNoYnJFLloX_NNgAxW8hKeKf/s1600/CIsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6krXIHy_DTUd2o8395JhLDXD17Mve7P6rnF8eF9Hrrda579fd02ZWCmvz10TKlij1YqEdZQtoMUdMiK3fsWhlDZ8V0wFBrrQULqktpNjXHcQqecWXcDdFeNoYnJFLloX_NNgAxW8hKeKf/s1600/CIsign.jpg" height="202" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first leg of my round the world adventure was a 14 hour
flight from New York to Osaka, Japan on China Airlines—made comfortable by a
seat in business class. With an afternoon departure, and because of the route,
the entire flight was made in daylight. In fact, my window shade (actually I
had three windows given the ample space) was down most of the way protecting me
from the sun’s bright glare. And of the sun’s harmful radiation warming me
throughout the flight? Maybe like sitting in an x-ray for14 hours, except there
no one comes to fill up your wine glass. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Flying over Quebec and across Hudson Bay, I stole peeks out
the window. Chunks of ice—large and small—sparkled in the sea below. It was as
if someone had dropped a bag of diamonds from the sky. Beautiful. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNdfgtwVdcHAJEA3JXqwjywvj0gwNfihNdVpUUJ8r4ViqqtjcKTVEwUKh-4T4zjLGUe6hbng0J4ClftPN-HT3brnLPiz6WDUPP5LSQnuT9YIebSnMeeFpktYS1N4Ble6UQKq_-AKn4Df9/s1600/russia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNdfgtwVdcHAJEA3JXqwjywvj0gwNfihNdVpUUJ8r4ViqqtjcKTVEwUKh-4T4zjLGUe6hbng0J4ClftPN-HT3brnLPiz6WDUPP5LSQnuT9YIebSnMeeFpktYS1N4Ble6UQKq_-AKn4Df9/s1600/russia.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eastern Russia from 34,000 feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite the countless flights I’ve taken, air travel still
amazes me. In this case, 365 of us seated ourselves in a cylindrical tube and
rocketed down a strip of concrete fast enough that said tube climbed into the sky—and
stayed there until directed to come back to earth. Smiling people came around
with food and drink, and then in a half day’s time we’re on the side of the world.
Feeling like crap, mind you. Amazing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcNnhc_B585VWnMz-r-2ZG7IriC11jHtfiSr9hpE46FpPuSrCR_owsp4vESFJwoTXOTohGUc98ZtYBCKDPzMnXPbo3HiCx3OpXNTkQgwND_mn2obRNIFl5ldjYpuDCkjX4bATbVydF2xc/s1600/scallop+appetizer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcNnhc_B585VWnMz-r-2ZG7IriC11jHtfiSr9hpE46FpPuSrCR_owsp4vESFJwoTXOTohGUc98ZtYBCKDPzMnXPbo3HiCx3OpXNTkQgwND_mn2obRNIFl5ldjYpuDCkjX4bATbVydF2xc/s1600/scallop+appetizer.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A delicious appetizer of pan fried scallops with roasted red bell pepper coulis, manchego cheese, along with artichoke and mesclun salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi94a96Xf2zJ3igD2xtlCdA35gmPUXxWZEfleMSxXYWy2I4y3ebQSSSQm6KeuzPde7Pw-VIXNMNVaDKLXgajlTimgI0FiY8YGdbyhG3e8C-DgKgclbq0wlTdNiy57IGnSFQnPFAvsMLviT/s1600/dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi94a96Xf2zJ3igD2xtlCdA35gmPUXxWZEfleMSxXYWy2I4y3ebQSSSQm6KeuzPde7Pw-VIXNMNVaDKLXgajlTimgI0FiY8YGdbyhG3e8C-DgKgclbq0wlTdNiy57IGnSFQnPFAvsMLviT/s1600/dessert.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dessert, following the grilled beef tenderloin with herb butter broccoli rabe, carrot, potato, red wine sauce</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We approached Osaka from the north flying over Japan’s
largest island, Honshu and crossing Osaka Bay. It is here that you see Japanese
ingenuity. How do you fit more than 120 million people on a string of islands
that in large part are covered by mountains? You reclaim land from the sea, a
technical term for dumping a whole bunch of earth into the ocean until there is
no more water. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We passed Kobe airport, which from above looks like a large
platform built out in the ocean. On the other side of the bay is Osaka’s Kansai
International Airport, which too was built on an artificial island. The challenge
here is that the land that the airport sits has sunk more than expected. To
compensate, adjustable columns have been used to support the terminal building. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With three days in Japan, I opted to spend it in Kyoto, an
hour’s train ride from Osaka. Many people know of Kyoto only through the Kyoto
Protocol, an international treaty signed in the city in 1997, which required
industrialized countries to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. Beset by controversy,
the United States signed but never ratified the Protocol and Canada subsequently
withdrew. Politics aside, many probably don’t know that Kyoto is steeped in
history, serving as the imperial capital of Japan for more than 1,000 years
until it moved to Tokyo in the 1860s.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wife often tells me I have a poor sense of direction. I’m
not sure, but I’ve been all over the world and always seem to return home. It
was about eight in the evening when I exited Kyoto’s main train station. The
plaza in front of the station was busy with people. Some were having photos of
themselves taken against red hued backdrop of the Kyoto Tower rising behind
them across the street. I passed others seemingly amazed at what must have been
the world’s smallest light and water display. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Given to my frugal nature, I’m often apt to forgo transportation
that involves money leaving my pocket <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when my two feet can deliver me to my
destination, and so I set off from the train station with only a vague sense of
where my hotel was. Sure this strategy has on occasion led to long walks in the
wrong direction, but it’s about the journey and not the destination, isn’t it? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had been walking for about 20 minutes when a sliver of
doubt entered my mind. Had I turned down the wrong street? Had I passed the
hotel already? I pushed on a little further, my suitcase trailing behind and the
weight of my small backpack pulling on my shoulders. Then, as if I had known it
all along, I happened upon my hotel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Home for the next three days was the Kyoto Rich Hotel, which
is ironic, because of you were rich you wouldn’t be staying here. This isn’t a
slight against the hotel. For sure the hotel is clean and functional. It’s just
that the rooms are...let’s say smaller than small. Little more than six feet
wide, there is enough space for a single bed and a desk next to it. But it
comes with its own bathroom, which when you step into leaves little head room.
Anyone over six feet would have to lean their head down to avoid hitting the
ceiling. But at $45 it’s a steal in this expensive country.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having been up for more than 24 hours, I climbed into bed
and hoped for a long and restful sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0jJRvRW7a0acK1w5LJcoG5EuN-sXqrqT5wrs4oUBst1OdE5gpgKT0MQsjfu2WdFco5h4fcm_Tdu_sr9GV1ANCMVXQrOh9QEWQ6Yh7SfleUjKrznw8sf98SymusI-3GJ-2bSoda5n75_9o/s1600/room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0jJRvRW7a0acK1w5LJcoG5EuN-sXqrqT5wrs4oUBst1OdE5gpgKT0MQsjfu2WdFco5h4fcm_Tdu_sr9GV1ANCMVXQrOh9QEWQ6Yh7SfleUjKrznw8sf98SymusI-3GJ-2bSoda5n75_9o/s1600/room.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small, yet cozy room in Kyoto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-67529678412217987872013-05-18T12:04:00.001-07:002013-05-18T12:04:14.020-07:00NY cabbie now knows China Airlines and Air China are differentThe other day as my taxi was nearing New York's Kennedy Airport, the driver asked me what airline I was flying. <br />
<br />
"China Airlines," I replied. <br />
<br />
As we passed the large roadside signs displaying the various airlines and respective terminals they operate out of, I noted that China Airlines was at Terminal 4, so it was surprise when the driver pulled up to Terminal 1. <br />
<br />
"I think we need Terminal 4," I offered. <br />
<br />
"No, this is it," he responded assuredly and pointing to a sign that read, <em>Air China. </em><br />
<br />
"But I'm flying China Airlines..."<br />
<br />
"Oh," he said sounding puzzled. He drove on, navigating the circuitous roadway that snaked around to Terminal 4, where he deposited me in front of a sign that read, <em>China Airlines</em><br />
<br />
China Airlines is Taiwan's largest airline and based in Taipei. (<a href="http://www.kendonohue.com/articles/China%20Airlines.pdf" target="_blank">read more</a> in a detailed article by this author), Air China by contrast is one of China's largest airlines and is based in Beijing. Still confused? Not to worry, just remember two different airlines. Now at your next cocktail party when the topic of global aviation comes up you'll sound enlightened. My gift to you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JOG8KVzXMPNARLn89L6L46_9Ryanjj9cTk7BONn3PCoSmr8GK_4PFKwaB7wmYhKKZM_nthY6e_GHd-vagy0meILtElz2jeqmk1Jikz7ydS_n_4reG7AXZQPVewdEt9KHYAQy9_801Qfy/s1600/CI747@JFK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JOG8KVzXMPNARLn89L6L46_9Ryanjj9cTk7BONn3PCoSmr8GK_4PFKwaB7wmYhKKZM_nthY6e_GHd-vagy0meILtElz2jeqmk1Jikz7ydS_n_4reG7AXZQPVewdEt9KHYAQy9_801Qfy/s1600/CI747@JFK.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit 1: This is a China Airlines Boeing 747-400 arriving at JFK two hours before transporting me to Osaka, Japan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6mizRATanI96GjdUiNxZiEm_KmJLljCS7jTvJiaQXxwDhoMewK0H79wMAXa8hLz_Jct5RWJ8MohPEl_hFgbRq80mvc2Lhc7OD1oSfCKPp-VAbF8DvF4GBWbvj_zotgwoxqeq7hEQY5Zi/s1600/airchina@KIX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6mizRATanI96GjdUiNxZiEm_KmJLljCS7jTvJiaQXxwDhoMewK0H79wMAXa8hLz_Jct5RWJ8MohPEl_hFgbRq80mvc2Lhc7OD1oSfCKPp-VAbF8DvF4GBWbvj_zotgwoxqeq7hEQY5Zi/s1600/airchina@KIX.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit 2: An Air China Boeing 737 photographed on arrival at Osaka from seat 18A on the China Airlines aircraft pictured above</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-3639610934309275082013-05-17T07:00:00.000-07:002013-05-17T07:00:07.540-07:00Travel is a lot like life
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Travel is a lot like life. One minute it can be amazingly
beautiful and the next it can be difficult and unpredictable. I arrived at
Newark airport at about 12:30am, and when I got to my hotel (SpringHill Suites),
I was told there was a problem with some of the rooms, and they couldn’t
honour my reservation, because the hotel was full. Instead they had arranged a
room at the Quality Inn in Lyndhurst. Wherever that was. They promised to
refund the room charge (something frugal guy likes) and a taxi would bring me
back in the morning. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This part of New Jersey has a reputation for being gritty
and tough. Beautiful isn’t a word that you’d use to describe this area. I tried
to get my bearings as the taxi sped along a two-lane road at 120 km/hour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were we going west or north? I wasn’t sure. After
about 20 minutes, we turned into the Quality Inn’s parking lot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not surprising considering the early hour, the lobby was
empty. A tallish man, probably in his early thirties and working the front desk,
came out from a small room. He wore glasses and wouldn’t have looked out of
place had he been in my high school’s camera club. He seemed about as excited
to be there as I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The two-level hotel had a musty, well used smell to it. In
some of the hallways the wallpaper was peeling. The hotel seemed past its best
before date. I imagined a large stamp on the side of the hotel...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best before 1989</i>. And it didn’t look any
more impressive in the daylight. In fact, they could probably bulldoze the
hotel, and no one would notice it was gone. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I located my room and opened the door. I was met by the kind
of smell one would have found in an empty bingo hall 30 years ago. Then I spied
the ashtray on the desk. Lovely, I thought. I didn’t think they still have
smoking rooms in hotels. Later, over a breakfast of dry croissants, I saw a
cigarette vending machine in the hotel restaurant. What decade was I in? </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The washroom fixtures in the room were mismatched. The white
toilet clashed with the coffee coloured bathtub that looked as if it was an original
vintage. The wall coverings were off-white in colour, but I didn’t know if that
was how it might have looked when the hotel opened, or if years of cigarette
smoke had turned it that way. It reminded me of the kind of place a fugitive
would have been holed up in a Hollywood movie. Admittedly, I have stayed in
worse places, but I did pull down the bed cover and sheets to make sure the bed
was clean. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was assured that a taxi would come at 9:45 am, allowing enough
time to catch a shuttle bus for the hour-long trip across the city from Newark
to Kennedy airport. With no taxi in sight at 10:05, I called the hotel and
asked when it would be coming. Oh, we’ll send one out now. At 10:30 a driver
arrived and 20 minutes later dropped me off at Newark airport. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went inside to the ground transportation counter to get a
bus ticket. “The next bus is at 11:00,” a woman behind the counter said. What perfect timing I
thought. She asked for my name and then called the bus company. Getting off the
phone, she looked at me and said this bus was full, but there is another at
noon. “When is your flight,” she queried. When I told her 3:00PM, she said it
was best I take a taxi. I smiled and laughed to myself inside. Taking a taxi
from Newark to Kennedy Airport was the very thing I had been trying to avoid.
Five years ago, I had been in a not too different situation. My Qatar Airways
flight into Newark had to do a go-around on approach to the airport, and then a
further 30 minute delay on the ground forced me then to abandon any chance I
had of taking the cheaper option of a train into Manhattan and then another to
JFK. I remember the taxi costing more than $120. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Standing in the taxi queue outside the terminal I couldn’t
help but smile. “That’ll be $86 for the taxi and $30 for road tolls,” a woman
said to me. Emptying my wallet into the hands of the driver an hour later, I
was reminded how travel can be unpredictable, but like life itself you just have
to roll with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-35820289547727399212012-10-14T22:37:00.003-07:002012-10-14T22:37:57.880-07:00Seoul reflection<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was late afternoon when I was standing in downtown Seoul waiting for the #6002 bus to the airport. A man motioned to me that the bus was approaching, and made sure I was standing in the right place to get noticed by the driver. I wasn’t sure if he worked for the bus company, or if he was just being helpful. Whatever the case, he said goodbye and waved to me as I climbed the steps into the bus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PIQU6e3C3bC2blqQ1Qan2O3hXhOhzpYsoYDiVnL3SpDBMQmad36nqsRKus-3lIl3QCd_Ao0URm0yoWyUPMaUrQc7phA4HLCdF1Ay6YONiSbJs0k16f0GcrdsgghlJ-yannmI9GP_eEjp/s1600/chongno+tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PIQU6e3C3bC2blqQ1Qan2O3hXhOhzpYsoYDiVnL3SpDBMQmad36nqsRKus-3lIl3QCd_Ao0URm0yoWyUPMaUrQc7phA4HLCdF1Ay6YONiSbJs0k16f0GcrdsgghlJ-yannmI9GP_eEjp/s400/chongno+tower.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of Seoul's downtown buildings are uninspiring, with the exception of Chongno Tower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rolling down Chongno Road on a blue sky day (a rarity at times given pollution from industry and the 20+ million people that live in the city), I couldn’t help but marvel at the resilience of the Korean people. Devastated following the Korean War, South Korea was one of the world’s poorest countries. Yet, in a handful of decades it has grown into one of the world’s leading economies. It’s likely that you, or someone you know, own something made in Korea. A Hyundai or Kia car, perhaps. Or maybe a Samsung or LG mobile phone or television, or other electronic device. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioqRl5Jgm9Wn0-ZmZTGy9ncd9QOF_ty1lcaZk_e3R1dgIQXFQ_IR1gRaB7abulZEWEXs-ggkI0LOunrOqkkkiHlDG24xHph89q3rug8zZfVWwrCzZYC_v5md9752YcKS5U9oHNotnJgxl/s1600/subwaymap_english.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioqRl5Jgm9Wn0-ZmZTGy9ncd9QOF_ty1lcaZk_e3R1dgIQXFQ_IR1gRaB7abulZEWEXs-ggkI0LOunrOqkkkiHlDG24xHph89q3rug8zZfVWwrCzZYC_v5md9752YcKS5U9oHNotnJgxl/s400/subwaymap_english.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first line in Seoul's subway system was built in 1974. Continued expansion goes on today. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I passed the Chongno Sam Ga subway station, a massive underground complex with 15 exits, and where three subway lines intersect. In fact, the Seoul subway and rail network, which carries more than two billion people each year, is one of the largest in the world. And while others that are marginally larger and more than a Century old, like the New York and London systems, Seoul’s first line opened less than 40 years ago. Looking at a map of the subway system, you’d think that it was designed by an idle three year old with a pack of crayons. But despite its size, the system is easy to navigate and the stations and impressive 11-car trains are immaculately clean. A byproduct of Confucian values that still permeates Korean society. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought back to when Carrie and I were living in Korea, and how the Asian economic crisis bit South Korea hard. The country was embarrassingly forced to accept financial help from the International Monetary Fund (IMF). A series of austerity measures were put in place. It was winter and I remember the heat being turned off in subway stations, along with the down escalators to save energy. The government discouraged foreign travel and encouraged people to buy local goods. People were shamed for not following these edicts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5fdsi9_rJLERbwogAmkcJFAhhCKf0f5hEyyREjH8UmSf3diubTDYwmudHJvBy_TwhBTqRtVOH6T5cxyGeYLwJFdqm13D6Nd4pw0hRdeCr0GnbJrNXQExOYI1A1HQAWLI2FNtdlHHbkcb/s1600/kyunglake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5fdsi9_rJLERbwogAmkcJFAhhCKf0f5hEyyREjH8UmSf3diubTDYwmudHJvBy_TwhBTqRtVOH6T5cxyGeYLwJFdqm13D6Nd4pw0hRdeCr0GnbJrNXQExOYI1A1HQAWLI2FNtdlHHbkcb/s400/kyunglake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the Gyeonbok Palace. Originally constructed in 1395, it was the largest of the five grand palaces built by the Joseon Dynasty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK-SpCCfZO_iohQMMaY3fsOQIxoQz1uXcHrXRryKh09yjq_NcIm8msNCssyosj4NuTstuio2Q3DLvHGoSR2ViBhUpgm4R4Bd5VBdRFgTdnJJ7pCnVzsDCgyZY5BQcAQXfxptutHz9kWgG/s1600/old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK-SpCCfZO_iohQMMaY3fsOQIxoQz1uXcHrXRryKh09yjq_NcIm8msNCssyosj4NuTstuio2Q3DLvHGoSR2ViBhUpgm4R4Bd5VBdRFgTdnJJ7pCnVzsDCgyZY5BQcAQXfxptutHz9kWgG/s400/old+and+new.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old and new</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Carrie was teaching a class of students, who were about 10 or 11 years old, and one day a couple of the students yelled out, “Teacha, Teacha…Jason is using Japanese pen…IMF..IMF.” While the class was laughing uproariously, all eyes had turned to the offending student.” His was an honest response. “Japanese pens are better than Korean pens!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-TjvNjwz_T6_3a4WTwfh5isphg1G2HF01VMfYfmEA6YLDgRpvfz2asJuUHFgcoyxtruk2B-0kZxiGKiuydpOYEpDAPBSwLiQrs2zO4loaj0Dkf92fVv2tO0Ln7w9DVTgJU5SsS29prdd/s1600/door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-TjvNjwz_T6_3a4WTwfh5isphg1G2HF01VMfYfmEA6YLDgRpvfz2asJuUHFgcoyxtruk2B-0kZxiGKiuydpOYEpDAPBSwLiQrs2zO4loaj0Dkf92fVv2tO0Ln7w9DVTgJU5SsS29prdd/s400/door.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All doors lead to new opportunities</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqq1bueJuv0pVNfc7CU7P04gx3quzkMhuxgPKZwgF5rfwGL6E_u6rMGoxJMZmjq4PtWKdht7se21Ta1sYAvx9kyNMcZ1-Lrbeo3TZmqiMFpMbhFRDpIo0EHmURiMx5p4e005sUs2mXsy4/s1600/kyungbuk2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqq1bueJuv0pVNfc7CU7P04gx3quzkMhuxgPKZwgF5rfwGL6E_u6rMGoxJMZmjq4PtWKdht7se21Ta1sYAvx9kyNMcZ1-Lrbeo3TZmqiMFpMbhFRDpIo0EHmURiMx5p4e005sUs2mXsy4/s400/kyungbuk2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhXTlcB2Kw0rfFCY0isaI6GqcGHpq2Ko5qSDGYP_RaVhUvALuKNs7yThiYK29diF2_-4nGGjd3k2RHnF6ImpaDvMMlMIpeTGcPuLS6lrDlqA9C50En2_rujRKQsQtUB98G32MhsIeCZ5Z/s1600/roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhXTlcB2Kw0rfFCY0isaI6GqcGHpq2Ko5qSDGYP_RaVhUvALuKNs7yThiYK29diF2_-4nGGjd3k2RHnF6ImpaDvMMlMIpeTGcPuLS6lrDlqA9C50En2_rujRKQsQtUB98G32MhsIeCZ5Z/s400/roof.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzhLep8dIeBli6bJxkGhyphenhyphen6vb_pwUvVcUNzAXUSg1ev-a0XcVILYdRbC8Vd1W5mZTd_YUMHXh8dYKSINrfo-9SguD_4r6n9NbSPVGrpuxZFFmR9bDeOL7e1eTLxZP3jnxGwdYQM1dkFTkV/s1600/smkyungbukpalace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzhLep8dIeBli6bJxkGhyphenhyphen6vb_pwUvVcUNzAXUSg1ev-a0XcVILYdRbC8Vd1W5mZTd_YUMHXh8dYKSINrfo-9SguD_4r6n9NbSPVGrpuxZFFmR9bDeOL7e1eTLxZP3jnxGwdYQM1dkFTkV/s400/smkyungbukpalace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQagEtvd66fiUwgjRavOT9PF7vTSoPIFI9zBrzJfK8iucMh0UBmy8KXwHFzik67ZQb-mZXuLRwcJUnpitqA4XGo-7GYCo2C90gDnt_aI2gzgxxhuGIxyaE_ciCWIYM2v_JDHKggixj9S_g/s1600/dongdaemun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQagEtvd66fiUwgjRavOT9PF7vTSoPIFI9zBrzJfK8iucMh0UBmy8KXwHFzik67ZQb-mZXuLRwcJUnpitqA4XGo-7GYCo2C90gDnt_aI2gzgxxhuGIxyaE_ciCWIYM2v_JDHKggixj9S_g/s400/dongdaemun.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dongdaemun, or Great East Gate, one of eight gates of Seoul originally constructed between 1396 and 1398. Six of the eight gates still remain today</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Koreans even lined up to give their gold to the government to shore up the country’s gold reserves. Imagine that. And in just a few short years Koreans were reaping the benefits of an improved economy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A little more than hour after leaving downtown Seoul, the bus arrived at Incheon International Airport, which depending on who’s doing the surveying is ranked as the world’s best airport—a gleaming jewel of Korean innovation and determination.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyQrUEoeE9BJeLY4Bp-60LnRzbbFPl-mCOpUL-LoS7M4nEnWMFqkpLfF86VZNttzMR9Ozcr0jKcP8viXxG3bnESfSgiBsmB94PXPPisuT0BdbAPHV0YJH-4BtlWbYgIA3Z8yobjnXYTw3/s1600/ICN+station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyQrUEoeE9BJeLY4Bp-60LnRzbbFPl-mCOpUL-LoS7M4nEnWMFqkpLfF86VZNttzMR9Ozcr0jKcP8viXxG3bnESfSgiBsmB94PXPPisuT0BdbAPHV0YJH-4BtlWbYgIA3Z8yobjnXYTw3/s400/ICN+station.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The modernistic train station at Seoul's Incheon International Airport</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
</div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-27833108718954185352012-10-11T20:53:00.000-07:002012-10-11T20:53:06.717-07:00Seoul's renewal <span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a previous post I shared a story about the renewal of
life. Seoul, too, recently underwent a renewal of its own, when water again flowed along Cheonggyecheon. This six
kilometre stream has played an important role in the city’s long history, but
the Centuries haven’t always been kind to this waterway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In more recent times Seoul’s rapid growth following the Korean War led to a surge of people moving to the city. Choked with garbage and sand and
earth, Cheonggyecheon had become neglected. As a result, through the 1950s and ‘60s
the stream was covered over with concrete to make way for roads. And in 1971 an
elevated highway was constructed. This was hailed as a sign of successful industrialization and
modernization </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwWweUJSdHt8sbyEugzbU_KHOUvtL37UdD-Hkn-kZRAPpXNJ8nrecniKH6Lb9umqgHGzmurrdnbSQTj5fsTfoWCks6jBZCKsKHzOy_SoHfIDzUqDqicmapvHXNjrQyuR7of7dDX0BX9Z2/s1600/stream_cars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwWweUJSdHt8sbyEugzbU_KHOUvtL37UdD-Hkn-kZRAPpXNJ8nrecniKH6Lb9umqgHGzmurrdnbSQTj5fsTfoWCks6jBZCKsKHzOy_SoHfIDzUqDqicmapvHXNjrQyuR7of7dDX0BX9Z2/s400/stream_cars.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a few years ago, this is what Cheonggyecheon looked like</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But so-called progress comes at a price, and as you can imagine
an elevated highway running through the middle of the city was an awful blight.
I remember walking in this area 15 years ago, and it was noisy and desolate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not without critics, the city decided upon a massive $900
million urban renewal project that would see the stream restored. In 2003, the
elevated highway was removed and two years later the stream, about 15 feet wide, was flowing again. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A walking path was built on both sides of the stream, and at points along the waterway, large stones have been
placed, so people can cross from one side to the other. A series
of bridges were also built to allow cars and pedestrians at road level to cross. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtKLhMMWDuQXRPFbyqvp2S7ZKlPe8Y5yP0Cu9a0KA3SAZ1xz1D0SYht-ArHyLJ6gPdsZHuB7yachDudGwBU7fS0-MF5srPi3eKzMnN2fBqkAAhJZ2Ciw5SQY8E18qfPnI9wg9jGOpRATk/s1600/stream6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtKLhMMWDuQXRPFbyqvp2S7ZKlPe8Y5yP0Cu9a0KA3SAZ1xz1D0SYht-ArHyLJ6gPdsZHuB7yachDudGwBU7fS0-MF5srPi3eKzMnN2fBqkAAhJZ2Ciw5SQY8E18qfPnI9wg9jGOpRATk/s400/stream6.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5PZC-7UM3zozHdyXGywi1adKFfZ7pRJX1usSJ0Ck5Pwnb36Gl-UZ8dXiON8z6P7DdRvDWMGvF12YPiID7_g8KB10YTidE9O4p68RzwDHYJs_UPdhFlvJBhGmiJrSAParLTgR70gPNyIOx/s1600/stream_rapids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5PZC-7UM3zozHdyXGywi1adKFfZ7pRJX1usSJ0Ck5Pwnb36Gl-UZ8dXiON8z6P7DdRvDWMGvF12YPiID7_g8KB10YTidE9O4p68RzwDHYJs_UPdhFlvJBhGmiJrSAParLTgR70gPNyIOx/s400/stream_rapids.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what courage to make things right looks like. A fantastic example of urban renewal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not surprisingly the stream has now become a popular walking area for
locals and visitors. I could see the stream from my hotel, and after a tiring day I just wanted to stay put, but I forced myself outside and was glad I did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I followed the stream’s course east toward
Dongdaemun, or east gate, for about two kilometres. Thick grasses and trees line the banks of the stream. Every so often I would step over the large stones and walk along the other side. I stopped and looked back as the setting sun lit up the western sky. As you would think, there is little wildlife in this
city of more than 20 million, so I was surprised when I saw the stream teeming
with fish. And for a city of its size, Seoul is relatively clean, and the area around the stream is no
different. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqj5IGX4mjvWMKYWOgLaMp2XSouDrSeNyCJqltlHo0GA0DhBqHypusWi9jU_alwQAt1HauiV5WjQdQ5QgWzI0bWtridCix8jbeFDUMOXFthhQZyx013at8i6IQV1nxnulZE1Zn0F1qXfsR/s1600/stream_monk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqj5IGX4mjvWMKYWOgLaMp2XSouDrSeNyCJqltlHo0GA0DhBqHypusWi9jU_alwQAt1HauiV5WjQdQ5QgWzI0bWtridCix8jbeFDUMOXFthhQZyx013at8i6IQV1nxnulZE1Zn0F1qXfsR/s400/stream_monk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXtDBxYEWo5Yf-z6WnhbLRgLjbSLkQDHXmmhgmH-upTe0nBGnaqEPXn8tfChLLxaNUz2NwX_2mnpElUnmt8tW8xZwoA8SiId-ByJR-dnacLjScYZW2d5fft2JSLmfLmfFXwsrTPn7wOH0/s1600/stream_me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXtDBxYEWo5Yf-z6WnhbLRgLjbSLkQDHXmmhgmH-upTe0nBGnaqEPXn8tfChLLxaNUz2NwX_2mnpElUnmt8tW8xZwoA8SiId-ByJR-dnacLjScYZW2d5fft2JSLmfLmfFXwsrTPn7wOH0/s400/stream_me.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUQ3gRA0xY9HinU9YxkVWseiuJK9Cd6xVBsBOnxacimxP7-wipf8GX5kgPVcZuOq-DaHeA0MlHUtYxaL8szMT5TsHwguuHdcq78boGNRvy3mmR0y1nXckhs-gm5O7l5tMVT6RUHuDtKx8/s1600/stream5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUQ3gRA0xY9HinU9YxkVWseiuJK9Cd6xVBsBOnxacimxP7-wipf8GX5kgPVcZuOq-DaHeA0MlHUtYxaL8szMT5TsHwguuHdcq78boGNRvy3mmR0y1nXckhs-gm5O7l5tMVT6RUHuDtKx8/s400/stream5.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I continued on, and came to a large image on a wall. It showed what the area was like when it was a highway filled with cars. The transformation is mind boggling. It's uplifting to know that with some courage and ingenuity we can make right and restore the environment to what it once was. </span></span></div>
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-85523530060151098312012-10-10T07:19:00.000-07:002012-10-10T07:19:24.030-07:00The Seoul I knew
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bus wound its way through the outskirts of Seoul. My
destination was Chongno Sam Ga, an area in the city centre where we lived. It
is also the site of a massive subway station, where three lines intersect. It’s
so large that it has numerous exits, and you can easily find yourself
disoriented if you pop out the wrong one, as happened to Carrie and me a few
times. </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried to steal glances of the familiar, but I recognized
little. Maybe because it was dark, or maybe these were areas we didn’t
frequent, or maybe it was because we most often travelled on the subway and so one
has little reference for what’s above. Then I spotted Seoul Tower in the
distance sitting atop Namsan, meaning south mountain, a 262 metre peak in the
centre of the city. Minutes later, we stopped at a large intersection. I
recognized it immediately. This was where Chongno St. and Sejon Boulevard meet.
The latter of these two busy eight-lane streets is named after King Sejon, who
reigned from 1418 to 1450. His biggest achievement was overseeing the creation
of Hangul, the Korean language that consists of just 24 consonants and vowels,
each with their own unique sound. Previous to the introduction of Hangul,
Koreans used Chinese characters, but it was too difficult for commoners to
learn, and so the King introduced a simpler language, whose characters rely
primarily on the use of straight lines. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3jpBjIORKOjjRXgIgxgNtJGCAO-i2Plvq-I8B_CamrOdk00mh6hyphenhyphenb8f-rsNHPzZDROSYpJKvY4a1IgMGKpG9h-vvIqmjP4WrpYsteV8_EggPLJi0INIWMAof3StLLWJaAyxxOc97C7Kq/s1600/king+sejon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3jpBjIORKOjjRXgIgxgNtJGCAO-i2Plvq-I8B_CamrOdk00mh6hyphenhyphenb8f-rsNHPzZDROSYpJKvY4a1IgMGKpG9h-vvIqmjP4WrpYsteV8_EggPLJi0INIWMAof3StLLWJaAyxxOc97C7Kq/s400/king+sejon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of King Sejon. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just as I remembered, Chongno was buzzing with activity. It was
nine-thirty in the evening, and the shops were all still open and doing a brisk
business. I got off the bus and walked a couple of blocks to my hotel to drop
off my bags. I had a quick shower, and as I tasted the water on my lips it took
me back instantly 15 years to when we lived here. It was such a brief, yet
intense experience. More powerful than hearing a song that takes you back to a
different time.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember how the street that led to our small hotel
assaulted our senses the evening we arrived. The street was ablaze in light then,
as it is now, from the little shops and restaurants that compete for space in
this crowded city. The sidewalks were spilling over with people and street
carts serving up unfamiliar dishes. What world had we just landed in, we
wondered? But it didn’t take long for the strangeness to disappear, and it just
became known as “our street”.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I walked along that street once again. And nothing had really
changed. It was as we left it. The little 7-11 where I’d buy yogurt each
morning was still there. And the smells were still the same—the carts serving
up dried fish, woks full of food bubbling away in bright orange sauces, roasted
chestnuts, and the scent of waste water underground rising from the grates in
the sidewalk. The soju tents, too, were still there. Constructed of small tarps,
these tents are set up in the evenings and serve food and soju, (Korean vodka).
In winter, when the temperature drops below zero, the walls of the tent come
down to protect patrons from the cold outside. And the drunken men, many in
business suits, still stagger down the street holding each other up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKm1tV63c7ACZN9TaG7rh618o-TiSLJkksR22YYtOpbRU-1pTi5k581THbXSIgfjKOfIjqIbEIF9CG7TuEJkR8VUYo1zfzzdJ052DTp5VxhTfGkw0QU0TWewNW8v6AD-tJoANlWQTh9L4K/s1600/cooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKm1tV63c7ACZN9TaG7rh618o-TiSLJkksR22YYtOpbRU-1pTi5k581THbXSIgfjKOfIjqIbEIF9CG7TuEJkR8VUYo1zfzzdJ052DTp5VxhTfGkw0QU0TWewNW8v6AD-tJoANlWQTh9L4K/s400/cooking.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In this part of the city, streets and alleyways are filled with small restaurants and sidewalk carts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZua2B999Apsu4f-HDi622kjMvksazO6K4btTOCSHz3KT0T6AUj8otUuWtjRGBzbmj6FDkQXcoL25qFGYHf1oxytG9-v6LZwqsQeJ7gB_7Dv4ie6zROf98dcvjY86aeVMQYwohxA_TCksZ/s1600/fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZua2B999Apsu4f-HDi622kjMvksazO6K4btTOCSHz3KT0T6AUj8otUuWtjRGBzbmj6FDkQXcoL25qFGYHf1oxytG9-v6LZwqsQeJ7gB_7Dv4ie6zROf98dcvjY86aeVMQYwohxA_TCksZ/s400/fish.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish...live, grilled and dried is everywhere</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">An alley leads to the narrow, pedestrian-only street where we
lived. The hotel has been renovated and its name changed. And it’s now $80 per
night, instead of the $18 we paid. But it still looks the same from the
outside. Our room was only big enough for a double bed, a small table between
two chairs, and a wardrobe where we hung our clothes. I often wonder how we
managed to live in such a small space, but we made it work. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGb9Str-qrQhbkBEpyyALQmVVzmklDhkM20fz7DQYqFpxS5xl1CVgajesyTIjWjtnko1mVvExGvsg6lTCdeuC42N1hafub1itUfHTVePyK45r_fFpS801B4c2PJ7BNr-GLfsSjQd4aBe4/s1600/hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGb9Str-qrQhbkBEpyyALQmVVzmklDhkM20fz7DQYqFpxS5xl1CVgajesyTIjWjtnko1mVvExGvsg6lTCdeuC42N1hafub1itUfHTVePyK45r_fFpS801B4c2PJ7BNr-GLfsSjQd4aBe4/s400/hotel.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was home...top floor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I looked up to
where our window was. Without many conveniences, we’d use the ledge outside the
window as our refrigerator in the colder months. We’d keep milk, ham, cheese, and
drinks on the ledge. I remember I had gotten a cake for Carrie’s birthday, and
wanted to save what was left for the following day, so we put the cake on the
ledge overnight. In the morning it was gone. We looked down and saw that it had
fallen onto the roof of a building below. I think the cake was still on that
roof months later when we left. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wondered about the family that used to run the hotel. The adult
children who handed us our key when we returned at the end of each day. And the
older couple who’d clean our bathroom and bring new towels and sheets. I thought
about how we bathed, cleaned our dishes, and washed our clothes in the olive
green bath tub. My hands would burn after wringing out the clothes. I stood at
the hotel’s entrance. A side of me wanted to go inside and ask if room 602 still
existed. But what value would there be in seeing a room that looks nothing like
it did when we lived there? Instead I turned away and passed the little shop where
we used to buy grape juice and oranges. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Seoul I knew hadn’t really changed. I was glad for that,
I thought, as I headed back to my hotel. </span><br />
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-50675473160524295312012-10-09T03:01:00.003-07:002012-10-09T03:01:39.605-07:00Seeking closure in SeoulIt’s been nearly 15 years since I was last in Seoul, South Korea’s vibrant capital. That last day was a blur, yet I remember it like it just happened. My wife and I were leaving a city that had become home for a short time. We didn’t know it then, but a serious medical condition was stealing her life away. She had lost much of her sight. And so racing to the airport in a taxi, she had to ask me how fast we were going. I looked at the speedometer needle and said that maybe it was a good thing she couldn’t see.<br /><br /> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ87RvceMoGdKfFJVzY-toqA1EuvpIAFS3ZzfxuOrj82pN47JNbJfPsi4uVY6G9h1ihoQHiUppVApo1mbkOZRoezteo3toS0p4LmZBgaSkIul3cVKP9KHTv3wvxQOC4pMpxcjv7VGAw8nB/s1600/seoul_sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ87RvceMoGdKfFJVzY-toqA1EuvpIAFS3ZzfxuOrj82pN47JNbJfPsi4uVY6G9h1ihoQHiUppVApo1mbkOZRoezteo3toS0p4LmZBgaSkIul3cVKP9KHTv3wvxQOC4pMpxcjv7VGAw8nB/s400/seoul_sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning in Seoul</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In many respects fast is an appropriate metaphor for Seoul—a city that has grown up in just a handful of decades. It is a place constantly on the move, where buildings and office towers seemingly go up overnight. And it was a place where Carrie’s health failed fast. The sense of wanderlust that had marked the first few months of our stay—when we explored the city’s parks, historical sights and sprawling markets, and adjusted to a new culture—soon changed. <br /> <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrtnnz75sMIoqwiDUnJQmO_R1zYWUTZfheIo9qvkjl0sTIgMKONw2-Wr7UXlDBapmHQNkiymqO-inhCDH_FWMBqpTxQ2fT6XvtF-74tcqvh7aUI892NPXTuRtjJnPo6TlQQTiEL3D8-BG/s1600/seoul_sunrise2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrtnnz75sMIoqwiDUnJQmO_R1zYWUTZfheIo9qvkjl0sTIgMKONw2-Wr7UXlDBapmHQNkiymqO-inhCDH_FWMBqpTxQ2fT6XvtF-74tcqvh7aUI892NPXTuRtjJnPo6TlQQTiEL3D8-BG/s400/seoul_sunrise2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking westward over one part of the city's downtown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It began innocently, when she began losing her sight—ever so slight at first that she simply thought she needed glasses. But it got so bad that one day she didn’t make it to work. Deciding to get off the subway part way, and unable to see well, Carrie struggled to find a telephone to call the school where she worked. When she did locate one, she fumbled around trying to find a coin to put in it. Unable to make the call, she returned to the small room in which we lived in the city’s downtown. <br /><br /> Numerous trips to the hospital detected swelling on her optic discs. Doctors prescribed high doses of a steroid medication, and said it should clear up in a few months. We had no idea how grave her situation really was. Unable to work, and with the Asian economic crisis hitting the Korean economy hard—making it difficult to recruit English teachers—the school asked if I would teach Carrie’s classes, as well as mine. We agreed to stay another two weeks until month end.<br /><br /> Shockingly, Carrie could no longer see detail in things—only the outline, or shape of something. I’d go to work early each morning, and before I left I would put her medication and some food on a small table, so she would know where to find them. She was holed up in our room for most of the day. She turned on the television, and while she couldn’t see much, the sound offered comfort.<br /><br /> Many an afternoon she would gather her courage and boldly venture outside. She’d go down the street, grab a meal at MacDonald’s and return home with it. She dodged the blurry figures that walked toward her. We lived on the sixth floor of a building with no elevator, and on most days she made it home okay. But on one occasion, with her energy fading, she collapsed in front of our door. A single bulb struggled to light the dim hallway, and in the darkness that had befallen her, Carrie groped about to find the key to the room and her lunch.<br /><br />She had become a prisoner—not only had the world around her grown dark, but she was trapped inside our small room for the last few weeks we were in Seoul. All the while my punishing teaching schedule kept me away for more than 14 hours each day—knowing that Carrie was alone and unwell made it even more of a struggle. <br /><br /> Those last few days in Seoul were especially difficult. Carrie had trouble sleeping—though if she propped herself up she could get some sleep sitting upright. And each time she took a breath a rattling sound could be heard. We learned later it was caused from fluid building up in her lungs.<br /><br />Still unaware how critical her health was, Carrie just wanted to sleep when we arrived home from Korea. The following day, with her heart racing and arms twitching, she went to the hospital. Her heart rate and blood pressure were alarmingly high, so much so that doctors were surprised she hadn’t had a heart attack or stroke. An hour after arriving at the hospital, we were told her kidneys weren’t working. How could this be? She was just 26 years old. And didn’t the doctors in Korea just say she had a condition with her eyes. <br />
<br />
None of that mattered now. She was transferred to another hospital, and underwent emergency dialysis in the intensive care unit. I remember walking into her room and seeing her hooked up to a number of machines— the sounds of which broke the silence in the room. She had no energy to say anything, and so we just looked at each other. And hoped for the best.<br /><br />To be sure, much has changed in our lives since those uncertain days. Carrie regained her sight, and after 14 months on dialysis she received a kidney transplant, when I was able to give her one of mine. Now with her health restored she is a mother to our two sons.<br /><br />Despite the time that has passed I have had a nagging desire to return to Seoul. To linger one more time along the streets that became our home, and leave the city on a more positive note. It’s as if something was left unfinished.<br />
<br />
*****************************************************<br /><br /> When I landed in Seoul yesterday evening it was much like it was 15 years ago. The hazy sky made the burning orange sun larger than life, before melting away into the horizon. But as the bus left the airport (which hadn’t been built when I was last here), an empty feeling in my stomach led me to question why I had come. What was I hoping to find? Maybe I wouldn’t recognize the city. That instead of a homecoming of sorts it would feel strange and foreign like it did when Carrie and I first arrived. If much has changed in my life, then surely Seoul had changed too. Was I foolish to think that I could come here after all these years and find some closure? I hoped not. <br /><br /> Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397495732843705936.post-2368546554508140822012-10-08T15:53:00.001-07:002012-10-08T15:53:22.658-07:00To Seoul with Hello Kitty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTRffvTc5lgKwpxVYMqHyk1EIuUtZLxsflHF7MUI6fptzn4e16TweDo16es6CfA22pxXMIPZfcb-GfMK0PztY2lf9CNCTRrgKRQt0eP0cR1qR2CzyzqJKvPio2psRz2NWvHczYbT8P_4n/s1600/hello_logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTRffvTc5lgKwpxVYMqHyk1EIuUtZLxsflHF7MUI6fptzn4e16TweDo16es6CfA22pxXMIPZfcb-GfMK0PztY2lf9CNCTRrgKRQt0eP0cR1qR2CzyzqJKvPio2psRz2NWvHczYbT8P_4n/s400/hello_logo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can be forgiven if you’ve never heard of Hello Kitty,
the Japanese cartoon character. But you may be surprised to hear that what
began as an image on a coin purse in 1974 has grown into a $5 billion global business.
Kitty White is a Japanese bobtail cat with a red bow in her hair, and was born
in London, so says the character profile. Hello Kitty and her family of
characters appear on everything from clothing, accessories, dolls, stationary,
fine jewelry, and airplanes. Yes, EVA Airways (of Taiwan) has five aircraft
adorned with different Hello Kitty images. But while many airlines have special
liveries (that’s a fancy name for the paint scheme), EVA has integrated the
Hello Kitty theme into the entire passenger experience. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOElExi2OSW14j2GLfJiG8ZLCBrEXMYBtTO5PBMiRp9RVqOGDh_r9zVRjWIu8wtF_5Gdrllf1z4iVS7OcMWLPMe339rmMAdb1Sdaxp7XZFJjYUwINiyOu0r-zn8xKFQVCOn5WAvAJPVzbP/s1600/boarding+pass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOElExi2OSW14j2GLfJiG8ZLCBrEXMYBtTO5PBMiRp9RVqOGDh_r9zVRjWIu8wtF_5Gdrllf1z4iVS7OcMWLPMe339rmMAdb1Sdaxp7XZFJjYUwINiyOu0r-zn8xKFQVCOn5WAvAJPVzbP/s400/boarding+pass.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw5wIpqcNoiVXKve8CSutHe6STXCq0ipgMxa7iRkOy4xKWScUMFEXBG9eVgggk2LuQN-w-4rZFWX8iSqgyzp8jW3g0JGs9wU2xmFTe1RU45qDH-OmhRuayKtQX-C2ghw82MG1awDmCjN5/s1600/kiosk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw5wIpqcNoiVXKve8CSutHe6STXCq0ipgMxa7iRkOy4xKWScUMFEXBG9eVgggk2LuQN-w-4rZFWX8iSqgyzp8jW3g0JGs9wU2xmFTe1RU45qDH-OmhRuayKtQX-C2ghw82MG1awDmCjN5/s400/kiosk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surely the most photographed airline check-in kiosks in the world</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I checked in for my flight from Taipei to Seoul yesterday
afternoon at the Hello Kitty check-in counters and received my Hello Kitty
boarding pass. Even the invitation card for the VIP lounge had the character’s
image on it. Once on board the Airbus A-330 aircraft, passengers were serenaded
by the Hello Kitty theme song, coming from the overhead speakers. Unfamiliar
with this cheery music, it did remind me of Disney’s, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s a Small World</i> playing over and over and over. And on the
personal video monitors, a looping Hello Kitty animated cartoon welcomed
everyone aboard and wished us a pleasant flight. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wY1Y-nlZZzoBagFCkUrQMxqYMExJWUbIZ5-XK7InHHT7XC3HljYPF0XFQBAWPPVJZQJKPwVPGCm1xKbDbYvsYTVtJZdPe7ShE9I6uk2ZrzC8HH2ra0nagR_rxmKndnXL2ZPjuKspLKyU/s1600/jet2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wY1Y-nlZZzoBagFCkUrQMxqYMExJWUbIZ5-XK7InHHT7XC3HljYPF0XFQBAWPPVJZQJKPwVPGCm1xKbDbYvsYTVtJZdPe7ShE9I6uk2ZrzC8HH2ra0nagR_rxmKndnXL2ZPjuKspLKyU/s400/jet2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is EVA's Global Hello Kitty jet featuring popular destinations around the world. EVA has five Hello Kitty jets, which serve three cities in Japan, Seoul, Korea, Hong Kong, and Guam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Large, colourful themed
pillows were on each seat. Even the safety card had the Kitty on it. I thought
perhaps Hello Kitty might even have been up front flying the plane, but I later
met the captain and first officer, and they looked human-like. They even have Hello Kitty toilet paper and soap in the toilets. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGsgt3ZMZMwn_3EPpQU47gJmqdpCttJyza2U6NXsj0Fkj1KK04HhM13INbY7sGhmXRUty2mWZqmL9Yy82oTe1cWY07XNE4PNvY9VUsit-4Y5dALeJ-viE3pk9gEpqJsFTo2H-HjkLSxhM/s1600/fa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGsgt3ZMZMwn_3EPpQU47gJmqdpCttJyza2U6NXsj0Fkj1KK04HhM13INbY7sGhmXRUty2mWZqmL9Yy82oTe1cWY07XNE4PNvY9VUsit-4Y5dALeJ-viE3pk9gEpqJsFTo2H-HjkLSxhM/s400/fa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjav0G-XM1fcN0FzlHL4Gvdq3rVfw8eX6Zde7GkRhLM3Nw5OHshXZZhjsq4elsVfrcsv2y5psXXixcx2VhrNrV51EInmLUUYo8JLCTOqOkxsyoTW7GMVNk9gqDwmaNst3RrIz9elBwreQOg/s1600/pillows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjav0G-XM1fcN0FzlHL4Gvdq3rVfw8eX6Zde7GkRhLM3Nw5OHshXZZhjsq4elsVfrcsv2y5psXXixcx2VhrNrV51EInmLUUYo8JLCTOqOkxsyoTW7GMVNk9gqDwmaNst3RrIz9elBwreQOg/s400/pillows.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon after takeoff the cabin attendants, wearing pink Hello
Kitty aprons, delivered a well presented appetizer consisting of smoked salmon
parcel with cheese filling, smoked halibut rolled with apricot chutney. And on
the plate was a small piece of zucchini in the shape of Hello Kitty. This was
followed by steam fried shrimp dumplings, coated with shredded compoy in an egg
white sauce (I have no idea what compoy is, but it all tasted delicious). The
garlic bread that came with the meal was probably the best I’ve ever had. It
may seem like a small thing, but bread is a difficult thing to deliver well on
an airplane. It can often be dry, but EVA earned top marks for this one. The
pumpkin cheesecake that followed was overflowing with flavour, and the pink
Hello Kitty chocolate was a nice touch to the presentation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0Zaq5BKk7HQmFeQqWDRpD7pTch9uUqgqcRYuYKP9UGs7_G7PEswTcNvTB3Cn1aTKEJN_QewYEAD6EPg-I4HiJ_Uf-egQIpkhyt0fQFcqX6VaPhNk1ENonDbuS3XPJqrFX4iaMk28nPsK/s1600/meal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0Zaq5BKk7HQmFeQqWDRpD7pTch9uUqgqcRYuYKP9UGs7_G7PEswTcNvTB3Cn1aTKEJN_QewYEAD6EPg-I4HiJ_Uf-egQIpkhyt0fQFcqX6VaPhNk1ENonDbuS3XPJqrFX4iaMk28nPsK/s400/meal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Business class starter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiH4k3jJdkCXGa84M8WYRB9uuyyGKvvI1JSiwVPuTmuBcVjnsbQu9N-OSBJnvVkFCGxIZg_ORyVaDCehkGdWyGbLhXSnLYThPqMepfWUCk79G1jM3mCnZEikws6sB-VdPKoksyA1BqNkmt/s1600/starter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiH4k3jJdkCXGa84M8WYRB9uuyyGKvvI1JSiwVPuTmuBcVjnsbQu9N-OSBJnvVkFCGxIZg_ORyVaDCehkGdWyGbLhXSnLYThPqMepfWUCk79G1jM3mCnZEikws6sB-VdPKoksyA1BqNkmt/s400/starter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the Hello Kitty shaped zucchini. When the main meal came it was like a game as I tried to find where catering had creatively placed Hello Kitty. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09GSujJwlgmjUgY8tjoR3zsbjHw4zfAE6Gtwc3y6qW1NrBX5fzvOnzJ7LF_mDlMV5hyphenhyphen6ObQfwuFX5L10TYv80f4Vq_T4_1fJKy4rtg9RFTTxD5cYFGJyuGm4DwRYKwAF9Wz8VSHwFwk4k/s1600/dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09GSujJwlgmjUgY8tjoR3zsbjHw4zfAE6Gtwc3y6qW1NrBX5fzvOnzJ7LF_mDlMV5hyphenhyphen6ObQfwuFX5L10TYv80f4Vq_T4_1fJKy4rtg9RFTTxD5cYFGJyuGm4DwRYKwAF9Wz8VSHwFwk4k/s400/dessert.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious pumpkin cheesecake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With my stomach content, I settled back in my seat and let
the music from the in-flight entertainment system fill my ears. On the opposite
side of the aircraft I could see the sun setting, as we passed over the East
China Sea. There are moments that you wish could go on forever—this was one of
them. But two hours after leaving Taipei, Captain Nico Lin and First Officer,
Carlos Moreno put the aircraft down on runway 16 at Seoul’s Incheon
International Airport, which by many accounts is the world’s best airport. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I was waiting in the immigration queue, I looked up at a
large video monitor, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Incheon Airport...loved
by people worldwide</i>, it read. And no doubt people worldwide love Hello
Kitty, too.</span><br />
Ken Donohuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808895054879830662noreply@blogger.com2