Up at half past five this morning, out the door of the hotel and in a taxi blowing past the remains of the famous gate whose incineration had half of Seoul in tears a while back, and walking past the frolicking homeless people in front of Seoul Station by six. The rude woman behind the counter informed us that every seat before noon had been purchased already on all trains to Pusan, so we bought standing tickets and hoped for empty seats. A pair of well-dressed, laughing Slovakians half-sprinted/half-danced past us several times on our way to the platform, where we found and then lost several seats as people boarded the high-speed train.

The journey was fairly quick, and though we stopped to play musical seats at several stations along the way, we mostly remained seated the whole time. Pusan was relatively warm, and we rushed to take the subway to the crowded bus station, full of people eager to see the newly blossoming cherry trees in Jinhae. The line looped around and around, and we munched on chicken burgers as we watched people cutting in line here and there in front and back of us. Every so often a man would run in and shout something, and several people would leave the line and follow him. I wondered if he was running a competing bus company and brazenly stealing passengers, but you’d think he’d steal customers who hadn’t yet bought their tickets.

When we got out on the curb, we  found that the people the man had been calling were actually those willing to stand in the bus aisle during the hour-long ride to Jinhae. As we drove past various buildings, I realized that most Korean apartments are basically the same, at least as far as outward appearances go; floor-length windows with railings  to keep the kids from falling out. I also figure that Korean people tend to drive like they walk, i.e. with some kind of vengeance. I suppose, however, that the system works well enough as long as everyone agrees to follow along.

The trees in Jinhae were mostly blooming, the formerly stark avenues wreathed in white. We walked back up the streets, marveling at the change from just a week ago, and had lunch at the same roadside stand; the food was still delicious, though we weren’t offered free soju this time. We then walked up to the train station and along the canal where everyone and his undigested dog was taking the same damn picture over and over. It was a bit silly, but there you have it. We walked up the canal, sometimes in the canal bed and sometimes along side, looking for what appeared in the guidebook to be a red bridge, but after traversing the entire thing, no red bridge appeared; I figure it was a Photoshop job. Some attendants were on hand to personally curse people who dared pick cherry blossoms, but there were too many. I saw all sorts of cameras, including a new Polaroid as well as a Rolleiflex. Not a Leica in sight, however, at least not a real one.

The weather was getting colder again as we snaked though the alleys past a public bath with its huge smokestack, and then across the bridge over the tracks. As I stood in the square in front of the station, waiting for Linda and Daphne to finish taking pictures of potted plants, I felt the trip coming to a close. Back at the bus station, the line was even longer than it had been in Pusan this morning, and we waited as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky for our chance at a bus seat, finally boarding along with several shameless Westerners who jumped the line just at sunset, the white cherry blossoms turning blue in the dusk. I was bushed and tried to sleep on the ride back, but didn’t quite achieve unconsciousness due to the fact that I’m still fascinated with the new country that I’m about to leave and kept looking out the window at everything.

It seems that Koreans really enjoy taking the family out to a hotel for the weekend, as both of the ones near the bus station were full, as well as many of the love motels, which I found surprising until a family of four, including two small girls, came in to inquire about a room at the place we eventually found, the “SS” (not sure if they know the connotations; at least there aren’t any Nazi notes in the decor that I can see). It seems that Korea is not yet at the level of requiring business hotels; everything is either an expensive luxury hotel or a cheap, low-class love motel. Taiwan was like that at one point, long ago.

For all of its impressive development, Korea doesn’t exactly scream international; there’s not a great amount of English, Japanese or Chinese on signs. We went next door to e*mart, where they don’t seem to take non-Korean credit cards; we had to pay with cash. The motels don’t take credit cards either. The layout was the same as that of an American mall of not too long ago, but the products were pretty much what you’d find in a Wellcome back in Taiwan, more or less, or the equivalent here.

Now I’m back at the SS. The airport is two stops away via the light rail. Tomorrow we fly back to Taiwan.

I woke up early this morning and proceeded to take pictures of the sunlight creeping through the house. The kids were already up and getting ready for school, and I showed Jack the Dragonball Z Son Goku T-shirt I bought in Kyoto.

Kevin drove me to the airport to see if I could rent a car with my international driver’s license. It turned out I could, so I obtained a silver Honda Civic, got instructions, and set out for Lexington, Virginia.

It was good to be out on the road again, driving long distances alone through interesting scenery. The Civic wasn’t perfect ergonomically, as the side of the dask bit into my leg a bit, but it was generally up to the job of mountain driving via frequent downshifts.

There was quite a bit of roadwork, lanes cut off, and one toll section that you have to pay not only to get into, but to leave as well, $2 each time. Fortunately I had change. I stayed just a bit over the 70mph speed limit, running with traffic, which wasn’t heavy for most of the drive. Almost every radio station was country music, sprinkled with hateful radio hosts saying things like, “These…progressives…are anti-progress. These…people…should be silenced.” At least it kept me awake.

I had lunch at a truck stop; burger and fries accompanied by an incredibly sweet drink that caused me to hack and cough and spit sweet red goo into the landscaping. Nobody seemed to mind; perhaps they’re used to it.

I got into Lexington around 3 or 4pm, amidst a brilliant afternoon, the trees just starting to turn. I parked by the post office, where I dropped in to see my old PO box, and the interior was exactly the same. The whole town seemed exactly the same, I thought as I walked down to Main Street to find a place to stay. The first hotel I came across, the MacAdams Inn, had a room for a benjamin and change, so I got the car, parked it in back, tossed my stuff inside, and walked to my old campus.

My first stop was my freshman dorm, Gilliam Hall, which hasn’t changed at all except for the addition of an ineffective lock on the front door. I went down to the “dungeon” where I failed to get along with my roomie Todd, and found the formerly green walls now ainted pink.

When I rounded the corner of Gilliam, I found the neighboring buildings had been torn down, but the old International House was still there; it is now the Hill House (named after the late Professor Hill?) and houses the Gender Studies and LGBTQ group, which I find astonishing for this community. The door was locked, though, so I proceeded past the sagging rear balcony where George Chang used to park his new Saab, and over to Gaines Hall, which was brand new when I first lived there as a sophomore. All the trees have grown huge now, but it basically looks the same now as it did then, of course with door locks. I was gazing back up at the other side of Gilliam, lost in memories of happening to see one of my particularly attractive fellow students undressing in the window at night, when an Asian student walked up to me and asked if he could help. I couldn’t help but note the resemblance, but decided to keep this creepiness to myself; I thanked him and walked up to the campus proper, the famous colonade, which seems to be under repair, and the old red house where I spent so much time studying Chinese. It is still called the East Asian Language Building, but as far as I know the only East Asian Language taught at W&L today is Japanese. I think the Chinese program died with Dr. Hill.

I then proceeded through the late afternoon light to Reid Hall, aka the Journalism School, which has been completely remodeled. I looked for my old teacher, Professor de Maria, but he’d just left. Fortunately, one of the staff found him for me through his cell phone. “Prof de Maria always gets interesting visitors,” he explained. “You’ve got that vibe about you, so I knew I had to find him for you.”

Professor de Maria was down at the new co-op, or whatever they call it, eating some fruit before his singing class at the church. He seemed happy to see me, and we talked of what we’d both been doing, plans, thoughts on recent sociopolitial trends, etc. He had a lot of interesting observations on the state of things, not all of them entirely hopeful.

After I left Professor de Maria at the church, I walked back to the very nice, expansive university shop to buy some W&L sweatshirts before they closed. I’d been unable to buy them online because the website doesn’t accept foreign orders, which I find ludicrous as many of W&L’s alumni end up overseas. The woman managing the store was very nice and informative, and she told me of a way to use email order things and have them send the stuff by post, but I felt that this information really should be on the website.

The sun had set by this point, the old Doremus Gymnasium silhouetted by its light. I walked down the mall and over to the edge of the Virginia Military Institute’s parade grounds, wondering if I should go look up my old trumpet instructor, (then-)Captain Brodie. He’s probably at least a Colonel by now, if he’s still there. The evening formation was taking place, tiny uniformed figures assembling in front of the massive castle-like barracks in the dying light. I heard the band playing and figured that if Brodie was there, he was probably too busy for visitors. The bugle played, and the cannon boomed, and I thought of my many visits to the Taiwanese cadets there, as well as music lessons and even small musical group practices. Standing on the edge of W&L and VMI always made me feel discombobulated. It still does.

I walked back to Dupont Hall, where the music program was and still is located. Nothing has changed there I climbed the stairs to the attic rehearsal room to find it unchanged. So many rehearsals there under Professor Stewart, and later under Barry Kolman. Kolman’s still around, but he never liked me much.

I walked down past the old ROTC building, now something else, to Woods Creek, where I crossed the bridge, listening to the musical water, and then up past the apartments of the same name, where older students lived and still live; it could have been 1988 again. Climbing the stairs to the athletic field, I took some photos, realizing that W&L really is not conducive to interesting photography; the buildings are pretty but dull (as are the students for the most part). Soccer teams were practicing on Wilson Field as I turned back across the bridge, the new sorority houses lined up under the sliver of new moon in the fading sky.

I saw lights on in the lnternational House, so I went and asked a student who was entering if I could have a look inside. He shook his head. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in,” he said.

“But I was president of the International Club, I actually lived here,” I said.

“Ok, I’ll ask.” He disappeared upstairs, and I could envision him explaining how some strange mean-looking guy wanted inside, but soon enough he came down with a couple of other people, for safety perhaps, and they let me inside to look around.

The place has certainly been cleaned up; nice carpet and paint, the kitchen is an office, and the old living room where we used to hang out watching MTV is a meeting room. Upstairs, Victor Cheung’s old room was hosting a student meeting. I was introduced to the dozen-odd, very earnest-looking group, and felt I should say something: “We used to play strip poker in this very room,” I said helpfully.

Back at Gaines Hall, I could see into my old suite on the first floor, where a girl was playing music that was new in 1988. The same damn music! Some boys walked by, commenting, “That suite has some nice atmosphere.” I managed to find an open door and strolled the hallways again, noting the stairwells retained their rubbery odor even after two decades.

I walked up the alley towards Chavis House, where Boogie lived back then, a walk I used to make quite often, behind the dining hall, and then I visited the dining hall itself, the site of many a donut’s demise at my hands (and mouth). I’d forgotten all the little things like the steps, the stairs, the breezeway through Baker Hall where my friend and high-schoolmate Garrick lived.

I got some dinner in the same co-op Professor de Maria ate. I had a chicken sandwich that was nearly identical to the ones I had at the old co-op, which is now a nice, elegant building. Now they have cereal-in-a-cup, which I think is utter genius.

After dinner I visited the library, which also doesn’t seem to have changed. I’m sure they are all connected, Internet-wise, but the 70′s-era color schemes as well as the actual physical book collection seems exactly the same as the day I left. I jostled noisily by the little compartment where I penned some of my disastrous thesis, thumbed through some old anthropological volumes, and lamented the fact that I hadn’t exhausted the photography section at the time. My old ex-advisor, Dr. Jeans, though retired, was supposed to have a pseudo-office in one of the carrels down there, according to Professor de Maria. But I didn’t see him, though

It was late by this point, so I walked back off campus, though the completely empty town, wondering which of the shops was the old Sandwich Shop where Boogie and I played jazz sets, and back to my hotel room, which seems to be much higher at one end than the other; the building is lop-sided, kind of like that mystery spot outside of San Francisco. But it will do. At least until the drunken fratboys downstairs wake me up. I heard that things have improved on that front, in that the fraternity/sorority membership is only 86% now, as opposed to the 95% of my time here.

It’s odd, but coming back is bringing back not only the memories I thought would return but also reminders that I wasn’t really very happy here. I never belonged here, and I never will. It was the site of a time of my life, and over the years I suppose I have made it more than that in my mind, but sometimes it takes a trip like this to see things not only for what they are, but what they have always been, whether we know it or not.

I woke up this morning feeling discombobulated after sleeping late; it was almost noon and Ernie had left a message that he was having brunch with a friend at a place called BrunchDrunkLove. Apparently it’s quite a popular restaurant, as just before I set out Ernie said they’d had to switch to another spot: Future Cinema on Mission and 21st. As I was already late, I decided to hail a cab, a feat Ernie had assured me was quite simple. The problem was, I soon discovered as I walked down Keary in the drizzle, that I couldn’t tell which cabs were full, and each one I hailed just declined. Eventually I got one to stop for me; the driver was from Shanghai, and we chatted in Mandarin as he drove. He’d been in the US for 20 years, along with his siblings, while their parents were still in Shanghai. “The cost of living in Shanghai is outrageous these days!” he said.

Future Cinema turned out to be, predictably, an old movie house converted into a swank restaurant. I found Ernie involved in animated conversation with a tall, handsome woman. I tried to draw up a chair, but apparently Future Cinema is too nice a place for such backwards behavior, and we had to arrange things with the highly efficient and rather nervous staff. I had an excellent omelette as well as a few bites of a pastry ordered by Ernie’s friend, who turned out to be Denise Jacobs. Denise is a professional speaker, author, web designer and more, but the thing that impressed me the most was the resounding echoes of her laughter startling several tables around us after Ernie explained to me the term “See Tarzan, Hear Jane”.

Denise had to go somewhere after lunch, and Ernie and I took the subway to Folsom Street for the fair. The train’s seats and floors were carpeted, which I felt was a poor decision lacking in foresight. We were planning on following the leather to the fair, but even before we exited the station Ernie encountered a couple of people he knew, and he introduced us.

The sun was strong and bright as we passed through the barrier into the fair, over which hung thick smoke from the barbeques. Several stages had been set up, on which various acts were being hailed by the prodigious crowds, mostly men, some clothed in leather and quite a few not really clothed at all. I think I saw more silicon than clothing, and it really wasn’t as interesting as it sounds. Ernie and I forced our way through the dense crowd until it all got a bit much, whereupon we stationed ourselves on the sidewalk and watched people going by. A great majority of the Caucasian men seemed to have a certain facial expression, a kind of tight-lipped grimace and thousand-yard stare as they strode along at a set, slow pace. Ernie called it “the pout” and apparently it’s A Thing. A couple of girls were giving out free kisses to all the guys, making me wonder if they truly had a handle on the major demographic there. We saw some animal costumes, plastic rather than the furry kind, apart from Pedobear, who was so hot that he kept taking his head off. Ernie said there were quite a few gawkers, and many people had cameras. I didn’t take many photos, as it all seemed a bit easy.

We met up with Ernie’s friend from yesterday, Claudio, and walked down the street some more until Claudio went into a dark, cavernous bar filled with thumping music. But I was loathe to stay while the weather outside was no nice. The slanting rays were lovely but fleeting as the sun dropped along with the temperature. We met another group of Ernie’s friends (my but that boy’s popular), one of them with the Chinese characters for “destiny” on his shoulder and “Live for Today” on his meaty calf. He said I was the only one to ever have recognized them.

Claudio had bought tickets to the post-fair block party, so he and Ernie continued up Folsom while I turned back as the fair packed up. I walked in the deepening dusk down Folsom, taking 7th over to Market and walking down past all of the fine triangular buildings, the homeless people and the rattling streetcars. I walked into a Walgreens at a whim, just to catch a whiff of that peculiar combination of plastic and produce. At the end of the street I could see the port building’s tower. I was wandering the streets of San Francisco in the afterglow of the spent day, in fine spirits.

Dinner was at a Subway next to what turned out to be the Hearst Building. I turned onto Keary and walked back to the hotel, putting everything away except for the Rabbit and a small 50mm lens, and then I went out again, walking through Chinatown, which seemed more familiar and less forbidding than the empty financial district.

At one point a Scandanavian couple asked me where Union Square was, but I had no idea. The only other people around were a group of Chinese people, so I asked them, and they told me, and I told the couple, who immediately set off. “Are you a foreigner?” one of the Chinese people asked me.

I continued walking around the area, up and down hills, past wonderful buildings, many empty. Fog was rolling in, obscuring the tops of the taller buildings. I walked back through Chinatown and had some pizza before coming back to the hotel. Just now some Russians were chatting in the hallway before a woman stuck her head out and told them to shut up as she was trying to sleep.

Tomorrow’s my last day in San Francisco.

The other day after work, I followed the masses of workers fleeing their claustrophobic cubicles in the offices of the city, moving en mass across the Zhongxiao Bridge into the brilliant sunset. It felt wonderful to be all alone on the bridge over the water, watching the planes fly in past the mountains and nascent stars. This is the video I took of it all:

And of course, the Muddy Basin Ramblers had a great big bash, accompanied by the Taipei Swing Club, at the Taipei Artists Village last week. Sure, there’s some rough going, either in spite of or due to various alcoholic consumption, but it was a blast. This is the video that Chenbl took of parts of the show:

A few months ago, shortly before the Chinese New Year holiday, I changed my schedule so that I’d be in the city all day instead of just going into work in the afternoons as I had before. I’d been working half days ever since I left my job at O&M so many years ago; the grand plan at the time was to be productive in other areas in my free time.

If you know me, you can imagine just how spectacularly that didn’t work. I’d stay up late each night, sleep in, and then spend the remainder of my mornings screwing around online and end up tired all the time, with nothing to show for it.

These day, however, I’m out the door around 8 or 9 a.m., and have a break from about noon to 2 or 3 p.m. in which I go to a cafe, have lunch and use my old Thinkpad to work on the English version of Counting Mantou, something I’ve neglected over the years for various reasons. Now I’ve decided to get it done once and for all.

I’ve been making a lot of progress, first going through and correcting all the mistakes a friend of mine found during proofreading, and the going through, most likely introducing a whole slew of new mistakes as I rewrite the whole damn book. I figure that my writing must have improved over the last seven or so years since I wrote it, and I might be able to make it a little more readable this time around. The challenge lies more in the latter portions of the story, since, as anyone who has done military service can tell you, the more outwardly exciting parts tend to be in the beginning. But I’ve managed to develop some internal themes that I’d neglected in the last version, and I’m happy with the direction it’s going. I’m even meeting a publishing agent from New York on Thursday to discuss it.

While I’m excited about it being a better, more engaging story, I’d also really like to see it done, even if I have to self-publish it in the end. I haven’t touched the movie since I handed it off to Darrell in ’08, and I have no excuse for not working on the book now. It’s not convenient to go back to Xindian for a couple of hours, and there’s really nothing else to do but work on the book.

Most of the time I go to a nearby Dante Cafe on Yanping South Road. The upstairs is always full of old veterans and their wives, some asleep, some shouting in loud mainland accents that bounce off the walls amidst a slight tinge of urine from the bathrooms, some simply staring into space. For some reason, I’ve always found it easier to concentrate on writing or studying in raucous environments full of strangers than in quiet places like libraries or at home. Back in my college days at Tunghai, I would always end up at one of the five Super Food Chicken joints on campus, sitting at a table in the corner going through characters on little pieces of paper.

All in all, though I feared that my new schedule would restrict my time in unwelcome ways, the new scenario has instead opened the door to a sense of accomplishment and purpose that I’ve missed for a long time, ever since I finished editing the movie. At the very least, when people ask me about the book, I can now honestly say, “I’m working on it.”

Saturday was a day of good eatin’. Went up to Tianmu with a friend around noon to eat at a sushi stand in the fish market on Shidong Road. This involved standing in line for over half an hour, and the place is apparently really popular, and then standing at the bar to eat dish after dish of whatever the guy behind the counter gives you until he asks “Have you had enough?” Then you pay and leave. It’s an interesting operation, and the sushi is absolutely fresh and fantastic, but I’m not sure if I’d make a habit of going all the way up there just for that. It is worth the one visit to see how the guy flicks little balls of wasabi onto the counter like a fourth-grade nose-picker.

After walking around Shilin enjoying the nice weather, we ended up at a ritzy restaurant made out of a former Japanese official’s residence off Nanjing West Road. I’d passed it several times before and figured I should give it a try. Also, I was tired from all the walking and didn’t feel like looking for someplace else.

The interior of the 2/5-story building is all stark white, with mirrors lining the edge of the ceiling in the same place where most traditional houses have plaques with characters mentioning good fortune. They also had tables outside in the front yard, but large Europeans were smoking there, so we ate inside. The food was expensive and delicious, and the waitstaff very helpful. It turned out that one of the waitresses was also a bassist. We talked about music for a bit, and I mentioned our band, though I’m not sure the Muddy Basin Ramblers would feel at home in such an environment.

After lunch the next day I headed out to Keelung with a couple of friends. Ray was excited about a plethora of international cruise ships massing along the harborfront, and Steve just wanted to get out. Keelung, of course, was cool, windy and full of rain. Two ships were moored at the harbor, The SuperStar Libra-sized Nautica and the much larger, more impressive Diamond Princess. Small groups of pasty pink Europeans were making their way through the rain back to the latter vessel, which was scheduled to depart at 6 p.m. We walked up the dock to take a look, and it occurred to me that Keelung, despite its glaring ugliness, really does have the potential to be a pretty nice place, or it would if a lot of people decided to do something about it. Perhaps when all the cargo facilities are moved to the new Taipei Port things will improve. I should spend more time exploring the city, though.

As we were walking back, I spotted a patch of white underneath the hedge in the planter along the busy street by the harbor. A small ball of white fur with black spots was pulsing rhythmically beneath the hedge. I couldn’t see a head, but it seemed to be a small cat or dog taking refuge from the weather. I covered it with leaves to help it keep warm, whatever it was.

We went to the harborfront Starbucks for some hot cocoa and to get out of the rain for a bit before heading back to the car. The Diamond Princess was gone, on its way to Hong Kong as we ascended the ramp leading to the highway and back to Taipei. After stopping in Neihu for some good Cantonese food (it’s been a long time since I had such good changfen), we drove through town and over the river into Sanchong. What could we possibly want to do in Sanchong? You ask. It seems a friend of Steve’s, Black Bear, was having a housewarming party in his apartment in a new luxury high-rise. We parked deep down in the 6-floor basement levels and took two elevators to the 37th floor, a very high floor for Sanchong, where Black Bear’s place overlooked the city and the river. He paid a bit less than twice as much per ping as I did for my place, in cash (!). I should add that Black Bear works in the solar panel industry, and no, he’s not single. Steve and Ray watched bad programs on a good TV and chatted with people as I leaned out the balcony window taking pictures of the city skyline.

You may have noticed that this account isn’t updated in as timely a fashion as it once was. I blame things like Facebook, Twitter, Flickr and my other four blogs. But come on, it’s been eight years this month. I for one find it hard to believe I’m still writing this thing at all, much less in basically the same infantile manner in which I’ve always done.

I got to the airport in Taoyuan at 5:40 a.m. after three hours of sleep and a quick drive down the dark, wet highway. As traffic was light, I was surprised to find the check-in area crowded with long lines of travelers, most of whom had carts full of packages and other luggage. Is the economy really all that bad, I wondered, looking at the crowd of people taking trips abroad for the Chinese New Year. As I waited for Ray and Gordon (they were taking their own taxi) near the foot of the growing check-in line for our flight to Hong Kong, I saw an anxious-looking woman lift the rope and cut in line. None of the people seemed to notice.

The line was moving slowly, probably due to people cutting in, so when Ray called and said they were almost there, I got in line. A few minutes later, the woman in line behind me cut a row ahead, dodging under the ropes. “Christ, I can’t believe this, you’re cutting in line?” I said, aloud. “Where are you from, mainland China?”

This was a rather unfortunate wording, as the woman was apparently actually from mainland China, as were many of the other people in the line. When Ray and Gordon showed up a few minutes later and I allowed them to line up with me, the man behind me let me have it: “You think you’re so high and mighty, yet you’re letting people cut in line with you!” he charged.

“That’s different; we’re traveling together!” Ray said, but the man was not to be assuaged with such petty distinctions.

In the meantime, the time of our departure loomed, and the line was still not moving. Eventually the airlines staff called everyone on our flight to the front of the line, and we ran through customs and immigration to the departure lounge. Actually, I ran through, getting the empty gate first and stalling the staff there with amusing army stories until Gordon and finally Ray could catch up.

Strangely enough, the plane was mostly empty, and we all had entire rows to ourselves all the way to Hong Kong. The Air France flight from Hong Kong to Paris, however, was an entirely different story; it was packed full. The worst part was, despite being promised a window seat by the check-in lady, I found myself facing the next 13 hours in the dreaded middle seat, my elbows and knees tucked in, neither armrest truly mine, nothing to look at and nothing to lean on to sleep. Bastards!

The flight attendants walked up and down the aisle spraying cans of something in the air. I hoped it was knock-out gas, but no such luck; it was just air freshener.

After a noisy take-off and the dousing of the seatbelt sign, I got up and went to the rear of the plane, where I could at least stand and look out the bulkhead window, helping myself to water and juice. I spend the majority of the flight there, chatting with Ray and others. Gordon gave me half a sleeping pill, but I decided to tough it out and sleep in Paris.

Below us were the deserts of western China, then Siberia, a vast white cake world interrupted by well-organized white villages and black cracked rivers. The Red Elvises floated through my head. The windows frosted up and I tried to sleep, only managing to get a half-hour in before the awkward position awoke me.

We got two meals, the last one just as we were over Germany. The food was good, something I would expect from Air France, and the beer and wine flowed as freely as one could want. I talked a bit with the Taiwanese-American man next to me (Heineken) and the woman from Hong Kong on the other side (red wine in little bottles).

We descended through the Bespinesque skies above Paris at sunset, and arrived in better conditions that I had expected. The sun sank below the horizon as we approached the terminal, which was such a long way from the runway that I thought the pilot had to get out and ask for directions at one point. Charles de Gaul International is huge, in any case, and he was probably just driving around waiting for a parking spot to open up. The airport is also well-designed, with nice aesthetic touches everywhere. Luckily for us it was also uncrowded, and customs and immigration were a snap.

After the clean airport, the dirtiness of the subway into the city surprised me, as well as the garishness of the yellow/red/blue design under all the grime. It was empty at first, but at the first stop we came to a deluge of laughing, expressive, stylish party people washed onto the train, making me wonder if a gala ball had just ended nearby. An accordion started up somewhere down the train, and I thought, you’ve GOT to be kidding me. I turned around, half expecting a guy in a striped shirt and beret, but it turned out to be a portly husker singing Italian opera for change.

We dragged our luggage through a few stations and trains, up a long series of escalators until we emerged on the streets of Paris. I don’t know if it is a cliché, but “Holy Shit Look at Those Buildings” was my first impression of the streets, all lined with beautiful old, well-lit edifices and the occasional huge cathedral.

Despite the success of the movie series, taxis in Paris seem quite scarce, and we eschewed the long line of people waiting, preferring instead to walk to the Hotel d’Argenson, where I am now, typing this. It is the strangest hotel I’ve ever stayed at, and my room, apparently the only single room, is a strangely triangular affair tacked on to the end of the blue hallway. All of the wallpaper, curtains and carpet are floral patterns of various hues, the radiator clicks and the floorboards creak underfoot. The upstairs rooms are reached via an ancient one-person elevator crammed into the middle of the circular staircase.

We had dinner at an Italian restaurant down the street, delicious food after a long day. I was exhausted, and went to bed immediately after getting back to the hotel and waking up soon after with a Charley Horse full of particularly exquisite cramping resulting no doubt from the long plane ride, walking and kicking the tightly ensconced sheets from the confines of the mattress.

It’s about 9:30 a.m. now, and I just finished the hotel breakfast of croissants and hot chocolate served to each room. Nobody is on the street outside. We’re thinking of going to the Louvre.

Finally, I posted the Okinawa trip video to Youtube. It’s over 16 minutes of ship- and Naha-themed walking around, with musical interludes (yes, Jack Jones is included). It’s too long, but I didn’t feel like spending the time cutting it down any more. Enjoy.

In other news, I just received the Master Control Device in the mail from my friend Victor in Hong Kong. I’m still getting used to it, and I need to switch my SIM card to a 3/3.5G version, and download a bunch of extra software, interfaces and possibly Opera Mini (or Opera Mobile? Dunno), but so far I am impressed, not just with its abilities, but particularly with its sheer heft. You could do some real damage with this thing. Those of you who know me personally have commented on the impressive and wholly unnecessary size of my watch..so the phone kinda matches.

Also, it has a keyboard, so get ready for more, if not blogging, at least reliably inane Twittering in my sidebar.

It’s Saturday, yet I have to work. I skipped Tai-chi practice this morning after staying up til 4am editing the damn Okinawa video, and everyone’s probably going to be at work anyway. Why do we have to work today? Because we had an extra “holiday” earlier this week that we have to “make up”. And Sunday is Daniel Pearl Day, which means basically a whole day of Muddy Basin Ramblering at the event over at the old military village by Taipei 101. So it is a weekend, Jim, just not as we know it.

Oh, and why did I stay up so late? I decided to go to a village meeting last night at the basketball court by the temple, where I could listen to a series of local officials use karaoke equipment to emit vague promises to make things better in our neighborhood. At the end they gave our gift packages of what I hoped were cookies but turned out to be three varieties of soy sauce. Oh, well.

Happy 6th blogiversary to me! It’s not hard to believe that it’s been six years since I started this thing, as so much has happened, but you’ve been reading the whole time and don’t need me to go into it now, right? Right?

In other news, the site may be down temporarily over the next couple of days. I’m upgrading my hosting and will have to re-upload everything.