I’d thought that the Muddy Basin Ramblers were meeting up at the Red House Theater in the West Gate District at 1:30 in the afternoon before our 2:05 show at a benefit concert for Japanese tsunami orphans, and I therefore proceeded to enjoy a leisurely morning at home, slowly getting my things together, before realizing that we’d actually arranged to meet at 12:30. One mad dash and a NT$300 taxi ride later, I was behind the theater going through a quick practice with the band, minus Conor who was already on stage with another band.

The show went well, but it was over too quickly. It seemed like we’d barely started before we were playing our last song as the hosts came up on stage. I was taking apart the washtub bass when one of the hosts, a woman, grabbed the tub and held it up for the audience to see. “This is what he’s been playing, if you didn’t notice!” she said. She then asked for a quick demonstration. Now there’s a sentence to boost my search ratings.

We were going out to celebrate David’s birthday that night, so I hung around and listened to the other bands, which included a Japanese family of ukulele players who performed some hits from Miyazaki movie themes like Spirited Away and Totoro. Adorable, if somewhat out of tune. One of the younger kids lost the beat halfway through one song, and within two measures the rest of the family switched to accommodate him. We had planned to find a spot near the Chungshan Hall for a little street performance, but Sandy and Thumper bailed early. A South American group got on stage and played such wonderful mariachi-style tunes I wanted to jump on stage and play along, but I refrained.

Eventually I tired of the booming sound, however, and walked out to the square where the old roundabout and park used to be before they made a boring intersection out of it, and stood in the same spot for about half an hour, just looking at people and things. Everyone had a camera, everyone was taking photos except me. The Golden Melody Awards, which I attended with Chalaw a few years ago (we didn’t win, but he won the next year), were taking place that evening, and one of my favorite bands as well as a friend, Matzka, was up for several awards. I knew from previous experience that he and his band were probably walking down the red carpet at the venue as I stood watching people in the square. Matzka would win the best group award that night. Not bad.

Night fell over the Red House Theater as all the bars and clubs fired up and filled with bears and other demographics. We walked over to the Calcutta. Slim was sloshedly vociferous the whole way. The food wasn’t bad, better than Tandoor, I felt, though I’m not a particular connoisseur of Indian food. David and Robin told tales of their recent honeymoon in Paris, of all the wonderful sights and sounds I missed when I was there, such as Belleville and the bars where Django Reinhardt and Stephan Grapelli played. The Leica Forum is going on there at the moment, attended by many a wealthy photographer (and probably some good ones, too, he said, trying not to sound too bitter).

The others were heading to Bobwundaye after dinner for some jamming, but I had an early start coming up on Sunday, so I reluctantly declined even though I was itching to play some more.

I was awake at 7:20 a.m. the next morning, grabbing the Invincible Rabbit and heading out into the already-brilliant sunshine, across the bridge and onto the subway to Taipei Train Station, where I met up with Chenbl, Terry, Lulu, Sean, his girlfriend Lily and her cousin, who were visiting from Hong Kong. Sean just got his master’s degree from Qinghua University in Disney Studies.

We caught the train to Keelung, traveling along the various construction sites and through the industry, through the mountain range and into the port city in about 40 minutes. Chenbl just failed to catch the bus out to Peace Island, so we waited in the hot sun, shooting irritated-looking passengers. Terry had an even more formidable beast than the Rabbit, a 1Ds, while Lulu, I think, had a 50D. A new liner was docked in the harbor, the Star Aquarius, bigger and nicer than the Star Libra I took to Okinawa. I wondered where it was bound for..Singapore? Hong Kong? Across from it was the Cosco Star that we took to Xiamen a few months ago. It looked small and dirty next to the Aquarius.

We caught the next bus out to Peace Island, which is located across a short bridge up near the mouth of the river. The area by the entrance is still under construction, as it was this time last year when I last saw it. The sun was glaring off the newly laid concrete, and a guard languished deep inside the shade of his shelter at the gate of a military base. We walked out to the rocky coast, where some messy picnickers were lighting fires and consuming bottles of tea. I climbed up on the rocks to get close to the sea, delighted to hear the wonderful sound of the water sluicing through the various crevices.

We walked up the coast and inland to a small group of houses whose occupants no doubt rely on hot, sweaty tourists for their livelihood. A group of aboriginal children surrounded us, trying and failing to guess who among us was Taiwanese and who wasn’t. “You’re the only real Taiwanese here,” I told them. The kids were apparently big fans of the hit TV show Rookie’s Diary, and weren’t entirely convinced that I knew Ye Da-tong, Lai Hu, Luo Gang, and Yang Hai-sheng, and I thought it was a shame that my friend Fu Zi-cun, who played Yang Hai-sheng and who is not a bad photographer himself, didn’t come along this time. He’s busy filming a new series down south though, and couldn’t make it.

The kids were playing around on a laundry rack comprised of a bamboo stick on two poles as we talked to them, and suddenly the bamboo stick, which was obviously quite old and moldy, broke. Almost immediately an old man in a white shirt came rushing up, yelling at this travesty, and the kids scattered. The old man took off his shoe and threw it at the kids several times, cursing them. At one point he actually got his hand on one of them and raised a heavy club to hit him with, but Terry stopped him, saying, “There’s no need for that.” I wondered if we would see that old man in the Apple Daily some day.

We walked down to the nearest bus stop and, 15 sweaty minutes later, caught a bus back to the train station, where we’d arranged to meet up with the Taiwan Photo Club, or at least part of it. Craig and Selina were there, of course, as well as Josh Ellis, Gillian Benjamin and a few others. They were waiting at the Starbucks on the harbor, and we had a quick lunch at the Burger King next door, enticed by the free ice cream sundaes, before boarding another bus out to the Fairy Cave.

I don’t think I’d ever been to the Fairy Cave before. Flocks of birds swarmed around the cliff face above the cave’s entrance, which was accompanied by ever-shy monks and a great deal of religious paraphernalia as the cave contains several temples. It was cool and misty inside, and several side caves branched out from the main one. One of the side branches became quite narrow, and some people came back claiming it was impossible to get through. I tried it, and though I had to crouch over and turn sideways, both the rabbit and I managed to get through fairly unscathed, though my shoulders were scrapped and muddy. Inside was another altar enveloped in a heavy mix of mist and incense that an ancient fan in the corner failed to alleviate.

We explored the neighborhood around the cave, waking up dogs and cats and a strange kind of wasp that attacked Josh because it really didn’t want to be on Facebook. Then Chenbl led us on a long trek across the valley and up another hill to a nice view of the sea right next to a power plant. As we recovered from the climb, which included the toxic fumes of a house painted entirely in tar the owner probably won in a game of majhong and didn’t want to waste, a lone paraglider sailed over the smokestacks of the powerplant, his shadow flitting across the field overlooking the sea.

The walk back down was much easier, and we luxuriated in the air conditioning of the rickety bus back downtown. Terry, Lulu, Sean, Lily and Lily’s cousin had to leave; the rest of us crossed the bridge over the other side of the tracks. A couple of aesthetic homeless men populated the bridge, lit by the late-afternoon sun in a way that even I couldn’t resist taking a shot, though I generally don’t like to take too many such shots. Craig was taking phone pictures the whole time, unburdened by a heavy DSLR. Probably a smart move considering the heat and all the hills we were climbing that day.

We wound our way through the steep alleys and stairs, passing and occasionally photographing the local residents. One man sitting on his scooter smoking glared at me as I took his shot. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to his cigarette. I refrained from pointing out that he would look just as thuggish without the cigarette, and walked on.

The whole of Keelung was laid out in the light of the approaching sunset as we reached the big KEELUNG sign, whereupon the mosquitoes decided that Chenbl was the only really delicious person on the site. Everyone except Craig and Selina climbed up to the top of the hill for an even better view. Josh and I stood atop the summit, on a circle of an old structure, noting the approaching clouds and thunder that meant it was surely raining in Taipei. The Aquarius had departed, off to wherever it was headed, a voyage of good food, swimming pools and gambling. The Cosco Star would be heading out later that evening.

Rain began to fall as we descended the hill, often going in circles as Chenbl tried to make the walk more interesting. We recrossed the bridge, noting that the homeless men had changed positions, and walked over to the Miaokou Night Market, which was mostly closed due to construction work. I didn’t see anything I liked. The harbor city was taking on its nocturnal form, its nights darker than those of other cities, its streets and alleys closer, wetter. I was game for more exploration, but I could feel the group’s gravitation towards the train station and our comfortable homes, so I went along, telling myself, another time: Keelung will still be there.

It’s been a long slog through this winter in Taipei, so when I realized that a three-day weekend was coming up, I decided to go as far south as the bullet train would take me. Of course, on the Saturday morning of my departure, the weather in Taipei was actually brilliant and warm. But I’d already gotten tickets, and I needed to get out of town in any case.

I picked up my ticket at the main station, pleased to find myself upgraded to business class for the first time due to a shortage of regular seats, around noon, and a few minutes later I was ensconced in my purple velvet seat next to a woman who was toilet training her child with a cute book of photos of various animals pooping in a non-threatening manner. We departed, and the faster the train went, the better I felt. Faster! Faster! I thought as we sped away south. As usual, it was a smooth, solid ride. Shortly after departure a foreigner approached the lunchcart lady looking for a vegan lunch. Halfway through a bite of Yoshinoya pork rice, I looked up to discover that it was my friend Maurice, famed thespian and advertiser of air fresheners extraordinaire. “Maumph!” I called, my mouth full. As we were chatting about what a coincidence this was, a thickset, black-clad Aborigine man with dreads and sunglasses came stomping up the aisle. Of course, this was none other than my friend Matzka, followed by the other members of his band. They, it turned out, were playing a gig in K-town that night, at the new performance space near the Fisherman’s Wharf district.

As we passed Taoyuan and Hsinchu, the scenery outside was obscured by fog. This wasn’t right, I thought. The weather’s supposed to be good all around the island all weekend. An hour and a half later, we’d reached Kaohsiung, where the sun fought its way through the haze that covered the city. I accompanied Maurice and his friend to Central Park Station, from which we walked towards their hotel, the Ambassador. Maurice was voicing his concern that I didn’t have a hotel booked as I snapped pictures of people’s houses and the dogs that defended them.

I left Maurice at the hotel and headed towards the Yancheng district, stopping to be interviewed by a student about Kaohsiung’s tourism infrastructure, and then wandering towards the harbor, where I lounged around until I noticed that my phone, which had been charged on the train coming down (one of the perks of business class is electrical outlets in the seats), was rapidly losing power. I found a cafe to charge it, but it seemed to take forever. I read a book and pushed thoughts of the iPhone4′s expanded power capacity aside.

The sun had set by the time I’d gotten the phone charged to a quarter of its capacity. I walked towards the harbor mouth, taking the subway to the Sanduo Shopping District, where I met a friend, John Lin. We had dinner at a cafe, Donutes or something, where I could charge my depleted phone once again. After we left, I saw a man unloading stuff from a van, and, as is my wont, I tried to grab my camera before realizing that I’d left it at the cafe. Fortunately, everyone in the place was waiting for the 5D mark III and didn’t want to bother nicking the old version. We went out to the wharves to catch Matzka’s show, which was brilliant as usual, passing the fireworks display on our way back downtown. I found a business hotel near the Sanduo district and checked into a swank room for NT$1800 a night, luxuriating in the clean sheets and towels and large-screen TV. Sleep that night was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

On Sunday I met Chenbl and Ray, who had come down on separate trains that morning, as well as Professor Wu and his friend Ah-he. Professor Wu teaches art and is responsible for the slew or contacts adding me on Flickr whenever he uses one of my photos in his classes, and Ah-he is a budding photographer from Tainan. His Minnan is classic Tainan style, effortless in a way most Taipei people have a hard time emulating. We piled into the professor’s van and headed out to the sandy landscapes of Moon World (“For all your lunar needs!”). Moon World is a bit less stark these days, thanks to encroaching vegetation growth, but it was entertaining nonetheless. We wandered amidst the formations, taking photos and chatting. The dust was bothersome, however, very fine and unfortunately very breathable.

On the road back we told ghost stories and laughed at the remote positioning of the metro stations in the middle of empty fields, obvious plots by land speculators with connections to the city government. So far the MRT had been packed whenever I’d been on it, but I was told that it was usually rather empty. A shame it had to be so poorly designed. We had lunch at a mutton shop, and then headed back into town to Lotus Lake, near Zuoying, where we walked around the edge of the lake. Then we headed out to Xiziwan to watch the sunset from atop the pier. The temperatures dropped rapidly, and the ocean wind made me wish I’d brought a jacket. Still, the sight of the great ocean-plying freighters moving majestically into and out of the harbor were worth the trouble.

After the sun disappeared into the darkening sea, we piled into the van and joined a long cavalcade of cars heading back to the city. Escaping meant heading through the campus, up the mountain to a vista just below the Martyr’s Shrine. A large group of Japanese tourists were waiting for the fireworks at 7 p.m., but aside from a few aaaah and ooooh-provoking pops, none were forthcoming. It turned out that the fireworks were at 9, and the group left, disappointed.

Dinner was fried noodles with special sauce. A-he had to go back to Tainan. The rest of us went up to Professor Wu’s creatively messy apartment to view some of his amazing artwork. By this time I was tired from the cold and the dust.

Monday we went back to Lotus Lake, where we met John at the Confucius Temple, which was closed, before walking around the lake a bit more, exploring some of the ancient houses in nearby alleys. Chenbl was caught photographing a strangely acting carrot vendor, and we struck up an awkward conversation. Later we skirted the navy base where Chenbl had done most of his military service, before heading back to the Yancheng District, where we hiked up to the old British Consulate overlooking the harbor mouth. It was probably hell there at times, I mused as I examined the old structure, its verandas and wooden plank interior, but sometimes it must have been a really cool posting.

We descended the hill again to talk with some residents of the old buildings. One old woman was heating bathwater with a wood-burning stove while her middle-aged daughter tended plants on the roof. Nearby, we talked with two old men, obviously friends. One was from mainland China, while the other’s family has been in Taiwan for generations. They sat outside an old warehouse that had been converted into small but usable living quarters. It smelled of cat piss.

Walking up the road, we settled on a deck right by the edge of the harbor mouth to watch the ships again as the sunset before walking back to the docks filled with private yachts. John had to leave, so Ray, Chenbl and I caught a bus to one of the bridges across the Love River, where we watched the fireworks. It was an impressive display, far better than the ones I’d caught glimpses of through the clouds in Taipei.

The Hanshin Department Store shuttle took us back to the Sanduo District, where we had a delicious dinner of sushi and other Japanese food under the few stars that remained visible amidst the glare from the lights of downtown. Our train (regular class this time) was at 9:30 p.m., so dinner was a leisurely affair, though the waiter kept messing up our orders.

I slept most of the trip back. It was good to get out of town.

Our friend Marquis took us to a Hong Kong breakfast place on the second floor of a building on the same alley as the Bottoms Up club from the Man with the Golden Gun. I like breakfast in booths. There’s just something attractive about the idea, especially in a Bond-film related alley. And the food wasn’t bad either.

The weather was still nice, murky air but cooler than yesterday. As we walked across an intersection I donated HK$5 to a charity; the girl wouldn’t take the money directly and pointed mutely at a slot in her bag. Clever. A block later, just after I’d taken a photo of a newsstand, I turned down one of her charity co-workers. Just as I walked away I heard someone behind cursing me. It wasn’t the charity worker, however; it was the newsstand lady. Over on the docks, an American family, all dressed in the same plaid, was taking family photos and having a miserable time getting everyone just so for a photographer who seemed to be a relative.

The Star Ferry over to Central was wonderful as usual. As we crossed, a large ocean liner sidled into the harbor. We then spent an hour or so stalking the many overpasses. One security guard came out and said we could only photograph from half of the overpass, as apparently his company owned the other half. I watched a beautiful photo opportunity pass from the wrong vantage point as a bicycle rider slipped in between two trams. Hoping Chenbl had been in the right place, I asked him if he got the shot, but he hadn’t seen it. Oh, well.

We took the series of escalators up the hill past the trendy shops and slick restaurants filled with blonde people, and then walked back down through the various alleys. Other than the 84-year-old umbrella-maker who was in the Guinness Book of World Records, just about everyone resisted having their photo taken. I was shouted at several times, and was on the receiving end of more glares than I could count. More than once I actually wished I had a Leica with me, just for the quieter shutter.

The weather turned overcast and cool as we prowled the alleys, and we took the subway to Mongkok to meet up with Sean, Lily, Miao-miao and my old W&L classmate Victor Cheung, who runs a photo workshop in Kowloon these days. We had a table full of dim sum, but I forgot to eat most of it as the conversation was so interesting.

After lunch we took the MTR on our way to Tai-O. The subway, as always was crowded. One thing I’ve learned during this trip is that Hong Kong feels a lot more crowded than it used to. Whereever you want to be, someone’s already there. Wherever you are, you’re in someone’s way. Also, the escalators are really fast. I guess they have to be in order to keep up with the demand without playing human dominoes.

Tai-O, an old fishing village, was interesting once we got past all the touristy bits. Most of the houses are metal structures on stilts, and everyone was having dinner as we walked through the bridges and alleys. I got yelled at a few more times. I suppose one gets used to it. Also, Cantonese does sound a bit harsh even in normal conversation. One woman was doing a pretty good Louis Armstrong impression while shouting at her husband.

The moon rose over the nearby hill as Shawn, Lily and I checked out a monastery that turned out to be closed. The water pipes over the canals next to bridges had little barbed wire webs on them, but I couldn’t figure out what for. The gaps were too large to stop rats, and a cat could jump over them easily. Some other animal I’m not aware of, no doubt.

The bus ride back to the MTR station was wild, more like a fighter jet simulation than a bus ride, and we were all feeling ill afterwards as we had dinner in Sham Shui Po. Then it was farewells for the night, though Tsim Sha Tsui is still rocking as I type this at 1:08 a.m.

I’m just finishing up the last edit of the English-language version of my book detailing my time in the army, so I thought it would be appropriate to go down to the place where I spent the majority of my military career, Da Ping Ding in Miaoli, to take a look around. Chenbl and I set out on a 9 a.m. train; the once-mighty Ziqiang Express seemed old-fashioned and lackadaisical in comparison with the ultra-modern bullet train system, but the bullet train does not stop in Miaoli. A typhoon was on its way, but I was banking that Saturday would be tolerable, weather-wise.

We got off at the station, which seems to be at the edge of town, far off from the little downtown area. Miaoli is comprised basically of two parallel streets. Back in the day, the Miaoli buses heading up the mountain towards Sanyi left frequently, but now only the Hsinchu buses seem to leave with any regularity. We got on one and creaked across town; it was just the two of us until we stopped at the bus station in the real downtown to pick up passengers.

Up the mountain, to Shangnanshi. The base, though long abandoned, was still standing and covered with dense foliage. The last time I was up there civilian guards had been posted at the gates, with motion sensors set up inside, so after getting off the bus we headed for the East Base’s back gate, where I knew of a few places one could sneak in. The holes in the perimeter were still there, but the areas just inside were so overgrown that we had to hack our way through some pretty thick trees and vines to get to the main base road.

Once inside, I was momentarily disoriented at the sight of the shell of a building, all the windows gone and the ceiling tiles hanging down. Then I realized that it was the old Guard Company mess hall, and that I’d even had my picture taken standing in front of it. Just behind it was the cliff from which I’d enjoyed the view over the valley below when I got a break from washing dishes after meals.

I was wary of guards and stray dogs, often stopping to shush Chenbl’s usual incessant commentary; he was convinced nobody was around, but I wasn’t so sure. We walked past familiar buildings and signs to the Guard Company barracks, the quads in between buildings covered in dense, jungle-like overgrowth, the windows gone and the rooms empty. I found the place I’d lived in so long ago and sat on the spot where my old bunk was, remembering what it was like to sleep there, with only ceiling fans to keep cool in the summer heat. We’d spent the onslaught of Typhoon Herb there, and back then I wondered what the base would look like after it had been abandoned. Now I know.

The Guard Company faced the East Base’s parade grounds, which is now waist-high in weeds. We walked over to the Division HQ building that spooked me out on several occasions when I had to stand guard there at night and listen to the ghosts. Chenbl, ever sensitive to such things, said he felt dizzy and insisted on apologizing to any spirits who might be offended at our presence.

After making a round of the entire East Base, I began to suspect that there was actually nobody around. We passed female officers’ quarters, something that I’d never encountered when I was there. Back at the Guard Company, I kept noticing places where various things had happened; I felt like I was in a time travel novel, visiting ancient ruins where I once lived.

We snuck out a hold near the side gate where I’d waited in line so many time to get in and out of the base, and then across the road to the West Base, where we fought through another mass of brambles and thorns to the main armory. Some dogs noticed us and began barking, and though nobody appeared, I walked quickly ahead to the rear part of the base where the Regiment HQ was located. A seemingly flightless white pigeon strutted up and down the leaf-covered road as black clouds began to cover the sky. The silence and emptiness were eerie. Vines and bushes had invaded some of the buildings. Even the motion sensors were gone, though the plastic shells of some could still be seen here and there.

I showed Chenbl the RHQ barracks and the base karaoke that I’d managed. The floor I’d spent so much time mopping was covered with dirt, as is the spider-infested bar where I’d picked laserdiscs of songs for various officers to sing. Rain began to pelt down, and we took refuge in the RHQ rec room while we got our umbrellas out, and then followed the base ring road to the main gate, which felt a little strange in that we usually ran around it going the other way. When I turned around, it seemed much more familiar. There used to be an old guy manning the main gate, but I figured it wouldn’t matter by that time if we got thrown out.

Nobody was there. Chenbl took my picture in front of the rapid response unit barracks as well as at the main gate guard post where I’d stood guard. The old Chiang Kai-shek statue is still there, with the old green man waving his hat and smiling at the empty, unmanned gate in front of the overgrown parade grounds. After I got my fill of pictures and just standing around lost in various reveries, we walked out the gate and down the road to catch the bus to Tongluo, where we had some unimpressive Hakka noodles for lunch. Chenbl asked an old woman if there was anything interesting around, but after I took her picture, she yelled, “I give you directions and then you take unflattering pictures of me? How dare you?” But we were already walking away, past thick green rice fields waving in the wind like a big bedspread. We stopped to walk with a woman hurriedly harvesting a small garden before the storm hit, and then visited an old hospital from the Japanese area, a two-story wooden building with blue trimming. The original doctor’s son lives there now, by himself, and he came out to tell us a bit around the place.

We took the electric train back to Miaoli Station. By that time it was around 5:30 p.m. which was normally about the time I would get there when I had leave and wanted to go up to Taipei, so I experienced a little willing cognitive dissonance, imagining that it was still 1996 and I’d just come down from the base, ready for a weekend on the town. Then I pulled out my iPhone and ruined the atmosphere.

We got back to Taipei around 8 p.m. and proceeded to the Taipei Artists Village, where Thumper was holding his 20th arriversary, i.e. 20 years since he came to Taiwan. We were the first to show up; Jason was setting up the barbeque, and I fashioned a string for the washtub bass from one of the bar decorations. Other people began showing up, and as usual, the more people inhabit a room, the less I feel like talking. I walked between people, taking pictures and munching on the excellent food (except for the undercooked potatoes), until my upstairs neighbor Brent started the evening’s musical entertainment. The bass lasted about two songs before the string broke, but I wasn’t in much of a mood for the bass anyway and declined David’s offer of fiber-optic wire as a replacement (it was too slippery and cut my hand when I tried to tie it). The pocket trumpet called to me, however, although not many of the songs really suited it, though Conor rope me into a 12-bar blues set.

By around 2 or 3 a.m. many people had already gone; only a few of us were left. I shuffled around the edges of the room, playing freestyle licks here and there. Rodney was doing something on the drums, and Lany was playing around with some guitar stuff. Somehow, we all just synced up and Lo! a pretty cool jam ensued. But I was tired, and when Brent said he was leaving, I took him up on his offer of a ride back through the growing storm. It would save me a trip across the galloping Bitan bridge, anyway.

February 18, 2010

The call to prayer wasn’t unpleasant at all; it did wake me up, but I went right back to sleep, getting up way past actual sunrise. Gimzui took us to the waterfront, where a rickety boardwalk led out to a bunch of forlorn fishing shacks. Mosquitoes feasted on my calves, and the foul odor was explained when an old man rode up on a motorcycle and deposited a large quantity of waste into a blue barrel by the water’s edge.

As I walked gingerly out on the boardwalk, dogs in the huts launched a volley of barking against the intrusion. I had no intention of going out that far, however, instead watching the mudfish flapping around on the flats and taking pictures of the scene. Chenbl and I then walked up the coast a little ways and were invited on a tour of the docks there by a Malay fisherman whose friend was untangling a net. Smoke from garbage fires was billowing out over the water from nearby cliffs, but the sky was a spectacular shade of blue. Gimzui said the whole thing would be torn down soon, so it was good that we got to see them before they’re gone.

Breakfast was delicious curry “pancakes” and hard-boiled eggs at an Indian place across the street from the hotel, which is feeling more and more like the old Langford Hotel in Winter Park where my family stayed while house-hunting after moving to Florida in 1981. In a good vacation way, that is. It was getting quite hot, but still not as muggy as Taipei in the summer.

We drove to the old part of town by the coast, full of brilliant white English-style government buildings, to a busy temple. Out in front was a rack of huge purple incense logs, while the scene inside was much the same as most Taiwanese temples, except for the mixture of Malays and Indians. I took a picture of a fellow sitting by the gate, and the woman sitting next to him immediately demanded money. The singing wasn’t that good, though, and they cursed at my back when they didn’t get any.

The Malaysians, who know what they are doing, went to have tea indoors during the hottest part of the day, while Chenbl and I foolishly went for a walk around the area, stopping in at a shop run by an old Chinese woman. While Chenbl chatted with her, I talked with an old Hindu man who thought that Penang was going downhill “thanks to all of those Muslims.” He seemed affronted when Chenbl later came up and asked him if he was Muslim.

Our next stop, after taking pictures of a garbage recycler on his porch step, was Sun Yat-sen’s old revolutionary HQ. After paying a small fee, we got a tour from the junior-high-school girl inside. The old courtyard construction really does keep the places cool, and there were some ingenious pre-electrical-era arrangements in the kitchen. It was odd to think of the old revolutionaries holding their secret meetings there, always on alert for raids and ready to escape into the maze of Indian and Malay establishments behind the place. The upstairs is being rented out to some artist types. “Not just anyone can rent out those rooms,” the student told us when we inquired. “They have to be, you know, someone.”

It was truly hot out now, the perfect time, I felt, to go hat-hunting. We eventually found our way to the Muslim market opposite the Police HQ, and I quickly realized that most of the hats were too small for me. I managed to find a couple that fit, though. The owner, an older man in a black hat just like the one I’d bought from him, tried to fix another hat I’d already bought and didn’t do a very good job.

Our hosts, refreshed after an afternoon of tea, called up and arranged to meet us outside. It was a relief to get back into the air-conditioned car and drive out to the other side of the island, to a coastline covered with resorts and beaches. At the end of the road was a fishing village. Young Malay men with braids and dark, soft mustaches kicked a yellow soccer ball around while stray cats strolled around rubbing people’s legs. We talked with a couple of young fishermen who claimed they were 18, though they looked much more like 14 at most, as they smoked while sitting on the dock. Huge jellyfish, both white and orange, floated in the green water under the docks.

Back in town that evening, we had dinner at an old restaurant, a delicious meal around several tables as there were quite a few of us; apparently the Malaysians got word around of our visit, so we had over a dozen people in a convoy of vehicles. Afterwards, one of them gave us a ride back to the hotel, giving us a guided tour as we went.

Tomorrow we’re driving back to Kuala Lumpur, most likely stopping in Ipoh again for lunch and a haircut.

February 16, 2010

Everyone drives in Malaysia, it seems. Kuala Lumpur’s metro seems a half-hearted effort at best, with small two-car trains and insufficient lines. Buses are scarce, and only a few small motorcycles can be seen whipping around in traffic. Mostly it’s cars. The cities are laid out accordingly as well, necessitating long drives into town amid gridlocked traffic situations for shopping, eating, etc. The license plates are white letters that look like fridge magnets stuck on glossy black plastic cut to the shape of whatever model’s license-plate space is.

Chenbl was feeling ill, so we were off to a late start this morning; Ah-lin drove us to a breakfast place, where we picked up some crunchy shrimp strips, changfen and egg tarts to take with us to the rendezvous point with the others. We then piled into Gimzui’s Nissan, which smells exactly like all other Nissans in the world, and headed north on the highway. Small motorcycles zipped alongside, probably going as fast as they could. One fellow rode mere inches behind a bus, drafting it for mileage. Amazingly stupid, that.

The highway wound around hills and forests of banana trees, teak trees and other crops. Some pieces of land had been cleared. When we reached a rest stop, I was able to establish that, while Malaysian Dunkin Donuts rank above those in Taiwan, they’re not as good as the US version. I also found that KFCs here sell tiny chicken burgers, like sliders, and delicious cream-cheese potato slices.

We got off the highway and traveled a winding road up into the mountains, occasionally passing people sitting in primitive huts on the side of the road. The air eventually got fresher and cooler, until we could turn off the a/c and open the windows. Miles later we entered the small town of Ringlet, where we found a sort of cheap service apartment and then had lunch at a KFC knockoff that had free wifi and swinging seats out front.

Our original plan was to drive out to the Blue Valley to see the tea plantations, but the road was chockablock with cars, so instead we took a side road out to a mountainside village. After parking in the square, we climbed up to the top among the scattered wooden huts, most on stilts, only to be told that we couldn’t take pictures, first because there was a dog somewhere, and then because someone had been caught taking pictures of villagers taking baths; that individual had also been severely beaten, we were told. Chenbl bought sweets for the village kids to get in their good graces and let us take some pictures of them jumping around in the square. The sky was a brilliant blue, the shadows of occasional clouds wafting over the green hills.

The others wanted to go back to the hotel to rest at this point, but Gimzui, Chenbl and I decided to make the most of the late-afternoon light. We drove back along the road a ways to some teahouses overlooking some fields and took more pictures. Walking by myself along the mountain road in the fresh air and crisp light, taking pictures of trees and the mountainside and my own shadow on the highway, I felt as happy as I have yet on this trip.

Dinner was arranged at an old hotel built in the Tudor-style in 1937 called The Smokehouse. Apparently it was originally a haven for lonely, homesick Englishmen who were posted to the area and couldn’t return to their homelands for at least eight years. A rambling two-story wooden structure, it featured creaky floorboards and a very homey feel, including a huge fireplace with a real fire, something I haven’t seen in ages. The food itself was nothing to write home about, but I wouldn’t mind staying in one of the six rooms if they weren’t so expensive.

After dinner we walked through the local night market, which was pretty much like any other night market. I’m continually surprised at how receptive people here are to being photographed for the most part, paranoid hillside villagers excepted. I keep expecting people to shy away as they do in Taipei, but most people, especially Indians and Malays, don’t seem to mind at all. It’s refreshing, and there are many interesting things to photograph here. Chenbl has gotten some amazing shots so far.

After the night market, we retired to a fruit tea shop to review the days’ events. Tomorrow we’re going somewhere else; we’ll see what that’s like tomorrow. I have yet to find a place where my Thinkpad can access wifi, so I’m just writing these in Word for now and will publish them when I can.

Over the past week, Chenbl has been showing a group of his friends, three from Malaysia and one from France, around Taiwan. Bored with their continual hot weather, the Malaysians were eager to experience low-temperature traveling, and they tossed aside Chenbl’s warnings about going to Hualian in the winter. For some reason, I decided to tag along as well.

We set off at noon on Saturday aboard the Ziqiang Express. Not as fast or modern as the Taroko Express, but at least seats were available. Although I usually spend such days cooped up at home with the heater on listening to Renaissance tunes, it was nice to get out of Taipei and see the countryside and ocean of the east coast. I’ve always liked Hualian better than the other east-coast cities of Taidong and Yilan; Yilan is too spread out and incohesive, while Taidong seems like an afterthought to the hot springs. Hualian, in my eyes, is the only “comfortably sized” city of the three. It’s been a few years since I was there, but it’s gotten a little more arty and bohemian than it was during my last visit. B&B’s have popped up here and there, and more tourism-related shops have opened.

It wasn’t raining when we arrived at the train station, but it was cold and gray, passengers huddled on the seats in the waiting room. Chenbl seemed to want to drive home his views on the advisability of a trip in this weather, so we ended up renting scooters at one of the places by the station and rode to our hotel, the Mango, a nine-story affair downtown with a nice lobby and so-so rooms with smallish windows.

After putting our luggage away, we got back on the scooters and rode out to Qixingtan, a beach north of the city, by the airport. It was quite cold, and to avoid letting anyone get lost we rode in a line. The blue-gray sky was just the right color to contrast with the containers of a shipyard, but I couldn’t stop to take pictures. I could feel the Invincible Rabbit straining to jump out of its bag as we rode past statues framed by the ocean and sky, but again I couldn’t stop. I compensated by swearing loudly instead. I hate traveling in groups, and this is one of the main reasons why. If it’s just one or two other people, you get more leeway, but with a larger group, you’re basically forced to do whatever they are doing. But I’d signed on; I knew what I was getting into. The foreigners only have this one week here, but I can come back to Hualian any time I want.

So I rode on. We eventually came to a goat restaurant/cafe on the nearly deserted coast, and as we were parking, a long line of people came walking up the beach. At first we thought it was a funeral procession and prepared to leave quickly, but it turned out to be a political march sponsored by the DPP.

The goat place serves goat milk-based drinks, including coffees, teas and just plain hot goat milk. It’s an acquired taste, but it wasn’t too bad, just strange. As we drank, me still stewing over the lost photographic opportunities of the trip out, the sun set, plunging the area into darkness. Outside, the owner was feeding the excited goats in a small hut.

We rode on past the airport runway to another oceanfront park, largely deserted in the cold except for a couple of guys setting up chairs for a concert the next day. Then it was back downtown for a multi-course dinner at a restaurant dedicated to a particular kind of fish; every dish utilized a part of the fish, and the waiter explained each one as they came. I’d never realized that fish were that complicated. There were even fish parts in the ice cream.

After dinner, it was off to a night market. There’s not much I can say about the night market; once you’ve seen one, you pretty much know what you’re in for, i.e. the usual mixture of games and boiled food. I bought another aborigine hat to replenish my stores. Outside, an old man was making money plucking a badly tuned wire on the bridge that lead to the beach. Nobody was interested in the darkness beyond.

Having exhausted wonders of the night market, we rode over to the stone art complex, which is composed of an L-shaped line of huts around the old railway hospital, a wooden building built during the Japanese occupation that’s been converted into display spaces for stone carvings. Several young, bare-chested aborigine men were dancing on the stage. Their skin was a most un-Aboriginal shade of white, and I wondered if it was make-up or just the cold.

I was walking around the veranda of the old building, feeling I’d seen enough stone carvings, when the ground began to vibrate. At first I thought we must be nearby a railroad track and a particularly large train was approaching, but it quickly outgrew such a possibility, and as the ground began to sway and buck, I realized what was going on; it was an earthquake. I’m usually inside for earthquakes; the only one I’ve been on the ground for was the 3/31 temblor a few years ago when the cranes were tossed off the as-yet-unfinished Taipei 101.

This one was much bigger. Alarmingly big. I abandoned all guesswork and suddenly became very agile, hopping off the swaying veranda and running to the center of the lawn, between another building and a water tower, both of which I hoped would remain standing. Other people came running out of the building, and I could hear the crashing of hundreds of stone carvings coming from the complex as the aborigine dancing music stopped.

Gradually, the shaking died down into a slow, almost gentle wave-like motion that could have just been my legs. The music started up again. I walked back around the building to see the show continuing as shopkeepers began sweeping up the shards of the stone carvings from the floors of their establishment. Chenbl appeared, having been on the toilet inside the old railway hospital during the quake. Needless to say, he didn’t enjoy the experience. A group of mainland Chinese tourists was still huddled in the middle of the lawn.

The Malaysians, however, were ecstatic. It was their first big quake, and even Marcel, the Frenchman, admitted it was his first as well. They seemed to think they could check that attraction off their list of Things to See in Taiwan. I’d assumed that it was just a local quake, as none of the locals seemed the least bit bothered about it, but when I checked Facebook I saw a dozen proclamations of panic from people all around the island. Apparently it was one of the largest in a while, almost 7 on the Richter Scale, but fairly deep down. The epicenter was just southeast of Hualian.

We rode slowly back downtown, as there were likely to be aftershocks, and walked around browsing tourist-product shops, in which I am not even remotely interested. I sat outside reading about the quake on my phone, everyone asking if everyone else was ok, what the scene was like in Hualian, etc. All around me, nothing seemed amiss. Back at the hotel, all the news stations were fixated on webcam footage of swaying chandeliers and choppy videos of people exiting shops.

We were planning to ride out to Taroko Gorge on Sunday. I was not looking forward to the prospect as I’d already seen it, and the weather was even worse, colder and wetter than the day before. But everyone else was going, so I pulled on a bright yellow plastic 7-Eleven raincoat and followed the line of scooters out of the city.

Then it began to rain. My pitiful helmet had no visor, and soon I was squinting into a barrage of stinging, freezing drops as gravel trucks barreled past, inches away. This was not fun. When we eventually stopped off at the Tzu-chi complex, I wandered off on my own, seeking to distract myself among the quiet fields and busy monks. It worked, more or less; the complex is a haven of industriousness, fields of food the monks grow and eat, quiet dormitories and rooms of old women making plastic flower arrangements. Out back, a monk was shaving his head. Chenbl, anticipating my reaction, told me it would be disrespectful to take a picture.

The combination of the sound of running water, the high cliffs covered in clouds behind the complex, and the occasional passing train put me in a somewhat better mood for the rest of the ride out to Taroko. When we got there, however, we were told that it was closed due to the possibility of landslides after the earthquake. I was glad to hear this news, as I wasn’t looking forward to navigating those narrow roads and dodging tour buses in this weather.

We poked around the information center and had some very welcome, steaming-hot lunch dishes before heading back to Hualian, again through the rain and next to long convoys of gravel trucks that we passed over and over again between traffic lights. The rain followed us into the city, to the hotel to get our stuff, and all the way to the train station. Tired of following the line of scooters, I blasted ahead once I knew where I was, as I wasn’t wearing my raincoat and didn’t relish the idea of a wet train ride. After turning in our mounts to the rental shop, I wandered around the old train cars they have on display in front of the station. The old cars had wooden beds inside, as the journey from Taipei to Taidong took the better part of a day.

Our next destination was Jiaoxi (I refuse to spell it “Jiaosi” as it is written on the tourist maps), a small city based around the hot springs in the area. We munched on oyster cakes as we walked to our hotel, located a couple of blocks from the train station, next to the empty concrete shell that was once a luxurious Holiday Inn. I always find such structures depressing, little blots of sadness amidst the bustle.

The rest of the town seemed to be thriving, however, I found as we shuffled past the other hot springs resorts. Alas, the group found another tourist products shop and spent the better part of an hour inside browsing the various varieties of cakes and teas while I sat outside watching people walking up and down the street. Later, we found what looked like a hot-stream river running through the center of town, lined with stands selling all kinds of foods. Public bathhouses dating from the Japanese occupation lined the river, wooden structures with high roofs, foot masseurs calling out from under the eaves.

I was in the mood for a good dinner in a nice, warm indoor setting, and wasn’t ecstatic to see the group choose one of the outdoor tent places. After the food came, however, I was surprised to find that it was delicious fare all around, and the red-and-blue tent kept the wind out well enough.

The foreigners decided to go back to one of the riverside hot springs, while Chenbl and I went to another place, along the railroad tracks, where you pay them to let fish nibble at the dead flesh of your feet in a small pool. The fish, which look like goldfish, are Turkish, apparently, or at least they’re so named in Chinese. Getting in only involves passing a NT$100 note to a bored desk clerk, and only a few other people were sitting on the sides of the pool with their pants legs hiked up to their knees, schools of the orange fish surrounding their feet. When I put my feet in, the fish went to form a sock-like covering as they went to work; I had to rub my hands together to distract myself, the feeling was so strange. Eventually, however, I got used to it and began to even enjoy the sensation. Occasionally a train would roar past on the tracks just beyond the pool as I sat and wondered what would happen if I jumped in the pool. My feet felt pretty good afterwards, but I’m not sure how healthy the whole thing is.

We went back to the hotel and soaked in the hot springs there before retiring for the night. Ironically, the showers took forever to warm up, and the hotel forgot to include amenities. Even the hairdryer had been ripped off. However, there’s nothing like hot springs for a good night’s sleep, I’ve found, and the springs of Jiaoxi don’t stink like those in Beitou. I should make another trip sometime.

The next morning, the hotel gave us breakfast coupons for McDonald’s, which was on the other side of town, a long bicycle trip away. I have no idea why they do this as it’s not at all convenient. Personally I’d rather pay for a nicer breakfast, but I suppose many people like what they see as “free” things. Afterwards, we caught the train back to Taipei. Chenbl was taking the foreigners to Taipei 101. Me, I had to get to work.

I like the east coast, and I really should get there more often, especially now that the Taroko Express has cut down on travel times. I’ve also heard that flights are going to start up between Hualian and Japan’s Ishigaki Island, just a short flight, in January. Having gotten a glimpse, albeit a brief and cold one restricted by group travel, I should go back by myself sometime and do a proper weekend excursion there. In better weather, of course.

It was raining hard outside my hotel room window when I got up yesterday, my view of Shinjuku’s roofline murky and gray. I didn’t want to spend hours on a plane with soggy feet, so I stuffed some extra socks and jeans in my backpack and figured out which subway route would give me the least time out in the weather. After marking “excellent” on every box on the hotel survey form, I checked out and set out in the rain with my tiny umbrella to the Shinjuku Higashi Station’s Oedo line, which took me to Ueno-Okakimachi Station. I suspected there might be a convenient underground passageway to the Kesei Line Station, and there was, though the signage wasn’t clear.

After I got my Skyliner ticket, I took the short escalator up to street level, just to be on the streets of the city one more time. I toyed with the idea of going across the street to have one more session of playing with the EP1s and GF1s on display at the camera store, but I only had ten minutes; in any case, I think I’ve gotten a sufficient feel for those cameras.

This is the second time it’s been raining as I’ve travelled on the Skyliner (yes, I managed to get the right train this time) to Narita. I got a window seat behind a man whose ears bent outward to accomodate a surprisingly thick neck. The suburbs lasted a long time but eventually gave way to open countryside and rice fields. The trees are really beginning to change and should be gorgeous in a couple of weeks. I suppose the timing wasn’t ideal for that, but tree-leaf photos aren’t exactly my forte anyway.

The airport was a breeze: after checking in, I went upstairs to have a leisurely lunch of soba and tempura at a restaurant overlooking the wet runway and forlorn-looking planes. Then customs and immigration, also very quick, though taking off all my bling for the scanners and then putting it back on took a while. The news on the TV in the departure lounge was all about the capture the night before of a killer who had made minor changes to his appearance. The case was being discussed by panels on TV every time I turned it on over the past week.

As I sat waiting for the passengers to finish boarding so I could get on without waiting in line, I thought that I might have stayed an extra day or so, just to see the neighborhood temple ceremony and attend the opening of flickr user Modern Classic’s new bookstore. But I was sure that seats would have been hard to get, and there’s always next time. Even after my third trip, large parts of Tokyo and its surroundings remain to be explored if I want to make another trip. Although I could read all the signs on this trip, I really should increase my spoken Japanese beyond just a few phrases.

On the plane, the moment I sat down next to a middle-aged Western man dressed in black, he called for the stewardess and arranged for another seat. I’m pretty sure I don’t smell, so it must have been some aspect of my appearance. Either that or he was one of my tails and didn’t want to get too close. In any case, I was glad to have the extra room during the flight, which was 73% less turbulant than the last one.

Once again, customs and immigration at Taoyuan Airport was quick; I don’t think I broke step to wait at all before getting my luggage from the carousel. After 10 days in a tiny hotel room, the Water Curtain Cave feels enormous, if a bit messy after my hurried departure preparations.

So that’s it, then. Hope you enjoyed the trip, and we now return to our regularly scheduled infreqent/sporadic blogging of life in general.

I took the JR to Nippori this morning, walking up the hill to the west side of the station to find the “Suzuki” guesthouse. Overlooking the rail station is convenient and all, but the constant trains and announcements must get really irritating.

Beyond the Suzuki is a huge cemetery, with many famous dead people. But I wasn’t there to see dead people, famous or not. I’d read that the area around there had more or less remained as it was decades ago, and I wanted to get a glimpse of old Tokyo. So I walked past the orderly stones and into the surrounding neighborhoods. I wondered what kind of people generally live next to graveyards in Japan, are they hyper-religious or completely non-religious? Also, how does it affect housing prices?

I came upon an empty lot, empty except for a couple of newly planted trees and surrounded by a fence with signs reading “Feel Wood.” Another foreigner, wearing all black, walked along behind me for a bit.

I proceeded down the hill and turned into an alley that zigzagged every few meters. Hardly anyone was around. Eventually I made it to Ueno Park, where old men sat on benches and fed the ducks, which swam through the rushes slurping the water.

Lunch was very nice tempura and sushi in limited quantities at a traditional Japanese place under the railway tracks, my meal interrupted occasionally by the rumbling of a train going overhead and shaking the dark wooden furniture. Outside, I noticed the same foreigner in black walking by. Does he read this blog?

After lunch I took the subway to Roppongi. The last time I was there it was in a snowstorm, and after becoming bored with the mall I trudged around the area in the snow before getting tired of it. Now it was a completely different scene, warmer and livelier with crowds of people, including many foreigners, on the streets. I walked through the area depicted in my home computer’s wallpaper, taking in the details, and then through some of the areas I’d wanted to see before but couldn’t due to the weather. The area is hilly, with slopes and dips in the roads that I miss in the flatness of Taipei.

I took the ear-popping elevator up to the top of Mori Tower, which was fogged in last time, to take in the 360-degree view. It was a hazy view, alas, but as the city’s lights came on, it improved quite a bit. It was strange looking at what was basically the wallpaper on my computer, and being able to think, “I’ll go down there in a minute and look around.”

As I walked around taking photos and video, I overheard a couple of mainland Chinese guys wondering aloud what the “H” on a helicopter pad meant. I told them, and they complimented my “Hanyu”.

“I’m Taiwanese, actually,” I said. That was the end of that conversation.

I was wondering what the people using their flashes were thinking, exactly, when I noticed the same foreigner in black walking around as well. This was getting positively weird. It was either coincidence or a really bad tail. In either case, there wasn’t anything to do, so I just kept ignoring him.

After about an hour, I left, satisfied that I’d managed to capture the scene well enough. I walked back down to the area in my wallpaper, this image, I believe, and just wallowed in the fact of actually being there.

When I was in the tower, I noted a couple of places where the freeway overpasses met in giant intersections, so I headed towards one of them to take pictures. After dinner at a cafe, I headed through a lengthy subway connecting passage, buying a hat on the way; Louis and I have noted that many photographers in Tokyo wear what he calls “character hats”, and I found one that matches the color of my Ramblers’ suit.

The second giant intersection, located over a canal, was partially under construction, but I managed to get some shots anyway. Afterwards I happened across a cool little neighborhood, full of cafes and restaurants, parks, squares and tree-lined streets where someone had parked an ancient baby-blue Porsche. Every third person seemed to be a foreigner of some kind. A wonderful smell turned out to be emitting from an old car with a wood-burning stove in the back, suspiciously near the gas tank, I though. But the driver, who was moaning a chant through a loudspeaker, was selling baked yams. I would have bought some, but after I took his picture he drove away.

I “borrowed” some wifi from a cafe and uploaded a couple of pictures from my phone before calling Louis and arranging to meet him at Yoyogi Station. After that, we went to a “photo bar” in a student-dominated area. The pictures on the wall were of a certain “concept art” type that I feel inhabits a kind of “uncanny valley” between realistic and abstract photography. The owner gave us some snacks and we drank wine while bitching about concept art.

Before we knew it, it was after midnight, and rain was pounding down outside. Louis got a loaner umbrella from the bar, and I had a tiny fold-up job in my backpack that did little to keep me from getting wet. We said good-bye on the platform at Shinjuku, and I managed to find my way back to the hotel without getting completely soaked. The crows seem to love the rain; they’re cawing louder than ever in the downpour outside as I type this.

Tomorrow I’m heading back to Taipei. I’d like to stay and see more, but I feel I’ve gotten a little better handle on this place than I had before.

The weather was much improved when I woke up this morning, a cold yet cloudless blue sky greeting me when I set out for Yotsuya Station. I’d worked out on the map that it was the closet station to the New Otani Hotel, which was featured as the Osato Corporation HQ in the film You Only Live Twice. In the film, Sean Connery as James Bond infiltrates and then escapes the building twice.

I got off at Yotsuya and made my way along a forest path on a ridge overlooking athletic fields filled with shouting baseball players. On the other side a school was holding some kind of promotional event. It reminded me not a little of Lexington, Virginia, actually.

The path led me almost exactly to the hotel, which has obviously been completely remodeled. The famous shape is the same, however, and I walked up and down the drive where Connery ran up and down, no doubt for several takes. All of this happened years before I was born, but it’s still cool as hell. I wonder if the doorman is used to random foreigners walking up and down that particular piece of pavement. He was sneezing; I should have gone up to him and said, “Mr. Osato believes in a healthy chest.”

After I’d had my fill of imagining being rescued by a Japanese woman in a white convertible Toyota 2000GT, I walked back up to the subway stop and poked around the nearby alleys. An old man was saying goodbye to his relatives on his brilliantly lit doorstop, and as I took some shots, he said in English “Small building!”

“Small building!” I repeated, and saluted my thanks for the picture. The light was so nice I was taking pictures of everything, probably far more than I should have. The alleys were almost deserted except for huge black crows lofting heavily about. I love Tokyo alleys; there seems to always be a little surprise, a nicely designed house or clever garage, just around each corner.

I took the subway out to Toyosu Station on the Kurakucho Line, near the harbor. Using Google Maps, I’d worked out just where my favorite Tokyo webcam is located. It’s a live feed from a high building across a meeting of four channels, so it wasn’t too hard to find on the map.

Just outside the station I had lunch at a Yoshinoya, just to see how it compares to the ones in Taipei. Verdict: the taste is the same, but the Japanese restaurant’s layout is more interesting, with the cashier in a little island in the middle of the bar.

It was tricky finding my way through the maze to the spot, and I found that the buildings I’d assumed were office buildings are actually residential blocks, with half of the residents airing out their quilts. Oddly, the river-facing apartments don’t seem to put much stock in the view, with high balcony walls.

I walked to a bridge and crossed, taking pictures of bicyclists and remembering to keep left to avoid being hit, and walked down the opposite bank. The water was filled with jellyfish, which surprised me. A couple of boys were fishing things out of the river, not fish or jellyfish, but what looked like pieces of garbage.

I walked back across the bridge and around towards the tall building that has the webcam in it, passing a wannabe tightrope walker scaring his girlfriend by walking on top of the sidewalk railings. The sun was getting low in the sky, even though it wasn’t even 4pm, and I took pictures of pedestrians’ shadows on various walls.

By the time I got to the tall building, the temperature had begun to drop again. I sat on the corner of the rivers, looking with my own eyes on the scene I’d seen so many times before on my office computer. Occasionally a boat would chug past. It was very peaceful.

The sun set at around 4:30 as I made my way back to the station, pausing on the bridge to take some more shots. I took refuge in a department store for a bit to look at the cameras there before taking the subway back to Shinjuku. On the way, I found that there was no transfer point at the stop I’d assumed there would be a transfer point, and I ended up taking the long way around the city. This was fine with me as at that point my feet were sore and I could use a good rest. I’d thought that travelling via subway at rush hour in Tokyo would be a nightmare, but there weren’t that many people at all.

Back in Shinjuku, I went straight upstairs to the Bic camera store, where I was surprised to find a young, blonde Swedish clerk asking me if I wanted any help. I was looking at the Panasonic GF1 and the Olympus EP1, which were arrayed side-by-side. I’d looked at the Canon S90 but it felt poorly put together and plastick next to the M43 cameras, plus the IQ is still that of a small-sensor camera. I have to say that, despite the Oly’s slower focus and bad screen, I do like the feel of it better than that of the Panny. It fits in my hand better, and the shutter thunks as solidly as a car door while the GF1′s raps harshly against the side. And the debate goes on.

Dinner was had at a little corner shop, egg pork chop on rice while listening to the mainland Chinese tourists sitting next to me. I was really bushed by this point, so I decided to come back to the hotel.

Tomorrow I’m having lunch with my photographer friend Louis. Other than that, I have no idea what I’ll be up to.