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 didn’t sleep well the night before my flight out of San Francisco; I’d programed both of my phone’s alarm clocks for 6:30am, but I wasn’t entirely sure they’d work, so I kept waking up and checking the time all night. When morning finally came, I grabbed my bags and headed downstairs to the lobby, where the woman at the desk informed me that the airport shuttle would be by at 7:15, and they guaranteed I’d be at the airport by 8. My flight was at 9:10. We chatted about the hotel’s long history, well back into the 1800’s, meaning it survived the great earthquake and fire of 1905. Impressive. The place really does have a nice old feel to it, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it for those who are looking for a simple, centrally located room in the city, but who don’t need an in-room bath.

The shuttle van showed up around 7:30. The driver was a middle-aged Latino man, and a middle-aged couple from upstate New York were rhapsodizing about their love of cold weather from the middle seat. The driver was speaking in Spanish as we hurtled up and down the sloped streets, the tops of the old wooden houses glowing with the beginnings of the day’s sunlight, and I was in momentary awe of the New York woman’s Spanish until I realized there was another passenger, a short Mexican woman in the front seat.

Despite roaming the city’s hotels in search of more fares, the driver did manage to get us to the airport by 8-ish. He spent so much time chatting with the New York couple before taking me to the United terminal that I considered not tipping him, but I did anyway. The ways of tipping, they elude me.

Inside the airport, which was obviously no longer San Francisco, I waited in line until I found myself facing an empty counter. I stood there for a few minutes waiting for someone to appear before realizing that I had to actually key my information into a small screen in front of me, upon which I was issued two boarding passes. I then proceeded to the beginning of the security line, only to be told that one of my carry ons had to be checked, as every little thing in the US counts as a carry-on, in contrast with the rest of the world. I went back to check in one of my bags and came back to wait in the TSA line.

I waited for quite a bit. It was really my first encounter with the TSA, and the whole thing seems tacked clumsily onto the rest of the airport; it doesn’t fit at all, sort of like a Jehovah’s Witness camped in the middle of a Gap store. The personel wore uniforms, but that was the extent of their professionalism. They strutted around, ordering scared passengers around and deigning to see the next person in line when it damn well suited them.

I followed the other passengers’ lead, taking off my shoes for some reason, separating my bags, removing my computer, etc. My bags had to be X-rayed twice, and the attendant said this in an ominous voice, glaring around as she took the examination-defiant tray back.

Eventually I cleared the TSA zone and made my way to the gate, where a crowd of people surrounded the gate. Again I was assigned a middle seat. I wonder how one obtains anything but a middle seat here. Apparently they just do it at random at the gate itself, which seems prehistoric.

The planes seem stuck in a time warp as well; every plane I’ve been on has been old, with CRT screens and none of the modern equipment I’ve become used to overseas. The staff had trouble airing the safety video as well as the other videos that followed, and they now sell food instead of offering it as part of the service.

We arrived in Chicago a bit late, and I followed the signs to the terminal for my flight to Lexington. And followed. And followed. It seemed to be at the other end of the facility, but I made it in time to board a tiny little jet with tiny little seats and one short, pudgy flight attendent who was very nice. The clouds dropped below as we took off, very smoothly and quietly for such a small plane, I thought, though the prop job from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, Laos, was also nice and smooth. This time we passed huge cloud formations that resembled the star destroyers from Star Wars, and I imagined we were in a shuttle, flying casual.

Blue Grass Airport in Lexington, Kentucky, was almost empty except for large pictures of impressive horses and signs saying things like, “Buy a few horse farms today!” My brother Kevin was waiting for me downstairs, and we proceeded in his Jetta station wagon to his house in the tiny, quaint town of Midway. I hadn’t seen Kevin in over ten years, so it was really good to see him again, as well as his wife Ann, and I met their two kids, Jack and Avery, that night. They seem like good kids, inquisitive and friendly. They asked me to say various thing in Chinese, and Avery actually almost tripped me up with “chandelier”.

Kevin and Ann are both architects, and their house is very nicely done, with warm colors, and so clean that…it’s just very, very clean. I’m staying in the guest room.

This morning Kevin and I drove to Lexington to join Ann at a motivational speakers’ seminar. I had my doubts about attending such a thing, but the list of speakers included such names as Steve Forbes, Colin Powell, Laura Bush and Rudi Guliani, so I thought it might be interesting.

Well.

Ok, so Colin Powell was interesting. Kind of jokey, as if he didn’t really take these things seriously. Laura Bush sounded like she was Reading Every Word From A Script, though her speech was in itself interesting, and the few words I caught of Steve Forbes’ pleas for a flat 17% tax seemed reasonable. Ann said that Guliani was good for the short time he spoke. But the rest of the thing was filled with shysters and shillers propping themselves up and trying to badger people into taking their courses and programs, late-nite TV Ronco ad-style. A huge US flag was waving on the screen behing the logo, and outside the auditorm, surrounding the doors, were many tables staffed by dozens of young black men, all with forms ready to sign in front of them. The shysters on the stage were vulgar, insulting, and plainly ignorant individuals playing the audience like a carpetbagger inpersonating a Baptist preacher. Perhaps it was the modern-day equivalent of the old medicine shows, but I’d have to say the Taiwanese shows selling fake Chinese medicine in between dancing Thai transvestites had considerably more class.

And yet the audience (I’m still not sure if their considerable average girth was representative of the general population or not) was eating it up; that was the biggest disappointment. They would answer the speakers, shouting YES! and clapping at any mention of being married for any length of time or anything military. A man came up and sang a rendition of God Bless America, and most of the audience stood up, their hands on their hearts, as if it were the national anthem. They called on all the members of military to stand up. Single mothers were brought up on stage, seemingly picked randomly out of the crowd, and given prizes, while one speaker told people he was going to heaven, while we were going to hell, and he hoped we would be hit by a bus. Then he preached compassion. Then he called us peckerwoods. There was an almost insane fervor and need to boast their own stupidity as if it were a credit. And it worked.

We left after Colin Powell’s speech and had lunch at a local restaurant. It began to rain, and most of the diners left the open patio, leaving a group of large blonde women holding umbrellas. “Are you making fun of us?” they challenged.

“No, I just think it’s an interesting situation,” I said, but they still seemed suspicious. A while earlier they had been asking if a girl who had tripped on the sidewalk was ok.

We walked back to the car, which was parked in what Kevin said others called “a really bad part of town”, but although it was obviously not well to do, it seemed pleasant enough, small ramshackle houses with porches. That morning, as we had walked through Transylvania College, which is apparently one of the oldest colleges in the US, we asked a student how old it was. “17th oldest college in the US, founded in 1780!” he said.

“Ha! We beat you: 1749!” I said, drawing a dirty look from the student. “That was probably a stupid thing to say,” I added to Kevin, who was probably trying to look like he didn’t know me as we walked on.

After watching Kevin’s two dogs, the typical pairing you see in cartoons of the big dumb one and the small smart one, tearing around the saltwater pool in the backyard, dinner was had in downtown Midway, two rows of interesting old buildings, many containing restaurants, separated by train tracks. I had mini corn dogs, which were delicious AND cute, and a chicken sandwich. We were afraid it was going to rain as the sky darkened, but the walk back was pleasant. Very quiet, very empty, with only one of two people in view at one time. The only sounds were the church bells and the occasional train. We picked up the kids from Ann’s parent’s house, just across the street and designed and built by Kevin, and returned to watch “The Player”, starring Hollywood and very stylized while also being almost completely random. Interesting film; Tim Robbins was, as usual, very tall.

The weather was brilliant in San Francisco today. Not a cloud, and wonderful direct light from the absurdly deep-blue sky. I caught a cab, with a Vietnamese driver this time, to the Caltrain station. There I purchased a ticket to Redwood City, where I had arranged to meet my best friend from High School, Shawn Lewis. Shawn and I made a short film together called “Time Travellin’ Teddy” in which we played Libyan terrorists. We filmed the kidnapping of Roosevelt, who had accidentally been teleported to 1986, at the airport, fake guns and all. Try pulling that off today.

It was good to be on a train again, even if the shiny double-decker cars exuded a certain unsettling oder, and the windows were fairly dirty. We bumped and jostled our way out of town, heading south down the peninsula towards San Jose, passing small houses, some with junkyards and others immaculately kept, and fields of complicated, rusty machinery.

Shawn met me at the station, looking roughly the same as the last time I’d seen him, which was in 1987. No mean feat, that. I doubt he would have recognized me without the aid of pictures. He drove me out to his place of employment, aka Dreamworks, and gave me a tour of the place.

It was fascinating. The offices are all warmy lit and well appointed, with posters they made “just for fun” as well as stands from various films. Shawn explained the animation process, and I found that the animators also refer to shots by focal length and aperture.

We had lunch at the company canteen, which was well-appointed, and the other employees sitting around the table chatted about various projects. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, though, and can’t elaborate on much of what I heard, but it was an interesting look into the culture at Dreamworks, which has made some of my favorite films.

Shawn had a meeting at 1, though, so he drove me back to the station, and I got on the next train with the wrong ticket. The machine had asked whether I wanted a zone 2 ticket, and I misinterpreted it as asking if I wanted a 2-zone ticket, so I was short. Nobody had inspected my ticket on the way out, but this time the conductors, very official and very fat men in sunglasses, swept into the cabin to check out tickets. Luckily we were still in the same zone at the time, or the fine would have been hundreds of dollars. I decided to get off at the next stop to add the required amount to my ticket, but the train left before I could do this, and the next one was an hour away.

So I walked around the town of San Mateo, which seemed an uneventful place. Lots of Chinese and Japanese restaurants, and one gigantic Chinese laundry facility. There’s been a slight aura of anxiety to all the places I’ve visited so far, but I have to attribute it to my unease at being in a new place, as the only area it doesn’t appear to weigh on me so heavily is Chinatown.

Back in San Francisco, I walked from the Caltrain station towards the bay, aimless switching street. I took a few photos, but I don’t really have a feel for this city, when to take what shots, how  people will react, etc. Therefore many of my shots are more abstract, landscape and architecture shots. I walked to the bay bridge and down past the piers to where a huge cruiseliner, the Coral Sea Princess or something, was docked, tourists streaming through the gates. I stopped to rest my feet, taking off my shoes and watching the planes and boats on the water. I wondered where the liner had come from and what it would be like to arrive in SF after a long sea voyage.

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky as I walked inland through affluent communities, skirting Nob Hill. “Nice shadows, mate,” a man told me as I shot some reflected light on a wall. The sun was glaring off the many windows by the time I reached my hotel, whereupon Ernie messaged me and said to meet him at The Hub, which is located at 5th and Mission. Ernie belongs to The Hub, and I imagine it to be some kind of consortion, a loosely affiliated group of super bloggers.

We walked through the dusk to a MUNI station and waited for a small, two-car train to stop at a seemingly random part of the platform, causing would-be passengers to have to guess the spot and run for it if they guessed wrong.

Dinner was at Chow’s in the Castro. When Ernie said the name I thought he was talking about a Chinese place, but then I remembered that Chow is also an English term related to eating. I had some pasta, which was good, and we shared a dessert of ginger cake and pumpkin ice cream, which was just wrong it was so good, and talked about things under the heaters protecting us from the evening chill as if they had a grudge against it.

After dinner we walked back to Ernie’s where we got in his car and drove out to the Golden Gate Bridge, parking on the outlook on the other side and taking pictures. In addition to us were gaggles of photographers with tripods, laughing Latino families, worried businessmen on their mobile phones, and a few kissing couples ignoring the sparkling cityscape across the bay.

Ernie had wanted to show me some other stuff, but he took a wrong turn and we ended up going through the Presidio and down Geary in the Sunset before he dropped me off at the North Beach Hotel, where I am typing this. Tomorrow I have to somehow manage the feat of getting up, checking out, getting to the airport, flying to Chicago, changing planes, and then flying to Lexington, Kentuckly. Oi.

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.

I got a benz to the airport to the airport this morning. An old car, early 90’s vintage, but it still had enough class to get the job done. It had been a hectic couple of days since I finished reserve training in Danshui, which is another post altogether, and I hadn’t yet caught up on my sleep.

I got to the airport in plenty of time for my flight, but the check in staff told me that, as United had switched aircraft in the middle of the night, just to mix things up, they decided to reassign all of the seating, resulting in both of my window seats being turned into middle seats. I told them that was really screwed up, and they said they’d put in a request for window seats.

I proceeded through immigration, enjoying no line in the Taiwan Nationals section and even getting the new sped-up checkout setup they have there that uses biometrics to flash yourself through. Then I retired to the lounge for some breakfast and massage chair therapy.

The flight to Tokyo was pleasant. I’d gotten my window seat and was able to observe out plane’ shadow flitting over the shiny rice fields on the way in, and I felt an urge to just stay there instead of flying on to San Francisco. This urge grew stronger when I’d passed through the strange deplaning inspections and while waiting in the bright departure lounge admiring a certain bear, beheld the aging (though shiny and well-kempt) 747 that was to bear us across the Pacific. The exposed layers of paint on its nose betrayed a long history of many repaintings, and unlike most planes these days, the entertainment system consisted of tiny CRT screens hanging from the ceiling, and no choice of what to watch. In addition to that, I was stuck in the middle seat. It was at least an exit row seat, so I could get up and move around fairly easily, but the air on the plane was some of the driest I’d ever encountered, and my throat began to bother me even though I had convinced the rather surly staff to give me some water. Being in the middle seat meant nowhere to lay my head and sleep, but I think I did pass out a couple of time in the course of the flight.

Morning on the other side of the planet flashed into the windows, and it was the same time that I’d left Taipei, only now I was in San Francisco, setting foot in the US for the first time in over a decade. Some minor changes were immediately apparent, in the form of increased airport security, but I was treated nicely and even got a Taiwanese-American immigration officer who appreciated my situation. I was asked a lot of questions, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

We’d arrived early thanks to a strong tailwind, so my friend Ernie, whom I’ve never actually met IRL before, was there just as I walked out of the door. I’m afraid he didn’t exactly catch me at my best, disheveled and jetlagged and somehow froze-shrunk on the plane. Also, I’d shaved for training and my beard hasn’t really had a chance to grow back.

We drove out onto the freeway, and I was struck by simple sights that I hadn’t seen in a dog’s age, things like white speed limit signs and nervous drivers. While the airport was experiencing lovely sunny weather, we drove into the low, wet clouds hugging the city, through newly developed districts that weren’t here that last time I visited, to downtown, which looks exactly the same. The last time I was in San Francisco was also the last time I was in the US. It was early 2001, and I was visiting my friend Mindcrime, who was then working for e*trade, just before the dot-com bust. I would take the ferry over from his Oakland apartment where he spent a great deal of time playing Everquest, to his game-filled office near the Bay Bridge, and I would walk around. E*trade made noises about hiring me for some kind of Chinese-language content position, but though I was tempted, I’m glad I didn’t make that move. Everything went pieces not long after that. Today, SF is experiencing a new dot-com boom of sorts, and I hope that this one ends better, if it has to end at all. My visit last time inspired me to begin this blog, actually.

My hotel didn’t have checkins until 3pm, so we drove down to the waterfront and walked around the markets there. One of the first things I saw was a jug band on the dock. Called the Bakersfield Dozen, it was a three-piece group consisting of a national guitar/lead singer, a washboard player and a washtub player. He was using a metal tub, wire, and a stick with an armrest. He wore gloves and hit the wire with a stick. I almost squealed like a schoolgirl, and rushed up to chat with them. He let me try out the washtub, and I have to say I really prefer the plastic version for getting notes. Still, nice setup.

Ernie and I walked the docks, sipping fresh Apple-Cucumber juice (interesting combination, but too many seeds), until we ended up at Bubba Gump Shrimp. Ernie covered up his embassassment at being seen at such a touristy location by feigning interest in visiting the bathroom, but I could tell he actually liked the kitchy feel of the place. Vintage streetcars ran along the road, painted in wonderful shades of aqua and yellow, accompanied by tri-wheeled pedicabs similar to the kind that used to be common in Taipei before scooters became popular. I was surprised at how many people sported DSLR cameras hanging around their necks. I had the Rabbit on a sling, but I didn’t take many shots. I was too busy just Being Back to take photos.

We walked back to the car and drove to Ernie’s neighborhood, i.e. The Mission, “where working-class Latinos and techy hipsters largely ignore each other” as the sign says. We walked down the streets, looking at interesting shops like the place affiliated with McSweeneys, where they tutor kids on writing and sell parrot supplies. Wait, sorry, I heard that wrong, Ernie said it’s actually “pirate supplies”, which makes slightly less sense. When I held up my little camera to take a video, the young girl behind the counter protested, pleading that keep my account of the shop strickly non-photographic. The shop next door, a taxidermist/unsettling bookshop that featured odd noises coming from upstairs, as if there were some taxidermy/unsettling writing going on, also forbade photos. I wonder what the reason for this could be; surely they’re not afraid of another taxidermy shop, perhaps a large national taxidermy chain, to set up shop across the street?

Everything felt slightly off to me at this point, like I was in a play. We saw a really cool 50’s/60’s furniture shop (“midmod”, Ernie calls it), an ok mariachi band, and had a donut and juice. Ernie and I stood outside a taqueria waiting for his friend to show up, chatting and watching people walk by, mostly Latinos, some older fellows in big old 70’s Caddies. Lunch was real taco, slightly spicy.

I was feeling drained as we walked back to Ernie’s pad, which is very nice, though a bit smaller than the Water Curtain Cave. But it’s in a vintage wooden building, has high ceilings and lots of light, and is more nicely appointed (he has a real kitchen, something I wouldn’t know how to use even if I had one). His neighbor is having a party tonight and I’m invited, but I suspect I’ll probably just stay at the hotel.

Oh, the hotel. It’s the Hotel North Beach, across from the famous Zoetrope building, and it’s essentially just a really old hotel, just rows and rows of small, simple rooms with bed, sink and TV. Could be out of the 1930’s, a la Barton Fink, though the interiors have been refurbished so recently that I can still smell the new carpet and paint (which is why I have the window open, letting the air and sounds of the city inside). I love it so far, or at least the feel of it. By a strange coincidence, the Folsom Street Fair/Parade or something is tomorrow, which explains why all the rooms in town were booked this weekend. I’m not entirely sure I want to go, but I’ve got no real plans for tomorrow, so I’ll probably just see what happens.

A photographer friend of mine recently expressed his desire to borrow my Olympus m43 9-18mm lens. I knew that he was one of the first people in Taiwan to have bought Fuji’s recent compact rangfinderesque X100, so I bargained a temporary trade.

Now, I must have read more about this camera than any other; long exhaustive rants have been written from everyone and their dog, many of whom haven’t even used the thing, and, inexplicably, many of them exhibit a surprising degree of negative emotion, even personal effrontery, at this device. I’d only played with it at the store before, so I could only guess the reason for this phenomenon, but after a week of shooting and looking at the files on my computer, I think I’ve gleaned a fair understanding of it.

This is definitely a camera that requires understanding; it is not a point-and-shoot. It will give you what you want, but only on the condition that you know what you want in the first place. I started out missing exposures because I wasn’t used to the camera, but soon enough I got back into the habit of keeping the settings where they should be, back into the rhythm of adjusting the aperture and shutter speed according to whatever light I happened to encounter. The X100’s controls make this not only easy and obvious, as the physical controls are right there on the camera, no menus required, but even pleasurable, as the machinery is smooth and satisfying to the touch. The leaf shutter is so silent I had to engage the fake shutter sound at its quietest setting just to know I had taken a shot. After setting it how I wanted in the menus, however, I had no further need to delve into that system.

The optical viewfinder was a revelation. It shouldn’t have been, as the Invincible Rabbit (5D2) also has a nice optical viewfinder, but suddenly not only was I using a small camera, I was also able to see outside the framelines and read people’s expressions through the viewfinder, something I find impossible looking at the screen on the back or even using the high-resolution electronic viewfinder. The only time I used the latter was for the occasional macro shot. I had no more excuses for not seeing everything in the frame and what was going on just outside of it.

During the daytime in good light I would often use zone focusing, which worked fine, though sometimes there seemed to be a hint of shutter lag. Autofocus worked well enough, about as well as the GF1, or the Rabbit at night. If I had the shutter half pressed beforehand, the shot would be instantaneous, but if I didn’t, there would be a bit of lag. It wasn’t worse than my other cameras (except for my M6, obviously, which is actually instantaneous). I relied on AF at night, and it went ok, as well or even better than the other cameras. Manual focusing was possible via the slider at the bottom of the screen, but what was in focus wasn’t immediately apparent on the EVF. I was surprised at how fast the ring moved the focus, however. If I moved it quickly, it went from one end to the other quite quickly as well. I wasn’t expecting that after all the negative reports I’d read. Granted, it’s no M9, but that camera is by virtue of its price effectively unavailable to most people, so a comparison is pointless in more ways than one.

All in all, shooting with the X100 is a pleasure. It’s light and sits well on a strap or in the hand. The feel of the settings, of the shutter, the quiet operation, all make the experience quite enjoyable once you get into the old pre-digital mindset before P mode became available. P mode is there if you need it, of course; all you have to do is set both shutter speed and aperture dials to A and you’re good. But that is not what this camera is about. This camera is about giving you exactly what you want, no more and no less.

This is evident when looking at the files. Some shots are not exposed correctly or out of focus, for the most part reflecting errors in judgment on my part. These became scarcer as I got used to the camera. Though I was shooting in RAW format, there is not a terribly large margin for error, though more shadow recovery was available than highlight recovery. I shot on auto ISO set to 200-3200, and properly exposed shots were mostly smooth and clean. Try “rescuing” poorly exposed shots in Lightroom, however, and you’re out of luck.

When you get it right, though, the results are lovely, often bordering on the low-ISO shots I revered from the DP1. The lens draws nicely at all apertures, rendering tack-sharp images with pleasant bokeh. There’s no hit-or-miss here, though; the camera does what you tell it to, no less and no more.

And this, I think, is one of the main sources of the vitriol I’ve seen being spewed by many on the Internet, including the subject of one of my recent posts, Scott Kelby, who derided the camera for not doing what he felt it should do. As more of a photoshopper than a photographer, it makes perfect sense that Kelby would have such an opinion, though the immature spectacle of his presentation isn’t really necessary.

Perhaps because of appearances, cameras like this seem to appeal most to the would-be creative photographer; people have visions of it somehow improving their photography with its simplicity, but in reality it is more like a mirror (despite it lacking one), and mirrors can be devastating if you’ve spent a great deal of time and effort convincing yourself that you look differently than you actually do, and it seems that the Internet has enabled us more and more in recent years to do just that, not just photographically but in many other ways.

I should point out that most people who have usability issues with the X100 are reasonable and logical about this camera’s shortcomings with regard to other cameras; it’s just not what they want, or it doesn’t suit their style of shooting. Fair enough, and more power to them, I say. The people who seem to have to most vitriolic reactions to this camera, however, seem to be the ones who imagine themselves as the type of photographer who should enjoy using it, but in reality aren’t. They have an image of themselves as knowing exactly what they want, right down to the f-stop and shutter speed of each shot, of looking out of the frame lines and anticipating wonderful street photography, effortlessly showcasing their genius…and all in such an attractive package!

But then the images are crap. How can this be? The reality is that they’re just not that type of photographer, but rather than admitting this and attempting to learn more, or simply using a camera more suited to their needs, they accuse the camera of some kind of horribly personal betrayal, which is kind of strange as it’s just a hunk of machinery. The problem, of course, isn’t with the camera, but that they simply aren’t that kind of photographer, no matter how much they wish to be so regarded.

This seems to be a difficult mirror to behold. And no wonder: The electronics industry as well as the entirety of massive websites such as DPreview.com are dedicated to the idea that “it’s the camera, not you”. The amount of verbiage that goes into these things could, and no doubt has to some degree, spawned a psychiatrist’s dream of photographic insecurities, all of which, they promise, can be solved with the newest, the latest and greatest camera. But ironically, the more the camera “helps” us in that goal, it’s the camera that is approaching this ideal; we ourselves are even further from it.

But this is all getting a bit abstract, so I’ll just say this: The X100 may not have a mirror, but it does its job well enough.

I actually got to the park relatively early yesterday morning, before even Teacher X. After warming up, I got a chance to practice with Mr.V. We started out with set-feet practice, and immediately it seemed to me that Mr.V’s tuishou had proceeded in a disconcerting fashion, extremely rigid and straight-lined, as if he were lifting weights. Indeed, it seemed as if he was working out, as his strength was impressive. Still, it wasn’t terribly difficult to redirect his efforts against him.

I then suggested we try moving-feet tuishou, a suggestion that he met with a knowing smile. I knew that that meant; Mr. V and NL Guy have been practicing extremely long hours of moving-feet tuishou every single time I’ve seen them for what seems like years now. And when we started, he certainly had his pattern down. Stance, push, stance, push. Quite effective, and I found myself retreating as he went about in circles.

That code wasn’t too hard to break, however, and soon enough I was standing my ground and then advancing. Mr. V seemed intent on spinning me around, but he wasn’t able to engage enough torque. I tried spinning him around, which he seemed to think was a great advantage as he could use the momentum for an attack, but I just kept him going around again, and the energy was spent.

It was tiring work. Teacher X had arrived, and he introduced a guy from another group, a smallish middle-aged man wearing a blue Shell Oil T-shirt. We began tuishou, and he was fast and furious, trying to get the upper hand but unable. He was concentrating on handwork only, and noted that I wasn’t attacking. “I can barely keep up with you,” I replied. Though we were supposedly going set-foot tuishou, he kept advancing, and I began to step back, and before we knew it, we were doing moving-foot practice, and he became even more active, nervous in an almost desperate way. We rested for a moment, and then went back at it, full tilt moving-foot style, and I have to admit that I met his aggressiveness with even more energy than was necessary, releasing various pent-up energies and frustrations that I haven’t been able to deal with, and we were just about in a knock-down, drag-out brawl before we stopped.

I felt terrible about the whole thing. Teacher X stepped in and showed me how easy it was to deal with such a situation, calmly inviting attacks and gently moving them aside. I gave it another go, but by that point I was so tired I basically leaned on him the whole time, pushing at the space behind him instead of pushing him, and while this worked, it was about as inelegant a solution as you could ask for.

So, in a word, FAIL. More of a mental fail than a technique or physical fail, but that’s the biggest kind of fail in my opinion. Well, there’s always next time. In the meantime, at least I got some exercise as well as the largest collection of pushhands-related bruises I’ve ever sustained.

最近我一直在思索一個問題，生活與攝影是怎樣的一個關係。我每天會依著不同的心情攜帶不同的相機出門，有時拍底片，有時拍數位，有時拍單眼，有時拍傻瓜，為的只是能紀錄生活週遭有趣的人事物或意想不到的故事，所以我喜愛的攝影方式一直都是隨性、沒有目標、不受拘束或預設的。或許我想表達的是一種現象，或許是合諧的光與影，或許是一個故事，亦或許是一個幽默的情結。那都是傳達我眼中的一種映像。

我攝影的作風及美的觀點也許與許多人的表達方式不同，但我認為攝影單純就是一種藝術的表現，也是表達自我想法的一種方式，所以每一個畫面應該是擷取於自己週遭豐富的生活經歷。這樣的作品會顯現出一種自然生活的本質，當然也是獨一無二的畫面。

一直以來我非常不喜歡跟隨著別人的鏡頭找尋靈感，因為那永遠都不是自己想表達的想法，所以有時總覺得為什麼有些人會一窩蜂的追逐一些攝影人的作品，不斷的複製再複製，以為自己的攝影技巧已經突飛猛進，但卻萬萬沒想到自己仍然還是停留在初學的模仿階段，這也就是為什麼很多人最終會放棄攝影的原因，因為從來都沒有發現攝影真正的樂趣是要融入在自我豐富的週遭生活。

放下惱人的光圈問題、快門問題、哪台相機才合適自己的問題，盡情的用心去拍攝去享受，你會發現原來我們忽略的才是最美的畫面。

Mr.V and NL Guy were practicing an unusual style today; one would push only the other’s hand or even just one finger with one hand. Teacher X told me it was a type of practice one should definitely keep within our own group, as it’s very easy to get hurt that way. He demonstrated a few of these tricks, and it reminded me of some of the hand-to-hand combat techniques I learned in the army and then completely forgot.

As I’m working two jobs now and have much less free time these days, I don’t get to exercise in the mornings as I used to be able to; no more hill climbing or even just walking about, and I think this is bad for me. Not much I can do about that for now other than taking lots of breaks and walking around at work. Tai-chi feels especially good, though, after so much time sitting on my ass.

I was walking up Bo-ai Road around noon yesterday when I came across an unusual scene: Squatting on the pavement right in front of me was a naked individual, using the fruit store’s hose to take an impromptu shower on the street. My instincts had me taking photos before my brain mumbled something about this possibly not being the best idea. I walked past and around the front to get a better view, and saw that the bathing individual was actually a middle-aged woman who seemed completely oblivious to the stares she was receiving.

A man collecting recycling rode up to the bathing woman on his bicycle and began shouting at her. “Seriously?” He yelled. “You are actually taking a bath, stark naked on the streets? This is the kind of impression you want to make?” He spied me watching and addressed me. “Oh, this is hilarious, ” he said, disgusted.

Just as I was wondering if the police at the station across the street would notice the spectacle, a policewoman wearing a uniform a couple of sizes too big for her came over. “What’s going on here?” She demanded, though it was pretty obvious what was going on. She began haranguing the naked woman, who began to don her clothes; it seemed that she was not quite all there, mentally. Although I wanted to shoot more, I figured not becoming involved in the situation was fairly high on my list of things to do that day, so I moved on. A couple of blocks away, I could still hear the derisive shouts of the recycling man.