Author: maxlawrencewrites
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- Two cool guys and little ol’ me, clutching their hot-off-the-press manga ‘SF Null’ (大西大 × 弓塲勇作 「SF ヌル null」 (mograg.com)) It was weird and I couldn’t read 95% of it, but I’ll get around to it soon.
A recap then, as it’s been a while and my posting schedule is all out of whack. I got off the flight, embarrassed myself, went to a 7-Eleven, embarrassed myself again, and then… Wait, I didn’t travel very far at all, did I? This really is tedious.
I checked in to Guest House Izumi (Guest House Izumi, Izumi-Sano), a beautiful little apartment with en suite toilet and shower, a shared cooking area with a sink, a microwave, a kettle, a… well, that was it, but who needs self-catering when you’re in the land of restaurant-quality convenience store deliciousness on every street corner?
Like an overexcited child on Christmas morning, I dumped my bags, changed my shirt and ran straight to the restaurant next door, Asahi-tei (https://goo.gl/maps/5RbxfwpenYh1Q4Xb8), and had a Lunch Set accompanied by a big ol’ frozen glass of Asahi. It was the moment that the reality of my situation hit me, and so I took a few moments to appreciate just how wild and unexpected a twist my journey had taken in the last few days.
- It was a good bit of scran for around £11 all in. The owners were friendly and were amused to find a Lesser Spotted Bearded Western Man in their establishment. It never gets old, ‘Nihongo jouzu!’ and all that. (‘Nihongo jouzu’ essentially means ‘Your Japanese is good,’ and you can get ‘jouzu’d’ by the Japanese for any level of Japanese, from ordering a coffee to having a reasonably in-depth conversation.)
Suitably loaded up on grease and carbs, it was on to the first proper stop, Namba Bears, central Osaka, for a prime bit of weirdness. I’d never heard of Risa Takeda before, but a quick glance on YouTube ensured I was sold.
What luck, first night in Osaka and some super cool experimental JRPG tunes to have a splendid time to. I hopped on the train (Nankai Limited Express, 33 minutes north) and arrived in Namba. I had left a little early as I was a tad overexcited, so spent an hour or two wandering Osaka’s neon evening streets.
- It may not look like much, and the photograph does it little justice, but this little stretch of road going straight on, to the right of the McDonalds, was to form a substantial part of my Osaka itinerary.
As with all cities, it’s great to find a little microcosm of cool, where so many fascinating people spend their evenings and where so many neat things happen. I wandered around in circles amongst the lights and the noise, before making my way to the venue, about a third of a kilometre down aforementioned street and to the right.
- The toilet in Namba Bears, a veritable ‘who’s-who’ stickerfest of weird, noisy, downright ‘orrible bands.
- First set, Risa Takeda, then Risa Takeda and Seiichi Yamamoto as a duo.
- Risa Takeda being weird, she was pretty far-out, even for me.
- Seiichi Yamamoto, former Boredoms legend and owner ofNamba Bears.
- Watch them at work. At their weird, noisy work.
Well, Namba Bears was exciting, and I got well and truly into the flow of Osaka’s nightlife. So much so, I got home Very Late Indeed™ (or Very Early Indeed™, depending on your viewpoint) and spent most of the day in bed. Then, well, I went back to Osaka, and had another great time. This time, I ended up at a karaoke bar with two lovely Americans who were a lot of fun to talk to and a Finnish research scientist, with whom I had a deep and entirely uninformed conversation about fluid dynamics.
How good was my Saturday? Well, I only took one photo and it was of a crepe van that made me laugh. A Jolly Good Time™.
- ‘I’m a Dipper Dan man.’ – Ulysses Everett McGill , 1930s.
Saturday became Sunday, and Sunday became fairly challenging to navigate. I awoke feeling less than certain about my life expectancy, and so opted for my trusty cure-all; a Big Ol’ Walk™ (That’s enough ™ing, – Ed.)
- Not the prettiest coast, but functional.
- 海に生きる – Umi ni ikiru – ‘Live by the sea’. A few feet away were statues saying ‘Laugh by the sea,’ and ‘Love by the sea,’ but I didn’t get photos of those.
- One day I’ll take ’em all on. And I’ll win. Fair play though, some big ol’ fish on there.
- It was a drab–looking school so they jazzed it up with some super cute daubings.
- Vandals! Thank you!
- There was loads of graffiti on an otherwise dull underpass. Great work, graffito-taggers.
For whatever reasons (Ray)… call it fate, call it luck, call it karma, I believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe I was destined to get thrown into this…
A free entry all-day festival of Osaka’s finest homegrown talent, surrounded by stalls selling cocktails, beers, sandwiches and local arts and crafts? I just couldn’t believe my luck. These things happen though, when you go a-wandering.
And I had wandered, and wandered, and wandered some more and had finally made it to Rinku Town, not very far from Izumisano, as the crow flies, but my meandering path meant I had racked up a fair few of the ol’ kms by this point. It had been consistently drizzly the whole way, however soon after this photo was taken, the sky cleared and it became thoroughly acceptable.
There were some cool acts, someone gave me a CD, another appreciated my kind words, it was all-round pretty darn good.
- Lil Merry. Not really my bag, but her set was cool and she spent ages chatting to people afterwards.
There was a neat energy there, and I was surprised at the turn out for a lineup of lesser known independent artists on a dreary day.
And then… magic happened.
And, as with most magic, it’s impossible to know it’s actually happening until it’s actually happening. This is a band called ET-KING, Osaka-based heroes who formed in 1999. It was blimmin’ fantastic, catchy as flip, and everyone in attendance was loving it. There is little that is more uplifting to the soggy, neglected spirit than a gaggle of perfect strangers singing in perfect harmony to absolute bangers.
- This song has been on loop in my head, on and off, for nearly four months now.
Well, I had a dance, had a sing a long and met some great people, but it was a strictly daytime affair and everyone dispersed rapidly once ET-KING had finished.
- Ending, 3:45?!?! Naaaaaaaaaahh mate…
I felt lost, dejected, abandoned, cast unto hell, I felt like I had been promised the world, been given a taste and then had the entirety of existence torn out from under me. I was in freefall, and I knew the only option was to get some delicious food, go home, have an early night and begin my Monday fresh as a daisy and raring to go.
- Me, Monday morning, somewhere in Osaka.
So I plumped for Option B (B is for Bad) and made my way to Osaka city centre. I got on a train, I couldn’t stop myself, it’s like I was being drawn by some huge, terrible, hilarious magnet. I went back to the aforementioned Street of Dreams™ (No, – Ed.) and found a really, really cool little horumon restaurant, Tachi Horu Death, with some really cool folk sitting outside (see Picture #1).
- ‘Horumon’ is pork or beef offal and I’m mad for it.
We talked profoundly insightful nonsense about manga, anime, film, music and other weird things. It was fun. In fact, it was so much fun that I missed my last train. A taxi to Izumisano was going to cost me upward of £70, so they very kindly offered me their floor for the night. The apartment was a veritable treasure trove of weird books, extreme music, art and collectibles. We sat up for a few hours, as I scanned the CD collection, hopping up and down excitedly again and again, at the sight of some rare piece of treasure I never thought I’d physically hold. I was passed many books, and we had a great time.
- Here’s one.
Time took its awful toll, Monday morning pounced upon me, and my first weekend was at an end. Thank Christ, another day of that and I would have probably melted into my own shoes.
- As if Monday itself were manifest in physical form, I was greeted by this on the way to the station.
- Osaka isn’t always the most beautiful city, but corners like this still, even after four visits, transport me to misspent hours long since past, marvelling over the grey landscapes of Japanese cities. More specifically, I always feel a little bit like I’m actually in Tetsuo: The Iron Man, an iconic bit of 90s Japanese body horror. Hopefully this feeling will never leave me.
- Tetsuo: The Iron Man. Give it a watch if you haven’t before. It’s a treat.
There’s more to come. I’ve only covered about 72 hours so far. It became a fair bit more sedate after this. Oh no, wait. No it didn’t.
Osaka, I miss you. X
- Coming soon! Why is there an outside mini-arcade in Izumisano? Who would just leave a digital slot machine, a flat screen TV an original Famicon (SNES) games console and a basketful vintage SNES cartridges outside, on the street, permanently, unattended, for anyone and everyone to enjoy? Why hasn’t this all been stolen and sold to Cash Converters to buy White Lightning and rollies? All will be revealed.…
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This beautiful lump had been staring at me from the terrace for two whole weeks, tempting me with its luscious peak (phwoar etc.). I am still somewhat at a disadvantage walking-wise, due to a bad knee (long story, third dislocation last year, turns out healing is much slower when you’re advancing in years) but I love a good walk and it was far too beautiful a prospect to refuse. So I went.
- An alternate view, this photo taken moments before two very angry dogs evaded their fence and ran at me. Ever cautious, I bravely ran away (away, away)…
It started well. A long main road, replete with road traffic accidents, entirely useless pedestrian crossings (why do you bother with them, Italy?) which culminated in some lovely steps and a sudden, steep incline. I was puffed out already, still at the foot of the hill. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought.
Onwards! I was emboldened by this sign detailing the history of the area. Valuable information, and it made sense as I don’t think the pathway had seen any maintenance in about two thousand years.
A sign below it, less informative in some ways but fascinating nonetheless. Google Translate told me it means ‘FUCK BUT NOT DIRTY’. Excellent. Such a romantic place.
The view became very beautiful very quickly, so I thought I’d get in the way by planting my awful face smack bang in the middle of it.
Upset by the disturbing reality of my reflection, I took a nicer photo. There was a splendid haze all around which blended the sea and the sky in an eerily ethereal manner. Truly gorgeous. Worth noting that it was the first fully cloudy day in two weeks; the hill would have most likely killed me if it’d been the blazing Mediterranean sun I’ve experienced of late.
In the ‘on season’ there’s a funicular (oooh laa dee da, it’s a cable car) which makes the ascent a little less rigorous, however as this is off season, and it was blowing a fierce breeze, enough to make me question my life choices at a few points, it was out of action. The wind caused much clattering of metal and ominous ‘woo’ing noises, giving the whole area a distinctly creepy feel.
A bit like this. Well, not really, but if you haven’t, I highly recommend watching Twin Peaks in its entirety so you can enjoy the cataclysmic mindmelt that is Episode 8 of season three. 
Apparently determined to terrify, at the peak of the hill is an abandoned, half-built hotel. Hotel Ermione was once destined to be a luxurious resort, with a massive terrace overlooking Trapani, a swimming pool, ample parking, all mod cons. Alas, as with so many construction projects in Italy, the money seems to have run out and it’s now a shell, slowly rotting in the Sicilian sun. It’s my assumption that building a massive hotel, at the top of a fiendishly impractical hill with only a sleepy medieval village for company, turned out to be a bad idea.
What’s that? Not creepy enough? Have an abandoned minivan, why not. A real shame, having been systematically destroyed by the four Main Elements (sun, wind, rain and vandalism), it was once a beautiful bit of kit. Possibly beyond repair, although I’m not a mechanic so take my diagnosis with a pinch of the proverbial.
- One of the worst shots I took from the top. Not sure why it made the cut. Still, you get what you’re given. I had transcended from ‘tired and achey’ into ‘Lord, if you’re listening, HAYULP!’ territory so aesthetics weren’t really a priority at this point.
You possibly haven’t seen the 90s stoner classic Half Baked, and that’s a shame, because it’s one of a few movies that is still comic genius to this day. I know it almost word for word. Go watch it. Not yet though, there’s still a bunch of meandering rambling to get through. See? You’ll love it. Not sure what it has to do with this arduous travelogue, but hey, you get what you’re given™. 
At the summit, alongside the set of Italian iteration of The Shining, were a hum of communication towers. I’m not sure what the collective noun for communication towers is, but a ‘hum’ seems fitting. Bearing in mind I had only seen perhaps four people on the whole two and half hour journey, the permeating low end buzz of electrical energy gave the whole area a thoroughly spooky ambience. Conditioned by years of purposefully upsetting video games, I very much enjoyed it, although I could imagine it’d be a bit disconcerting for ‘yer average punter ehh’.
A portal to another world. Seriously, Erice is stunning, it’s maze of ancient cobbles, narrow alleys and sun-bleached buildings, it’s like something out of a fairy tale. Albeit a bloody freezing one.
No I won’t stop posting film and TV references, absolutely not. Go on. Click it. It’s possibly my favourite line in any thing ever. 
The history of the site. Cool, eh?
Fantastic.
Beautiful.
Stunning.
I have run out of superlatives. Blimmin’ ‘eck!
Crikey!
Christ on a bike!
Ah, the man himself. Soz about the ol’ sacrilege, I reckon you’ll forgive me. You don’t seem like the kind of bloke that would unnecessarily persecute others for arbitrary reasons.
Now, I love a beer as much as any one person ever could claim to. From a freshly poured pint of Asahi in a frozen fatty of a glass (big up Japan, standard) to a dusty, tent-warm can of cheapest Aldi piss on a festival Sunday afternoon, I love beer. Even the bargain basement filth in one litre plastic bottles that costs 1.12€ and leaves you feeling like your head’s going to explode like a volcanic bum (big up Euro Spin, your ‘Best Brau’ was certainly a ‘Brau’, but you take liberties with ‘Best’) but there is nothing, nowhere on this earth, more indulgently glorious than that first sip of amber heaven after three hours of absolute missions up a massive hill. It was fortunate in the extreme, as I reached Erice town for 1:30pm, the exact time, to the minute, that almost every business closes so that the owners can have a wee nap until four. The big man was truly smiling upon me, as I stumbled upon a bar on the main square. I was warned by a charming Italian lady, whilst perusing the menu, that the food was dire and should be avoided at all costs. An angry, bald man was debating the bill and his family were leaving, a fair few notches below ‘impressed’. Lord, please bless the owner of the establishment, for she had the vacant, haunted stare that only a restaurant owner who has just fielded a severe complaint can ever have. It’s why I have always resolutely rejected customer facing work, especially the service industry. I’ll happily take abuse if you feel upset about my practice as a teacher, and I’ll do all I can to provide the absolute best for my students, but come at me for a plate of spaghetti that isn’t to your liking and you can get tae fu… (-No. Ed.)
I miss Babu, Brixworth’s premier refugee street beast, as she’s the most beautiful, loving and genuinely gorgeous creature I think I’ve ever met, dog-wise. So it’s always lovely to meet another canine babe. This little thing was a joy. Perched by the door one moment, coming in for scritches the next, scampering around the square upsetting other dogs after that, beautiful and mischievous and gentle as anything, I’d have taken her with me if it wasn’t technically a crime and an ‘All Round Bad Idea™’.
See. See! D’aww…
There were many cats. Gorgeous little beasts too. They gave it the biggun, their finely honed cutest faces on display, but it turns out they only wanted me for one thing and one thing only. Brazen fiends. That ‘thing’ was a cheesy ham arancine (deep fried rice ball), and fair play, if it wasn’t so obscenely delicious, I would’ve shared some, but it was, so I didn’t. Poor little guy bottom right had terribly sore looking eyes, to the point where I wished I was an animal opthalmologist so I could’ve helped it, but I’m not, so I didn’t.
There he is again, having a good ol’ ‘judge’, no doubt. Look, I’m sorry, alright. I’ll do a few ‘hail Marys’ on the bus to Marsala.
That’s better. A bit more ancient architecture. Strewth! (That’s enough Aussie-isms. -Ed.)
I probably don’t publish enough, ‘Stickers in the Wild,’ posts, and I should publish more, I love ’em. So much to unpick, I think I mused over the toilet in Osaka in a previous entry, and I just think they’re neat. Every one lovingly conceived, designed, printed and stuck. This sticker, what does it mean? What does it tell us about our place on this earth? Why bother? Great questions that I frankly can’t be arsed to investigate right now. I do love a good sticker though.
More lovely repurposed mineral deposits. Ooh, yeah, reallocate those earthly resources for me, yeah, yeah!
Right, at this point I’m going to make a concerted effort to be heartfelt and genuine for once. The view from up here was utterly spectacular. It moved me. I felt blessed to be there, taking in a view that would have been taken in by a soldier thousands of years ago, a view so beautiful, a moment shared with myself and another over the course of millennia. Simply astonishing.
Castello di Venere in most of its glory. On the plus side, it was off season so I was largely alone for the walk. On the down side, nothing was open, but it was glorious enough from the outside and time was lurching onwards, as it tends to do.
I mean, really… It was ludicrous how beautiful it was.
So beautiful was it that I thought I’d whack my hideous fizog to the left of it.
Right, nice one for following thusfar, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d ditched about a hundred tedious photos ago, but this is where it gets Interesting™. To the right you can see the new gold standard for ‘lads’, to my mind anyway. Tuna Teleco (https://instagram.com/tunateleco?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=), a band of roving absolute legends who play traditional Spanish music in traditional Spanish getup. Sometimes, quite often actually, I happen, entirely by chance, or by dint of being an all round legend, upon incredible things. This was one of those things. They were filming some promo material for Instagram, and I just so happened to be in the exact right spot at the exact right time to capture it. They were really friendly, from Genova I believe, and it was the ultimate uplifting finale to a thoroughly joyful day.
The beastly wind knocked over a cup of wine (boo) but they turned it into a theatrical photo op (wahey).
Alas, the sun was setting and my time atop the hill was at an end. I was hoping, feebly, for practical public transport back down. Of course, Sicily isn’t really ready to embrace reliable public transport just yet, so the next Great Challenge commenced – Race the Sun to Sea Level.
You can’t beat the sun, you’d have to be some kind of bearded, hobbling, bespectacled simpleton to assume you could.
And he’s off! Undeterred by such trifles as self-preservation and adversity to mortal risk, I began my descent. As luck (and a bit of judgement) would have it, I planned it all perfectly, navigating perilous paths and crumbling crevasses (crevassi? I’m not really succeeding at plurals today) and made it to the ‘Road With Lights On™’ with barely a second to spare. It was exciting. Well, it was sketchy as all hell and foolish to boot. But, when you choose the life of the foolish, sketchy wanderer, you gotta do some foolish, sketchy wandering.
It was at this point that the fear started to set in. I could definitely have navigated the paths by torchlight, but it was treacherous enough with sun up, and I was exhausted, my gammy old man knee screaming ‘Please! No more! Lord! Have mercy!’
Oh. You again. Nice of you to show up. Two days late mind. Where were you when I needed you, eh? Ah?!
It wasn’t that bad. I’m hamming it up for the craic. I made it to streetlight just in time and, as if the aforementioned Lord and Saviour was genuinely watching out for me like the legend that he is (Praise be, he’s alright really), I was guided to safety by this heavenly beacon. Although, as postulated by Bill Hicks and probably many others, I’m not sure he’d be thrilled at the implement of his destruction being illuminated in such a garish way. It’d piss me off, coming back from two thousand years absence to find crucifixes everywhere, having been nailed to one previosuly. I reckon he’d prefer a big ol’ beer, or a bit of pizza, to welcome him home.
Speaking of which, I had a lovely big ol’ beer and two slices of the greasiest, most decadent pizza to welcome me home. No one likes a food blogger, well, no one with any self-respect, but this pizza, 1.80€ per slice, is something I will cherish the memory of to my dying day. Mazzara Salvatore, (https://maps.app.goo.gl/S7PduGqapa1UgSeZ8) I love you. Your brusque service endeared me all the more. I will wear your calorific deposits with pride.
There you have it, my adventure up a hill and back down again. It’s lucky I’m hilarious, else that could have been a painfully tedious bit of non-news. Anyway, arrivederci ragazzi. I love you all x
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- Trapani harbour. Nuff sed.
Everything online is a glimpse of the past, a slice of time, a moment caught digitally, preserved for posterity, forever, or at least until a great solar storm EMPs the entire electronic world into oblivion, plunging us into deadly chaos, foraging for scraps, warring for resources and succumbing to every illness and injury we’ve thusfar managed to conquer, until death’s blessed release from the hell of existence frees us all.
So, I thought I’d write a cheery run-through of my plans for the first half of 2023, as they stand at the moment. The photos are purely illustrative, not visions of the future made real. Why would you even think that?
- The big man himself. Well, about 7″3 in this shot.
Early March – Back to Marsala, Sicily. It’s a peaceful idyll, its cozy historic centre and ample shore a lovely salve to the grind of the city. I hope to keep myself to myself, take in the clean Mediterranean air and delve deep into teaching, writing, walking and reading.
- Bikes, bikes and more bikes. If you squint a bit, you can see a bit of Ho Chi Minh city in the background.
Mid-March – Back to Vietnam. A quick pitstop in Ho Chi Minh for a couple of days before Secret Weekend, a tiny beachy festival that promises to be full of strange bleeps and odd bloops. 600 cap, transportation and accomodation laid on, with art, food and medium-sized rigs. I hope to make many friends and perhaps even keep a few in the aftermath.
Then, I’m heading north along the coast via Da Nang. Day trips to Hue and Hoi An, at last, and more by-the-sea tranquility. Not 100% settled on this at the moment, but the ocean-adjacent lifestyle suits me so I may as well run (swim) with it.
- Fig Tree Garden, Tay Ho, Hanoi. A beautiful little spot by the lake.
On into April, and my Vietnamese experience will culminate in Hanoi, plunged once again into the aforementioned grind of the city, to catch up with friends and perhaps even take in an evening or two of debauched electronica. I spent a long time there last year so it’ll be nice to see how the persistent and rapid expansion has marched on.
Mid-April – Return to Osaka. Only for a weekend, mind, Osaka isn’t good for me, it brings out the very best in me and I can’t be trusted. Still, people to see, music to be assaulted by and I hope to break the 79% barrier on Level 10 (Hard) of the perenially popular tumble-dryer-em-up MaiMai rhythm cabinets. (Truly glorious, have a goosey -> maimai DX International ver. (sega.com))
- Seriously one of the most fun arcade experiences ever. I’ve got a couple of videos of local heroes doing lightning-speed 100% runs which I’ll dig out and upload one day.
- Here’s some absolute mad lads doing incredible, beautiful things (video not mine).
Then, on to Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island. I’ve only ever seen the middle and the south of the elongated wonderland, so I am very excited to make idle comparisons of all and sundry, from the varieties of ramen that are most popular to the warmth and hospitality of the people. I expect great things, and will take the chance to climb some majestic peaks before hapharzdly clambering back down them again.
We march into May, and south to Sendai. I’ve wanted to visit for a long time, I’ve heard it’s pretty cool and the people are apparently really nice. I think Abroad in Japan lives around there too and I’m keen to bump into him / press-gang him into a pint as he’s the main inspiration for me tirelessly/tiredly plugging away ineffectually at this ridiculous hobby I’ve had for the past few years.
- Josh of 72% smashing it out at The Moon, Cardiff. God I miss the UK music scene. Like, really, really miss it. I hope you appreciate how good it is. Go see bands. I’ve seen what it’s like when there’s nothing good to go to and it’s B.L.E.A.K. (Not my photos, obvs)
Early June – Back to the UK. Many events, many people to see, fingers crossed the supermarket shelves will be heaving and the weather will be splendid for a joyous seasons of beers, berks and barbecues.
After that… Who knows? Well, back out in September, for sure.
That’s if the world can just hold itself together for a few more months. I need to spend less time on Twitter. That place is a sink. Gross.
Love you all, x
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After a rollercoaster Christmas and New Year back home (Northampton, UK, for anyone unsure), I fled to Sicily. My Stansted to Palermo flight was ludicrously cheap and Ryanair did a fine job getting me there in one piece. England was grey, unrelentingly damp and colder than a witch’s teat so I thought, ‘Flee to the Mediterranean, a stonesthrow, albeit with a prodigiously good arm, from North Africa, and see out the winter, cocktail in hand, on unspoilt beaches, enveloped in fresh sea air like a modern-day Hemingway.’ I’m a pretentious sod like that, at times.
Palermo greeted me with a tremendous thunderstorm and days of driving rain. And it was cold. So cold. Outside and in. Not metaphorically. Well, sort of metaphorically. That’s by the by. The apartment in which I was to spend two weeks, whilst no doubt ideal in midsummer, was more akin to a warehouse walk-in freezer in January. A shirt, two jumpers, a coat, a blanket around my shoulders and a blanket around my legs was the standard attire for almost every moment, waking or asleep. Breath billowing in silvery plumes, huddled around boiling pasta, there was a small fan heater, but it would trip the electrics if I used it simultaneously with any other electrical device and I was never going to give in and shell out for one of more dependable quality. What’s worse, I was taunted at all times by the air-con unit, out of service for the duration of my stay due to a leak in the roof directly above it.
Woe is me and all that. It was still bloody brilliant, but bloody cold to boot.
I was in Zisa, a district to the west of Palermo’s historic centre. It’s a poor area; apartments piled high, abandoned cars, all manner of debris lining the streets, and a spirited bunch of youths whose entertainments over the fortnight included trying to kick their way into an occupied building, riding motorised scooters without properly protective headgear or reflectives and, on the final night of my stay, constructing a road barricade out of pallets, discarded tyres and whatever they could steal from nearby building sites. It was a sight to behold, five, then six, then ten or more children, barricading the entrance to a one way street, a quite popular and necessary one way street judging by the traffic that wanted to use it, the youths shouting instructions, gesturing left and right and, after the initial buzz of playing ‘traffic cop’ had worn off, simply drop-kicking passing vehicles and throwing parts of the barricade at anything and every vehicle in sight. Several locals tried to reason with them, but to no avail. A clip round the ear would’ve sorted ’em right out. Perhaps.
Having been to Italy before, some aspects of the culture can be a little intimidating. Staff in shops, cafes and restaurants can seem standoffish, but at the same time they’re on minimum wage and you’re stood there, wasting their time, with your finger up your arse trying to work out why ‘calde’ means hot. Palermo is something of a trial by fire, especially in the off-season, when meandering backpacks are rare. In case you don’t follow to the end, or I don’t get round to finishing the arc for another year, I’ve been here five weeks now and I’m fully in the flow. I love Sicily.
However, Zisa was an experience, and not one I was especially ready for as a first delve into Sicilian life.
It was not without its charm, though. Every morning, these fellas would set up a vat over a gas burner, fill it with half a ton of potatoes, boil ’em up, take out most of the water, load the pot onto the back of the Ape (interesting bit history, the old three-wheeled vehicles – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piaggio_Ape), and drive them down the road to somewhere, or someone, in need of vast quantities of freshly boiled spuds. Not the most exciting bit of insight there, but it was nice to know that they’d be out there doing their daily routine each time I went for my 10am coffee break.
Palermo’s historic centre is gorgeous, full of the breathtaking architecture you’d expect from historic Italy, and many little hidden treasures you happen upon by chance. I happened upon this courtyard by chance, in a bid to escape a sudden downpour. By chance, this also happens to be the location of Laboratorio d’Arte Angela Tripi, a renowned and highly respected local sculptor of historic and Christian scenes (Angela Tripi – Palermo).
- A sculpture (right) outside a building (left).
- Teehee!
There are so many gorgeous hunk of rock around Palermo I shan’t try to document them all. You may contact me directly for a more thoroughly tedious slideshow. This is Porta Nuova though, and it’s the entrypoint, from where I was, to the historic centre and it’s an impressive portal into the meat of the city.
The Palatine Chapel (Cappella Palatina – Wikipedia) took my breath away. I’ve included a few photos and will go as far as to say its construction was influenced by a mixture of styles, Norman, Byzantine and Fatimid, and is a stunning example of the most beautiful elements of various cultures coming together. The whole city is full of this fusion of influences, such as pointed arches, intricate mosaic patterning and rounded domes.
See?
There’s the big man right there. And him as a wee man below. Whatever, look at how insanely beautiful the place is. Like the cover of a Batushka record.
- Saw this lil’ angel fella having a good ol’ boogie. Get in lad!
- A decorative arrangement of carcasses.
- The cherubim rock, too.
- I’ve seen several of these other-worldly beauties around, with a few more in Marsala. Absolutely stunning trees. I may not know arboriculture, but I know what I like.
- Love a big ol’ mural too.
So, here we are, it’s the end of the ‘Palermo’ chapter. Turns out I didn’t take many worthy photos, adjusting as I was to a sudden switch in scenery. Palermo took it out of me a bit and by the end I was almost ready to ditch Sicily altogether and move on. The ‘old me’ would’ve balked at this level of honesty in an open forum but, honestly, I was doing slightly less than brilliantly.
A visit to the Capuchin Catacombs (no photos out of respect for the dead, fill yer boots here -> Catacombe Frati Cappuccini – Il Sito Ufficiale) woke me up to the fragility of life and the fleeting time I have on this earth and a long and typically Sicilian train journey (read: getting off a train because it’s cancelled and waiting for another train, which may or may not be cancelled as well, left to stare at the cancelled train, sitting there, doing nothing, just being all ‘cancelled’) left me wondering as to why I’d chosen to spend any time at all on this odd little island.
Then I had two blissful weeks of self-care in Marsala and now all is well with the world again. Stay tuned for more.
Ciao ragazzi.
travel
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- ‘Bum.’ – Unknown Artist, Izumisano, 2022. Tee hee.
I started this writing project to entertain myself and to keep anyone who happens to be interested in my meanderings updated on my progress. I quickly, as with many things in my life, stopped writing, and started doing something else. It’s an odd, frustrating quirk of mine, and one that I hope to conquer one day. Still, this rapid distractability is all part of my dog-like charm, isn’t it? Right?
Anyway, I’m back, so let’s rewind to early November. Ho Chi Minh (nee Saigon). I’m not overly impressed with the city. It’s underwhelming. Well, after Hanoi, it lacks whelm. What it does have, however, is a large Japanese population. This means it has Family Mart, one of Japan’s leading convenience store chains, and Sukiya, one of Japan’s leading gyudon (beef bowl) restaurant chains…
Family Mart – “…one of Japan’s leading convenience store chains…”
Some berk, 2023
Sukiya – “…one of Japan’s leading gyudon (beef bowl) restaurants…”
Some bore, 2023It even has a ‘Japanese Quarter’ full of hostess bars, where you can indulge in the sensation of being politely mugged by beautiful ladies.
I was due to travel to Cambodia, but after a couple of cans of Asahi, a spicy beef bowl and a ‘£21 for three drinks’ hostess bar bill (trust me, in Vietnam, that is obnoxiously expensive), I rapidly diverted all of my plans East. Well, further East.
I love Osaka. I thought I’d be able to collect my thoughts, get myself together and use the peaceful, tranquil, kooky predictability of Japan to further rebuild myself.
I was horribly, drastically, hilariously wrong. Osaka is a party-hearty city that never sleeps. I love Osaka.
- Silly little elf ears, just buy a mask that fits. No? No...
On arrival at Kansai International Airport, I was accosted by a film crew. They were filming for a long running TV series called, ‘Why Did You Come To Japan?’ As I was one of very few western arrivals, and possibly because of my aura of enigmatic charm, they requested an interview with me.
I attempted some Japanese but I was tired after the journey and very much out of practice, so didn’t do too well and gave up after a while. They asked me many questions including, ‘Why did you come to Japan?’.
The show, which has been running since 2013, consists of collected interviews with visitors from all over the world, and is presented by the famous manzai comedy duo Bananaman, although they were sadly absent.
I wasn’t at my best, only making the crew laugh a handful of times. I also did that thing I do where I babble and say lots of things unrelated to the original question in an attempt to sound interesting, wise and unembarrassed.
They took my details and said they’d be in touch if they used any of the footage. Shows like this usually have a rapid turnaround so I was hopeful for my first Japanese TV appearance to happen whilst I was there, but I have since heard nothing. From minimal research online, they seem to prefer interviewees that reinforce the ‘dumb/zany gaijin(foreigner) stereotype’, as it makes for better TV, so I was either too impressively smart for the show, or too dull. Or both. Stiil, I hold on to the hope that one day, Himura-san and Shitara-san will need some B-roll from the cutting room floor, and will use the chance to mock me for the aging simpleton I am.
Ah. Strong Zero. Nectar of Gods. Anathema of Titans. Soothing succour to the parched perambulator. Bringer of Hangovers. Consumer of Souls.
It is both my favourite convenience store beverage, and my sworn nemesis. It’s half the price of beer. It’s 9%. It tastes like a soft drink with a splash of paint thinner added. A couple of these and you’re good to go. The wise choice would be to have one, perhaps two, and then leave it at that. Of course, the alchemy contained within casts it spell and before you know it, it’s 10am the next day and you’re fully clothed in a capsule room being prodded by an angry yet polite young man who needs to clean the capsule that your fetid bear-carcass body is still violating, ten minutes past check-out (more on that later).
- It’s the preferred beverage of Miyachi, and many of his interviewees, in the truly excellent Konbini Confessions series. It’s a glorious peek into what makes nights out in Japan so ludicrously enjoyable.
The affordability is an interesting point (if Japanese alcohol regulation and relative pricing structures are your bag). Japan has a typically convoluted ‘beer tax’ system. Unlike most countries, which tax beverages based on ABV, works based on the amount of malt used in the brewing process. Consequently, a 500ml can of 5% Asahi that is comparatively good for you (I said ‘comparatively’) is £2.50 – £3, whereas a 500ml can of this utter poison is about £1.30.
We’re not here to discuss my life choices, we’ll do that later, but what is interesting is that this system has led to the creation of ‘Happoshu’, a beer-like sparkling alcoholic beverage, which uses less malt in the brewing process and so sidesteps the tax system. It tastes mostly like beer, is advertised in the same way as beer, has the same ABV and does exactly the same job as beer, but costs half the price. In short, bad beer cheap, good beer… uncheap.
- A big Billy big beer or lovely real beer from Asahitei, Izumisano (2-21 Asahicho, Izumisano 598-0052 Osaka Prefecture). Serving beer in a glass fresh out of the freezer is commonplace in Japan and should be enshrined in law everywhere else.
I stayed in a small city about 40km south of Osaka itself, called Izumisano, for the entirety of my three weeks in Osaka prefecture. A curious place, you’ll find out all about it soon, but one thing that was predictably infuriating was the complete lack of anywhere to just stop and enjoy something.
- Izumisano, 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Notice how no one is anywhere or enjoying anything.
I know that the Japanese tend not to eat whilst walking or eat whilst standing or eat whilst sitting and that’s great, but in the larger cities these rules are pretty lax and people mostly just do what they want, albeit still within finely ordered societal boundaries. It’s a feature that would drive many people mad were they to spend too long here.
Izumisano is different. It’s small. So small, most of the working or school-age population seem to disappear completely for the majority of the day. And the majority of the night. Basically, it’s perpetually really, really quiet.
- A terrible photo of Izumisano station from what architects might call the ‘Fancy Pants Aspect’. A bit more action here.
I perched myself on a bike rack, for there was nowhere else to perch, and took a moment, tired from my journey and from carrying my hefty luggage on my shoulders. The sun was beating down and I felt I deserved a rest. I even tucked myself around the corner, well away from the door and away from the car park.
A little old lady shuffled along the path towards me, and then took a huge, arcing detour, maintaining a minimum of four metres distance between us, looping around me before rejoining the path once again.
‘Chikan,’ she muttered to herself.
My Japanese was very rusty at this point, rustier than usual, but I knew this was not a friendly bit of neighbourly small talk. It was outwardly hostile. I pulled out my phone and checked the term.
‘chikan – (noun) masher, molester, pervert’
Ach, come on, I’ve been here for little over an hour and already I’m getting slandered by the elderly for being a savage foreign predator. Admittedly, I am drinking a 9% sparkling alcoholic beverage in the middle of the day, and wearing shorts, and I’m somewhat sweaty from the journey and the heat, and I’m 6’3, and I’m perched on a bike rack, and I don’t have a mask on, because I’m having a drink, but…
And at that moment I reminded myself that Japan had only been truly open to tourists for one month. In the three weeks that were to follow, I would see three ‘westerners’, and, on top of that, very little reason why any regular tourist would choose Izumisano as a holiday destination, so even pre-pandemic I would have still been a massive, gallumpfing curio. Two years and several months after that grim beginning and now here I am, possibly the first western face she’s seen since early 2020, all bearded, sweating, grimacing, slurping on chu-hai and generally just being a big, oafish bore all over the place.
Thus began a long and confusing rollercoaster of emotions as I tried to rationalise and overcome the even-more-exagerrated-than-usual caution and possible mistrust of ‘gaijin’ that occurs, particularly with older generations, in almost every city, town and village outside of Japan’s tourist districts.
I felt bad. So, I finished my drink and made my way to the guest house. I had already soiled myself and I hadn’t even checked in. It was time to be thoughtful, to reflect on the past few weeks and to begin the steady process, once more, of rebuilding myself anew.
The sun was shining, the breeze was fresh, and I was in my favourite country in the world. Everything would be just fine.
- Everything would absolutely NOT be ‘just fine’. I was mere hours away from Terrible Choices™.
Part 2, coming soon!
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I made a massive handwritten list of ‘Fings Wot I Av Learnt’ over the last four weeks. Here’s some of them, with colourful pictures to keep you enthralled.
1- You can’t run away from your problems, or run away from yourself, but you can be a confused mess in a warmer climate where pots of offal in neon orange soup by the roadside are commonplace and delicious.
2- Your faults are almost entirely down to you, and making the assumption that it’s your circumstances causing the problems suggests a refusal to acknowledge the reality. As evidenced by the cleaning product staring at me, whispering, ‘Max, Max,’ in a toilet, somewhere in Tay Ho, Hanoi. Maybe.
3- Affordable lifestyles can make people happier, especially me. I guess I’m one of those awful, ‘I go there ‘cuz it’s cheap’ kind of tourists, but I am genuinely fascinated by other places and I enjoy learning about and assimilating myself into other cultures. Someone made a tray of ice water for these pigeons to drink, as it was 35°C in Ho Chi Minh. I think it was a nearby fruit juice stall that did it. What lovely people. No relation to the original point, just wanted to get the pigeons in.
4- Nightclubs are the absolute best. I didn’t take any photos inside because you just don’t, although many young whippersnappers in Saigon (quicker to write than Ho Chi Minh, nothing political, simmer down) didn’t get the memo. I do have a video of a man on a speaker stack with a flare between his buttocks, showering sparks into the crowd, which made my own buttocks clench in an ‘only you can prevent nightclub fires’ kind of way. The DJ name in focus is ‘Mess’, who played a glorious mess of music, including Celine Dion, banging Vietnamese techno, Disney tunes and ragga jungle. 10/10.
5- ‘Social’ countries (note, not necessarily ‘Socialist’) countries are great. The climate here helps, but every night, Friday, Sunday, Wednesday, it doesn’t matter, thousands of people sit and eat by the roadside, gather in parks and social areas, play badminton, practice dance routines on stages set up for the weekend, and wander around the lake as an enormous stage with no one performing on it pumps out techno-pop and children gawp in awe at the flashing spectacle. Wonderful, really bloody wonderful. Note the TP Bank insignia, the ’embracing capitalism but on our terms’ policy of doi moi was introduced in the late 80s and has transformed the country into, essentially, a free market economy with elements of one party control over the decades. Just out of shot, rows and rows of red flags with golden star insignia. Confusing? I don’t know, I just got here.
6- I’ve found it very easy to connect with the Westerners I’ve met here, most likely because I am good company. I am amusing, insightful, knowledgeable to a point and generally interested in others. Just being me has worked out great. Ugh, it pains me to say that. Plus, I’ve thus far avoided any complete dickheads. Amazing stuff, kudos to me. No idea who any of these people are, but it’s a nice shot.
- I don’t like cricket. I love it. No? Fine, suit yourself. Ungrateful.
I’m sat, ‘airside’, waiting for my flight to Osaka, and I’m wondering quietly to myself, ‘Why?’ Why choose Osaka over Cambodia, my originally intended destination? It’s a complex question, with even more complex reasoning. I could sit here and delve into the whys and whatnots of every action, considering, bleakly, the path of disarray that has led me to this point, eventually drawing an already obvious conclusion.(1)
But I won’t. I’m going back to Japan because I love it. I’m rusty. I’m overhearing many conversations in Japanese from fellow soon-to-be passengers and I’m struggling to understand a word. Perhaps it’s the fault of the pandemic, isolating me from the place I adore. Maybe it’s because I am a lazy student. It’s most likely a combination of the two. Who cares, not you, I’d wager.
The post grows long. Thank you for making it this far. You may contact me directly for reimbursement if you feel somewhat short-changed by this dreary rambling monologue. Expect a polite response. Now leave me alone.
Havana? I’m Havana good time, does that count?
(1) The reason is that Cambodia is, thanks to its incredibly tragic past (nice one Nixon, and screw Kissinger too, lousy pair of ratbastards), not an easy place to travel around. You have to be on your guard and it’s potentially not an ‘easy’ bit of travel. No judgement, total sympathy, and I will go there soon, but I am ready for the steady, largely predictable and generally completely safe, if sterile, warmth of Japan at this point. I’ve got a lot more navel-gazing to do and Osaka feels like the ideal place to find my head. There’s an onsen ten minutes from my guest house. Plus, it’ll be nice to not have eight thousand bikes careening towards me every time I cross a road.
Love to each and every one of you. X
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It’s been a good couple of weeks since my last missive. In that time I’ve had fun, met some cool people, been to some great clubs and done a lot of personal reflection.
Why am I here (geographically and metaphorically)? What am I doing with my life? What will become of me? Where do I go next? Am I insane? Am I stupid? Does it really matter?
Whilst not much closer to a useful answer to any of those questions, I am processing through the tangled mangroves in the swamp of my mind. Four weeks into a ten week venture, there’s still time.
A lot of worry, and a lot of fear, in short. Punctuated with plenty of joy and some humour. I didn’t expect easy answers and I’m not disappointed.
I found a cool little venue, Hanoi Social Club, which has a weekly night called ‘Tiny Music Club’. I went twice in three weeks and had a great time. An intimate space, with a trust box of beers and some very cool people, mainly tourists and expats, despite the varied acts that play there.
The night is run by Ayush, a charming Nepalese singer songwriter who I spoke to on both occasions. He plays a gentle and fun range of his own material, a jazzy, reggae tinged vibe, not my usual preference but he plays guitar very well and his charisma won me over.
Pink Frog (pictured) is a Vietnamese singer songwriter and his set was good. Lots of sad songs, well played and well sung. Hats off Mr Frog.
Two weeks later, I saw Yordan Kostov, with a touring band with which he plays called Don’t Cry Judy, for some reason. Who upset Judy? We’ll never know. I hope she’s alright now though.
Yordan and his assembled troupe were amazing. Yordan hails from Macedonia, and the chaotic, experimental Macedonian folk inspired set that they performed blew me away. Genuinely brilliant stuff, reminiscent of the Constellation band Black Ox Orkestar, which no one had heard of. I sat and chatted with them for a couple of hours afterwards, meeting some other interesting musicians and creatives in the process. A very cool group that knew each other well, they went to Manuel’s house to jam and drink until the early hours. I failed to get an invite, despite my best efforts, which made me sad. Still, I don’t blame them for not being in the business of inviting random Englishmen to their homes, we do have a reputation after all.
I visited Hoa Lo Prison Relic (aka Maison Centrale, aka Hanoi Hilton), where the French colonists incarcerated Vietnamese political prisoners, regardless of guilt or innocence, in the time of the occupation in horrific conditions. The prison was then repurposed to host American prisoners of war, this time in significantly improved, almost jovial conditions. According to the museum displays, anyway. Former Senator John McCain was a former resident of the prison, so you could ask him, however he passed away in 2018, so, I don’t know, buy his autobiography or something, I can’t do everything for you.
I met a cat named Kila who was rather cruelly taunting a mouse at the café around the corner from my Tay Ho digs. It was a one-sided affair, luck not befalling the mouse who was making a valiant effort to escape. I left before the match had ended. Perhaps the mouse finally gave in, although Kila’s intention was clearly not to kill the poor thing. Perhaps the mouse escaped, although even if it had, I’d wager the physical and mental scars would have caused it irreparable damage and impacted its prospects for the rest of its life.
Tay Ho, north Hanoi, is still under construction, much like this post, and various traps have been set to ensure the unobservant are taught a valuable, and potentially life-changing, lesson in hazard awareness.
I’m a busy man and I can’t sit around all day serving up hot hilarity, so I’m off. Stay tuned for more unnecessarily wordy tedium in the not too distant.
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I can’t muster the energy to relate in wordy detail all that’s gone on over the past two days, so have some photographs instead, that’s what you like anyway, nowadays, isn’t it, all pictures and no real content.
At the weekend, the roads are closed off and children roam free in miniature cars, either self-drive or remote controlled. It’s chaos, but it’s the cutest and coolest thing ever. 
This is Finn, he lives at LENS Coffee. He barked at everyone but me. I felt blessed. Good boy. 
The view outside a wonderful bia hoi. I had a couple, read my book and ate beef. The young lads working there loved football. I told them I wasn’t bothered. This confused them, so I’ll be sure to lie in future. I currently support Newcastle. The menu had some great hardcore/post-post-punk band names.
Nailrolls 
Bare Flooring 
Cow Bucket 
Throw Phung 
Calf Hearing 
Cow Squeezes 
Where the magic happens. 
I found my all-time favourite beer at die Träumerei (49 P. Quang Trung, Trần Hưng Đạo, Hai Bà Trưng, Hà Nội) 
Not my photo, thanks to Anna Auden. 
They had a wide selection of European beers and deli specialities. If I ever need consoling with strong beer and cured meats, I know where to go. 
A terrible picture of a beautiful lake, Thiền Quang. It was Sunday night so it was very peaceful, the gentle chirrup of crickets punctuated by the occasional toot of a passing bike. 
I met some very cool students celebrating birthdays. They invited me to sit, they shared their passion fruit cake and we chatted about music, culture and language (read; swearing – vãi lồn!) Happy birthday to Tuan and Hien. 
I went in search of further refreshment. It was late, about 11, and this bia hoi place was showing Premier League. I approached gleefully, shoot the shit with the locals about the beautiful game (Come on you Newcastle… players…), what could go wrong? (Not my photo, credit: Thắng Môi Trường). At this point, a man, sat with his two friends raised his arms in the air, crossed, and shouted ‘No!’ several times in an aggressive fashion. Perhaps the place was closing, perhaps he assumed I am a hooligan (easy mistake to make), or maybe he’s just a big, stupid racist. Either way, I went to watch the football and got shouted at/threatened within seconds. Makes sense really, stupid game for bigots (j/k, don’t throw a bench at me).
My view the following morning from The Note Coffee (64 P. Lương Văn Can), a cool place where travellers leave inside post-its of potted ‘wisdom’ on every available surface. Shaken by my interlude and in agony after a ludicrous amount of walking over the weekend, I sat and edited an audio drama. I felt incredibly cool, although none of the other Westerners acknowledged me. There are a great many po-faced adventurers here, Western-wise. Cheer up, pricks! 
Shout out to CoBa Bakery (Hàng Gai, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi 10000) for the egg coffee (cà phê trứng), bao, and awesome pastries. Lovely people too.
The pickled vegetable pot had the cowering air of the liar… 
Alas, I was wrong. Eco cup my arse… I spent most of Monday and Tuesday day time sleeping. I was fatigued beyond all measure, the realities of being an old, rapidly disintegrating bastard quickly catching up with me. Still, I have some vigor left in me, so by Tuesday tea time I was up and at ’em again, albeit feeling like my intestines were trying to chew their way out.
This cat at 1975 cafe (delectable hot chicken and cheese Bánh mì) is a trooper. A stray dog tried to pinch one out in front of the cafe and this little guy ran him off like a hero. Great work, tiny friend. 
Tiny Music Club at The Hanoi Social Club (every Tuesday, 6 Ng. Hội Vũ, Hàng Bông, Hoàn Kiếm, Hà Nội, Vietnam). Big recommend. Pink Frog headlined, lovely vocals over some beautiful, gentle guitar playing. Ayush, the host, also played a set of cheery (too cheery) reggae-ish tunes. Ayush is a genuinely lovely Nepalese guy who’s lived here eight years and has no plan to leave. I can see his point. I’ll go into further detail about this beautiful little event later on. May have done a little cry. 
Some wicked art inside, too. Really cool place, I’ll be back, for sure.
Hỏa Lò Prison then 
Hỏa Lò Prison now. Yesterday, I went to Hỏa Lò Prison, aka Maison Centrale, aka the Hanoi Hilton, aka Heartbreak Hotel, aka (Get to the point – ed.), John McCain’s former residence, not to mention the tens of thousands of political prisoners who upset the French, but that’s a whole thing that it’s best not to get into when you’re probably fatigued with all of this self-indulgent guff.
So, that’s it. Largely uneventful and I’m sorry I put you through it. No real insight to offer, other than that I’ve been told by several people (shout out to Thung, aka Bluemato https://soundcloud.com/bluematoofficial) that the incident with the aggressive football man is very unusual, and I was simply unlucky. I love this place, all of its chaotic traffic, endless food stalls, po-faced travellers and welcoming locals.
There’s a huge storm forecast in the south, so I’m chilling in Hanoi for a few more days before heading towards Hải Phòng and the stunningly beautiful Hạ Long Bay.
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Bia Phượng (2RPX+62H, Hàng Đồng, Hàng Bồ, Hoàn Kiếm, Hà Nội, Vietnam)
I heard tell of the freshly brewed, daily beer of Hanoi. Brewed fresh each day, anything unsold by close is no longer good and is thrown out (a sin, unforgivable, I must prevent this crime). Cheap, plentiful, the wise choice, considering I was recently fleeced once again, £6 equivalent for a La Trappe. I sure know how to pick ’em…
After a long walk, semi-aimless, around the monumental area (quite literally)…
Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, I didn’t go in to see his embalmed corpse because I was close to dying of heatstroke) … I stumbled upon this chaotic corner.
Life flies by at a mile per second so I decided to help slow things down with a cool refreshing glass of cool refreshment. As beers go it’s entirely inoffensive. Cool, refreshing (- edit this, repetition, Ed.), lacking any real flavour but the perfect tincture on a balmy evening. Served via hose by a sullen young man, you can basically drink as much as you like without fear of ever getting really smashed.
A beer, in case you’re unsure what I’m on about. I had three and then spied a fellow Westerner, so I did as all intrepid adventurers must and foist myself upon him.
Dan, from Glastonbury. I checked with him that he was okay to use his real name (his real name is Lenny) and we sat and shot the shit for a good while. He was in crisis, but a ‘fun-time happy’ crisis, having just quit his teaching job because he was hungover after a birthday celebration. A good guy, we discussed the nightmare that is England and the opportunities available here. He drank a few too many and became animated. He gave at least three renditions of Sweet Caroline (Brits abroad!) and demonstrated in very clear international terms his desire to hang Liz Truss from a nearby branch.
The branch, for reference. It’s far too low to hang someone on but it seemed insensitive to point that out. A really nice guy though, one of those lucky few that fall into the catchment of free Glastonbury tickets, he’s a singer songwriter and has been in numerous metal bands (Hidden Enemy, I haven’t checked them out so can’t vouch for them) and he used to rehearse in a studio in Brighton next to Sikth (I have checked them out and can vouch for them, they’re fantastic) which is pretty close to as cool as it gets, nerd-wise.
Then we met a lovely Polish gent, umm… let’s call him Tim.
A real swell guy. Lenny immediately dived into a discussion about Russian aggression and the incumbent right wing Polish government, in quite combative, intense terms, but Tim took it with good humour and charm. A fellow wastrel, he was only two hours into Hanoi and was already smitten, as am I.
Lenny left us to it and I miss him, his rampant enthusiasm for debate and his good time humour. Tim and I continued the shit-shooting and the afternoon became the evening. In total we had far too many bia hois and a single plate of delectable fried tofu and it came to 200k dong, about eight English pounds.
At this point, I was keen to continue lively discussion with fellow English speakers so I jumped in a cab and hot-footed it to Ha Dong, a district to the West that is a very, very long way off the tourist trail. The journey was almost beyond belief, tens of thousands of bikes, the main roads here feel more like rivers, the flow of bikes and cars and buses weaving in and out, ever forward, in a way that, when you get your head around it, makes complete sense. It’s a fascinating study in fluid dynamics, if there’s a space that space gets filled.
There I met Jim, a friend of many, many years, who was sitting and playing low stakes card games with Mr Chi, a charming Vietnamese gentleman, two Russians, Alex and Nadine, and two Belarusians, Igor and Natalia. They were amazing people with a keen, disgraceful sense of humour.
A strange photo and the only one I got, the inverse relationship of photographic ability to drink in its clearest form. We sat and talked and had delicious deep fried rat penis (it was pork but Alex is a funny guy) and I lost every game. Inverse relationship of gambling ability to drink in its clearest form.
Eventually they called it a night but I was not done so I hopped in a cab and drove to ‘The Warehouse’ for some dance music.
The view from the rooftop, my favourite part of the venue because you can see places that aren’t The Warehouse. It cost a bomb to get in, it was full of eager tourists and it demonstrated clearly why I absolutely detest almost all clubs. Terrible music, utter dogshit. Well, not banging techno so… Slow house, do one mate. What’s wrong with people? The sound system was great and the lighting was cool, I’d imagine there are good nights there, I was just unlucky.
I left after one hideously overpriced and undersized beer in protest and went off to enjoy the dawn. I sat outside a Circle K at five am watching the world go by.
The Ice Man Cometh For ‘ the world’, read ‘an endless stream of youths on motorbikes’. 5am and the place was ‘popping’, as the youths tend to say.
This is more like a list of rather bland events so I’ll keep the rest brief.
- Morning yoga in the park (I need to do more yoga, it felt good and everything hurts now)
- Dancing to traditional ballads with a huge group of older folks (they were in hysterics at my inability to coordinate even the most basic of movement)
- A sleep, deep, restful, interrupted by a very helpful but entirely unwelcome member of hotel staff.
Now I’m sat at a locals bar, supping a Saigon and feeling fresh as a kicked apart melon in the sun
Pray for Mojo. One more thing, they’ve closed off massive sections of road and put out tons of remote control / driveable mini cars for the kids to goof around in and it just drove the point home even more that Vietnamese babies are the most stinking cute babies ever. My womb is fit to burst.
travel
Max Lawrence Writes 