Sliding Doors

A long while back, there was a lil known movie called Sliding Doors that told the story of a lady, reminiscent of a very youthful Gwyneth Paltrow, who found herself splitting into two alternate timelines because of one possible missed train. One in which she actually managed to get on that train and one where the doors literally shut on her.

Just a serendipitous incidence that would send her life barrelling down two entirely separate timelines that couldn't be more different. 

That very distinct image of the sliding train doors always remained with me - along with the surprisingly sentimental ballad from Aqua that accompanied it. 

One that comes to mind whenever I travel afield with Charming Calvin since he moves at a snail's pace while I'm decidedly ... faster. Though age has slowed me down plenty, I'm still plenty quick enough to leave him quite literally in the dust. Which is one reason why I'm always spinning around every hundred metres or so to make sure he's at least ten paces behind. 

Otherwise I might actually lose sight of him. 

Which is what happened in a train station in Tokyo.

And yes, we've been there several times since that first time. That's another couple of stories to tell. 

Rush hour in Tokyo is a crazy madhouse with crowds rushing to and fro at maddening speeds, though Charming Calvin always seems spectacularly unfazed by the human chaos and methodically trudges his way down the steps. Me, akin to many other brash mainland Chinese passengers, I'm all too prepared to smack, shove and strain my way into the nearest possible train. Scrambling down the steps to see the train doors fortuitously open, I rarely think twice about stepping in. 

Made it right on time!

Moments before I of course swung around to find him as I usually do. Only to see the train doors gradually closing. It was like a movie sequence with everything slowed down to a staggering pause as we both stared at each other through the doors. I could practically hear Aqua singing. Perhaps I looked amused, I might even have waved. Calvin for sure looked absolutely aghast. 

Fortunately though it was something both of us had anticipated a long time ago - quite brainy the both us! - and even prepared several options for what to do after. First plan would be for me to hurry out at the next station and try to enter the following train at the same carriage.  

After that, I actually suggested hurrying him into stations and then pushing him into the train in front of me. Calvin wasn't too amused at that. 

Nanjing Road East

If there's one thing the Chinese prize above all, it's family - perhaps let me rephrase, the enduring continuity of the family lineage with progeny to continue the next generation. Ye Olde Confucian way. Is it any wonder that the the symbolism of 100 children at play figures large on paintings, embroideries and other Chinese paraphernalia? The recent one-child policy might have quashed their enthusiasm a little but that doesn't stop them from trying.

So what happens if that singleton refuses to date?

A mercantile people for more than a millennia, the Chinese have always loved a good bargain with an endless need to barter for goods deep in their blood so what could they have possibly done with a single, marriageable child in their household? Why not bring out their precious goods to sell on the streets?

Or maybe a public park at the meeting place of Nanjing Road East and West?

I mean, the bashful kids obviously aren't going to sell themselves! Who better to peddle them off than the people who know them best ; their own parents?

Woman : I've got a boy.
Man : Good?
Woman : Yes. Educated and earning a good salary/
Man : I've got a girl.
Woman : How old is she?
Man : Marriageable I assure you.
Woman : Perfect.

Flesh market indeed!

Much to the horror of their children I'm sure. Though perhaps some of them are truly lovelorn and don't mind their parents giving them a helping hand in the dating milieu.

Forget about Tindr and other dating apps out there. Not since the olden days of Chinese matchmakers in Mulan would you have seen such as a sight as the People's Square Park in Shanghai with gossip gangs of elderly parents communing in the park with handheld laminated notices - or placed more discreetly on umbrellas - detailing pertinent information about their marriageable children from the usual date of birth to their more likeable personality traits.

No such eligible boys at the market - otherwise I would have packed him in the luggage. 

Walking about staring at all the notices, I'll admit to a certain ego boost when I got asked about my eligibility by a few portly matrons. Never let it be said that dressing up well benefits no one, certainly helped raise my points on the marriage mart here. Unsurprisingly few real candidates are present in the park. Very few pictures are posted on the advertisements which gives me a very peculiar idea about their looks, or lack of. Charming Calvin said they might be all be shy but I seriously wonder.

Selling points for the boys were their degrees, housing opportunities and career prospects while the girls had their age and personality on their side. Really old-fashioned China indeed and certainly not a place for the raging feminists.

Unsurprisingly the local Shanghai men are famously saleable, not only for their advantageous addresses but also their unwholesome reputation for being easily henpecked. But beware those girls over 30 as this reporter would tell you.

Oof. I'll admit those gruffly exacting parents pull no punches when they are giving their unvarnished opinions.

Suzhou Nocturne

If there is one specific place in China that I've always loved, it would be Suzhou. Is it any wonder that people throughout the ages have laid exultant accolades at her door with some referring to the city as a place close to paradise on earth?

上有天堂，下有苏杭

Who could blame the poets for praising the city so zealously when it has been well regarded as one of the most beautiful cities in the world for centuries with its canals, bridges and classical gardens. Indeed the resplendent place where the goods of all provinces flow. Reason enough that I find myself heading over there again, bypassing other more notables cities such as Hangzhou and Nanjing, to this relatively smaller city. Relatively when it comes to China since even their purportedly smaller cities easily outstrip most other cities outside the region.

Even though it was mid week at quite an unseasonable hour, the colossal railway station in Suzhou still had quite a crowd and I shudder to think how it would be during the mass migration of the Spring Festival. Wouldn't surprise me that the unfortunate would get trampled in the ensuing chaos!

Such a huge sigh of relief once we left the spartan gray neo-Communist building in the outskirts of the city and headed towards the more historical centre. Not only are the streets beautifully clean and well maintained with the dreamy tree-lined canals beside them, even the bus stops are built as traditional dappled grey gazebos with curved tiled black roofs reminiscent of the ancient structures around them.

Finding our way through the rabbit warren maze of narrow lanes and canals took a while!

Just a vision from an old Chinese watercolour painting with delicate gazebos and pagodas interspersed with a filigree of tree-lined canals and backwaters.

Situated as we were in an old lodge right in the middle of the historical district, everything is only a short distance away. Just down the windy narrow lanes overhung with weeping willows and mimosa trees, we would find ourselves in the midst of bookstores, silk houses and souvenir stores selling everything from ceramics to snuff bottles.

Can't argue the fact that the mercantile Chinese, even despite the brief blip of red communism, have always prized materialism.

And did I mention they had restaurants and teahouses practically every few metres from posh dining palaces offering fine foods with entertainers singing Kunqu through the night to the messier stalls by the roadside serving braised chicken feet to dozens in the queues! No matter what they say, the Suzhounese do know how to enjoy life. So it should come as no surprise that bureaucrats and ministers have been known to retire here in the later stages of their lives for the past millennia.

Entertainment and food aside, let's not forget the artistic side of the fabled city.

Didn't take me long to find myself seated on a wooden stool with paintbrush in hand to colour in a traditional Suzhou woman's dress, all while Charming Calvin stood by with a steaming cup of Longjing green tea in hand. Ancient watercolours of Chinese ladies in Ming and Tang costume screenprinted onto silk pillows and table runners for us to paint on. Something Calvin obviously flat out refused to do so - leaving him to while away the time lazing about the store admiring the peerless scenery outside.

What better way to spend a lazy afternoon in Suzhou?

Miss Shanghai

Since this was our third time around in Shanghai with ample enough time to explore at leisure, I had the time to really stroll down the streets and alleyways and soak the atmosphere of this fabled city. Didn't take me long before I made my way down to the Old City of Shanghai, a place a tour guide once teased us about.

Guide : Yes, it's another temple in Shanghai. 
Paul : Good God. Not another temple. 
Guide : Not just any temple. 
Paul : Unless the monks are shirtless and sexy, I think I'll skip it. 
Guide : Trust me, you won't want to miss this temple. 

He was right back then.

Wouldn't surprise me if the traders dressed like this less than a century back. Heck, even I've worn the same. 

And I wouldn't argue with him this time either since I've returned repeatedly to Yuyuan Garden - and the City God Temple within - each time I'm there. Basically the more Chinese part of Shanghai city that wasn't carved away in the more fractious colonial times into international concessions so part of what was originally there remains.

Sort of. 

Monstrous tourist trap it may be with repetitive stores hawking all things Chinese from the traditional arts and crafts to the more kitschy Chairman Mao memorabilia - and on that particular holiday the old alleys were certainly bursting to the brim with haggling visitors - but it was a place that I still managed to enjoy.

Even more this time since I had little qualms over elbowing and shoving people out of my way.

Not that the lil miss Shanghais would even bother since they could be as brash and brusque as anyone else, even dressed in the most demure qipaos. Then again, the local proud Shanghainese would again decry any such association with those they would term country bumpkins.

There is a lack of finesse for sure. Even more obvious when it comes to the surly service received in the teahouses and restaurants around. Smiles are rare indeed, and personal recommendations even less so, something I found alarmingly common here. Just like some of our own reticent Malaysian Chinese back home, they tend to have a stark problem voicing out their own preferences.

It's like if they get the answer wrong I might order them executed on sight.

Paul : So what's the specialty in this restaurant? 
Waitress : Oh it's in the menu. 
Paul : Well I am new here so anything you would suggest? 
Waitress : There's a star at the side of the dish for the popular ones. 
Paul : There are so many so which one would you suggest? 

Usually an order that leaves them thunderstruck with their brain seemingly crashing as they try to process what I just said. Fortunately after a while I got the hang of their dour yet laconic demeanour - and quickly figured out what was good on my own. As usual though there would be those who whine over flavourful oily foods, I found the eating here as usual incomparable.

Ye Shanghai

It came as quite a surprise to realize, during our efforts to procure a travel visa, that the last time we actually were in China had been almost a decade ago. Has it actually been that long?

However it did take a while before deciding on where to go next with our shortlist of requirements; wanted someplace not too far and easily navigable enough, somewhere not too cold nor too hot... etc. Since we had such fond memories of our last trip to Suzhou and Shanghai way, way back, a return was definitely in the cards to see how much had changed. After his long ago assignment there, Charming Calvin still had some small misgivings about whether the brash mainland Chinese had actually learned to cultivate some manners.

Me, I figured I could be quite as horribly rag-mannered as the rest of them. Perhaps the last time I might have been astonished by their unapologetic brusqueness but this time, I was a little more prepared. You shove me, this time I'll just shove you back, maybe with some peppery insults to boot. Not exactly the ringing endorsement our mild-mannered fellow needed which earned a censorious side eye from him.

Though much has certainly changed in the ever-growing metropolis of Shanghai from the awe-inspiring futuristic skyline to the way digital technology has taken over almost every aspect of their lives with newfangled apps for everything, that blundering brashness of the people with the severe lack of personal boundaries still remains. After an hour or two of being carelessly bumped around in teeming crowds ( Shanghai seriously gives a whole new meaning to crowds ) from the metro stations to the malls, it becomes almost a habit to do pretty much the same with little or no apology.

Perhaps it's with age and maturity that I look at it but I find their behaviour almost... charming though the more fastidious Calvin had far less complimentary words for it. While they do still speak in louder, harsher tones than we are used to, I did find them all extremely helpful. Just think of that grumpy old uncle in the neighbourhood with a heart of gold.

And I suspect most of the proud Shanghainese - no doubt gossiping in their singsong dialect - would vehemently insist that the rougher rabble in their midst were actually newly arrived country cousins.

Everything bright, brash and blinding in the city of Shanghai. 

Probably those were the unfortunate ones cramming together with us as we were all herded in boisterous groups down the main shopping thoroughfare Nanjing Road to the Bund. Only a handful could be clearly seen to be non local; the majority of the rambunctious horde seemed purely to be their very own Chinese countrymen coming to see the future of their prideful nation. After all, where else to get a better juxtaposition of the new and the old in the city with the more venerable grand old colonial ladies on one side of the Bund and the flashier, neon-coloured skyscrapers on the Pudong side; divided only by the Huangpu River.

And that's only if you can get above the mass of flashing camera bulbs as they all snap pictures simultaneously en masse.

Comes as no surprise that it's the Chinese who coined the phrase 人山人海! 

Skinny-Dipping

Think the older you get, the less inhibitions you have?

At least I do think so since these days, I don't really care a fuck about what most people think, well apart from a select few of my friends and family. The rest I could easily say go hang since it's more likely they don't really care all that much about me anyhow.

Yes, kids. Sadly all those people out there don't really care about you.

But I digress.

The growing lack of self-consciousness extends to most other parts of my life as well. Honestly even stripping at the gym or the pool seems less fraught with stranger danger these days. Don't even really care if there's an entire jock crowd downing protein shakes in the locker room, I'd just strip all the way down to change. I'll admit to a bit more trepidation as a high school student way back when. Wouldn't know if that's a side effect of the physician's life seeing everyone naked every on in a while or perhaps growing older and caring less what others think. Maybe a bit of both.

So when I'm back at the hotel at a late hour of the night and I know the pool's perfectly empty... I really see no point in digging through the mess of my suitcase ( yes, yes I do toss everything in ) for my swimtrunks.

Unfortunately I don't look like this in speedos. 

Why bother when I can just slip into the remarkably cool waters of the pool after an entire day of tropical burn in my workwear? A though that comes to my mind each time I walk by an unoccupied pool in the later hours of the evening. Far from a dedicated nudist that's for sure - so I usually glance surreptitious around quickly to make sure no one else was around, then chuck my clothes to the side before just slipping in.

Fortunately, also thanks to my work, I'm super efficient at getting changed, whether in or out.

And hey, even if an inadvertent guest or worker happens to stumble by, they usually assume you're somehow dressed in trunks. Or perhaps skin coloured trunks.

Few would suspect otherwise.

Ondel-Ondel

Prior to the rapacious colonialists sailing over to stake their claims by drawing pithy lines on a map, the borders between our South East Asian countries were astonishingly porous with ships and sampans making their way all over the local ports. After a visit to Jakarta, it has become even more obvious that we share more similarities than differences, from our shared language to the food we serve on a daily basis.

Really it's sheer ridiculousness to even claim a famous dish, a cultural practice or a folk song as your own when it was clear that none of the new nations should actually do so since it belongs to the people of the entire area, regardless of their current nationalities. 

But I digress. 

Since the sole complaint I actually had about Bali was the conspicuous lack of palatable food, I was initially worried that I'd have to subsist painfully on Indomie every other evening. I mean sure I'm a great fan of instant noodles but surely I didn't fly over to a foreign land just for that particular delight. 

Yet again, Jakarta clearly proved me wrong since the food here is... just amazing. Or perhaps just more agreeable to my specific tastes since Javanese food in Jakarta didn't really differ all that much from what we have back here in Malaysia. 

Spices yum. 

It didn't mean we weren't initially stumped by their extensive menus. Not only had the Dutch made their own peculiar stamp on the culinary practices here with their poffertjes and pannekoeken, they had also left behind certain words and phrases that made every little dish strangely alien to us. And we hadn't even taken account of the differences in our local Malay and their Indonesian Malay.

A thought to ponder upon with Billy Davidson!

Even for teatime when presented with an entire batik-covered tray of beautifully prepared kueh, I found myself perfectly stumped when the names were rattled off repeatedly by the kebaya clad servers. From ongol ongol to kueh kelepong, the words were all mystifying even though they all vaguely resembled the kueh I knew back home. Imposters I wanted to cry out! Think of it as our very own kueh but with their very own Indo-Dutch twist.

Absolutely scrumptious that's all I can say!

And the beautiful ambience of their restaurants certainly added to the experience. Say what you will but the Indonesians spared no cost in decorating their restaurants lavishly. Glam to the max. And more. Even the austere colonial buildings were clearly no match for the local razzle-dazzle that totally transformed each plain Dutch wife into an enchanting Javanese stunner.

Bengawan Solo

Since doctors rarely receive any good news despite what people may think, the year began with the usual tiresome update that our medical practising certificate would be even more troublesome to renew. Not only did it come with a cutting-edge app that would probably drive the older codgers absolutely batty, there were several bureaucratic hoops and hurdles we had to jump over before getting our renewal.

So it was that I had to scour through the internet searching for a medical conference at least somewhere within the region - far enough that few of my own colleagues would head there so that I could ask for their help - yet near enough that I could just jet over for a brief spell without compromising too much of my regular work.

Serendipitously the name Jakarta turned up. 

Yes, I'll admit to some serious qualms when I saw the name. Utterly prejudiced as I was, all I could think of were dull, humdrum skyscrapers in the sweltering tropical heat of Java - with throngs and throngs, and throngs of people all packed together in one of their infamous traffic crawls. Not exactly a winning tourism slogan for Visit Indonesia but I figured I could easily hack it for just slightly more than a weekend. 

Boy, did Jakarta prove me wrong. 

Sure, most of the worries proved true enough since they did have the torrid weather, the terrible traffic and of course, the sadly indistinguishable gray concrete towers, all in spades. Yet it didn't take very long to see that there was more to Jakarta than just a random Asian metropolis perpetually shrouded in haze. In fact there seemed to be shades of an older, more refined Batavia everywhere I went.

For starters, having one of the hotel employees meet me right at the airport turned out to be an excellent idea since I saw firsthand right from the start that graciousness and hospitality seemed almost ingrained in the people here. From the streetside vendors serving bakso and sate to the most exclusive fine dining restaurants offering Rijsttafel, we only heard the most gentle greetings of 'Ya Pak, silakan.' None of the brash, loutish behaviour we would have associated with some of their less refined brethren working here. 

Also probably due to the fact that I chose to stay at Menteng, one of the more genteel upscale neighbourhoods in Jakarta. Just think tree-lined avenues with gracious colonial bungalows, refurbished hipster cafes and even hipper Indonesian youths. Imagine a dinner of traditional Indonesian fare with two dozen sate sticks from all the bigger islands in the archipelago coupled with artisanal black charcoal icecream serenaded by a group of youngsters playing a string quartet.

Incidentally playing a pop song by Katy Perry.  

Few boys the likes of Nicholas Saputra here unfortunately... but then again maybe they are hiding!

Not exactly what one would have expected from Jakarta.

Ponponpon

Conservatively straight-laced they might all seem with their perfectly combed hair, impeccably pressed suits and excruciatingly appropriate behaviour ... but when you're a gay man like me, it's near impossible not to have a spectacularly warped idea of Japanese men; what with the dozens of raunchy Japanese gay porn where hitherto absolutely straight, impossibly beautiful college boys are titillated and seduced by a villainous handful of wickedly mustachioed men bent on getting their rocks off.

It's a thing. Really.

All the while the apparently unwilling victims of their pitiless ministrations whimper kimochi repeatedly under their bated breaths, inevitably followed by the final blissful surrender of an ikku. Hard to believe they are all so meekly amenable sometimes. Of course if you're foolhardy enough to try that out with any of the muscular cuties on the streets, I think there would be serious mayhem to follow.

Doubt all of the boys are as amenable to having their banana played with as the porn suggests.

That's only the miniscule gay subset which is a teeny tiny portion of the entirely too open porn industry here. So you can imagine the thousands of titles available for the horny straight boys drooling wordlessly in the sex shops and computer dens of Akihabara. And we haven't even talked about the more peculiar underground fetishes brought to life by Japanese porn.

Though the majority of Japanese men look perfectly average like anywhere else in the world, still the beautiful boys are around if you keep an eye out; from the sleekly suited salarymen to the hipster collegiates. However one thing they all share, regardless of good looks, would be their tight butts. Really. Perfectly spherical with a dangerously sinuous curve that anyone would just want to slap just to get that wiggle. Easy enough to see where they get it since there's all the endless walking up and down the stairs practically everywhere.

Just like in Korea, they just want everyone to walk.

Makes it quite a pleasure to sit on their trains watching the men pass by.

An odd subset of Japanese boys that I can't quite wrap my head around are the shockingly deeply tanned boys; an oddity in these cool temperate parts. Quite a few to be found working as the amazingly sexy jinrickisha danshi, otherwise known as rickshaw boys, around the historical Asakusa area. Tall, attractive, well-built with friendly smiles and an intense passion for service, is it a wonder they have all become tourist hits. Lean muscular bodies I can understand since part of their job would be dragging the rickshaw around, which has to be a great cardiovascular workout if any, but how would that explain the deep all-over tan?

No tanlines I swear, and I really looked hard for them. Or are they all yankiis?

Candy Candy

Candy indeed! Impossible to miss the amount of confections and desserts in Tokyo; quite evident that they actually do have a specific, beautifully made wagashi for every occasion and celebration on the calendar. However despite the many namagashis and higashis waved temptingly in front of me at every confectionery store we walked by - and the numerous attempts at trying, I actually failed to develop a taste for them.

Perhaps it's a fondness that develops only if you've been brought up since childhood with these chewy sweet treats. For me, I found them... not much to my liking. And Charming Calvin, despite desperately wanting a quick bite, had to keep an eye on his precarious sugar levels.

That didn't mean we didn't love everything else since like everyone says, and rightly so, Japan is a food paradise, where it is nigh impossible to find a terrible meal. Even on purpose. In fact I am starting to believe those felons daring to serve a substandard, barely edible meal would probably be crowdforced to seppuku as an example to future restaurateurs.

Over here while Calvin has his tempura obsession, my weakness has to be ramen. Fortunately it's not that hard to find a ramen store just around the corner since they are quite universally ubiquitous here in Tokyo. Found one handily enough right opposite the hotel the moment we arrived.

Yes we did share meals - though in some sushi restaurants, it's definitely frowned upon. An understatement since we feared the stern sushi chef would throw the yanagiba at us.  

Ever the fan of super-maximising space, the closet-sized restaurant had diminutive seats closely spaced together squashed against the opposing walls with just enough manouevring room in between for the averagely slender Japanese gentleman. Fortunately with a bit of squeezing through, I managed to make that special grade.

If our space was uneasily tight, it had to be so much worse for the lady at the counter who had only enough room to stand at attention. If the unfortunate lass gained even half an inch around the waist, they would have to break apart the counter just to remove her.

Figuring that the austere lack of space would probably feel so much cosier with signs and placards, every available inch of the store walls, tables and chairs - heck, all the flat surfaces short of the ceiling - had to be covered with a shockingly wordy notice of some sort advertising the ramens available, the various stores nearby, the coming neighbourhood festivities in store, random sketches of note etc.

They even had a super mini washroom that suffice to say, the counter girl would find it hard to even manouevre in there!

It was fortunate they didn't have more staff since they could barely fit one there! As it was, the ramen shop had only two waitstaff with one cook; but as usual, everyone was hyper-efficient with their hands perpetually busy doing something or other. So even with a shop full of hungry customers outnumbering them by several times, bowls of steaming ramen still came out expeditiously with little commotion. Japanese Efficiency at its best.

Invader Invader

From the severe look on his face, one would have thought that we'd basically broken into his zen space without his express permission; though I could have sworn we had been pleasantly invited in. It was at that very critical moment of invasion that I wondered whether one of the gleaming sushi knives held in his obviously skilful hands would come flying at us.

Perhaps something lost in translation? Despite the overly polite irrashaimases that greeted us at the unobtrusive door - no doubt muttered by his inconspicuous minions, I wasn't quite so easily fooled since his stern combative demeanour spoke a different story and there was certainly no hint of the world-renowned Japanese hospitality in his deliberately precise, economical actions.

More like a certain sense of the haughty noblesse oblige in allowing a random ignorant peasant to stumble into his sushi palace for a meal. Kindly leave as soon as you are fucking done, domo arigatogozaimashita.

Nope, quite clear it wasn't a kaiten belt sushi store. 

Only much later, we came to realize that the majority of revered sushi chefs; quietly reigning in their concealed hideaways - whether buried in some dark sub-basement of a subway station or cleverly sequestered in a surreptitious nook of a nondescript office building, aren't exactly known for their good humour. Guess silently fuming sushi chef bearing knives didn't become a stereotype for no reason.

No doubt omakase actually means 'you'd better like it or otherwise...' In our colloquial Malay, it sounds a tad like Mother Gives so that's about the same meaning.

Quite an experience but one we didn't quite expect strolling through the streets of Japan. It was quite by chance that we happened upon this unassuming sushi bar, apparently a hidden gem judging by my online search later. Like most sushi places here, the seats were few which gave us the time to just relax and watch the world go by. Once seated, drinks were poured and a plain briefly worded menu cunningly placed right in front of us while the suspicious sushi chef watched us askance.

Since the knives seemed menacingly near right behind him, I figured we'd better start ordering quickly.

Remember what I said about omakase? Well it probably also means gulp it down fast too since the sushi rolls came... quite expeditiously. Though I'll admit the speed of delivery didn't exceed the sheer enjoyment of the moment .. and yes, the excellent food. Each sushi piece specially prepared for us, with instructions in case we looked totally lost. Tuna might not be my first choice anywhere else before but my brief time in Tokyo has certainly made me a true blue advocate.

And yes, I was tempted to play about the wasabi and the random soy sauces but a steely, uncompromising glance from the chef immediately halted me. Really, not even the fluttering geishas could stop me in my tracks with a single look but he certainly could.

One note of advice though - never ever, ever not order in a sushi restaurant. Not even if you've stuffed yourself to the gills with a selection of meats at brunch. Unless you'd prefer to be unceremoniously tossed out, you had better order a nigiri.

Harajuku Iyahoi

Of course no trip to Tokyo, Japan would be entirely complete without a misjudged acid tumble down Alice's Wonderland; and by that I mean a quick stroll through the wildly bizarre fashion-obsessed youth culture around Harajuku. Turns out every other camera-toting tourist had pretty much the same idea as we battled our way through the sad crush of fuming Goth Lolitas, squealing Japanese tween girls and oddly enough, hyper-aggressive African salespeople as we made our way through the neighbourhood.

Quite the peculiar combination of people but when it comes to Harajuku, I guess anything goes. And it certainly couldn't be more outlandish than some of the more... avant-garde creations on display in the minuscule boutiques huddled around the hilly steps of Harajuku.

But of course I wasn't there to try on a bedazzled leather jacket with a dozen zippers more suited for a futuristic manga than my day job; I was here purely for one of my guilty pleasures. Ignoring the mindless chatter of the adolescents queuing for a taste of crepes, I made a beeline straight for the mother of 100 yen stores. Daiso.

Really. Everything at the same low, low price. How could I possibly not love such a place?

Apparently every other tourist there had the very same idea since after the usual gawking, gasping and gaping over the beribboned Harajuku dolls doing their weekend stroll, most of them actually congregate in Daiso as well to purchase... well, all of Japan it seems. Judging by the dozens of identical items chucked into their shopping baskets, I assume they all have wildly optimistic plans to stock up their own 100 yen store back home.

For real. A few had cash receipts longer than my arm. And then some.

Can't blame them since we had quite a long list ourselves since hey who can resist? 

Actually though has anyone ever wondered what the Japanese cashiers say nonstop in a rambling monologue whenever they accept a purchase and payment? Since we have little way of knowing apart from picking up the local language in less than a week, we immediately made up several made up situations to explain the unintelligible babble.

Paul : Here are my items. 
Cashier : Fuck you. That's all you're buying? Damned idiot. I'll take your bloody change and stuff it up your face. 
Paul : What?
Cashier : Thank you for coming to Daiso. 

Paul : Here are my items. 
Cashier : I gave up a promising job in banking and finance to do this. Damn that idiot boyfriend of mine. 
Paul : What? 
Cashier : Thank you for coming to Daiso. 

Really, the wholly imaginary conversations that the cashiers might be having with us could be endless. Yes, we do know the entirely logical explanation; no doubt they are diligently telling us that they are gladly accepting the cash in exchange for the items and disclosing the proper change in return.

But fabricating wildly wacky scenarios is just so much more fun.

Ninja Re Bang Bang

The old belltower strikes signalling midnight. 

Outside the gently waxing moon shone bright, with only a short handful of days before the annual Tsukimi celebrations in the ancient city. Inside the room, the rickety wooden blinds were battened down to shut out the coming morning sun which fully signalled the intentions of the occupants who intended to sleep through till later in the day. Only the gentle rhythmic breathing of their sleeping disrupted the relative silence.

It was just a common inn. He was sure there were no nightingale floors to warn the sleeping occupants of the coming danger. All his years of training had let to this and it was time to strike. 

Treading carefully across the smoothened wooden floors, he stealthily headed towards the target. Not a sound was made yet like a silent one handed clap, the steady breathing came to a screeching halt. 

Eyes opened,  dark and serpentine, watching him in the dark. 

It was too late to turn back. 

Ugh. The noise is driving me crazy. Can I kill them all? 

Well at least that's how Charming Calvin would describe it.

Plagued with insomnia, it shouldn't come as any surprise that my sleep patterns can be erratic at best especially so when my unpredictable work life occasionally intrudes. Always filled with exasperated envy for those who can nod off the moment their head touches the pillow. Though it can be a little better during my travels without the crushing stress of work, sleep still comes whimsically in fits and starts. So it should come as no surprise that every small tweak and creak in the room would immediately have me awake in microseconds.

Without doubt a work hazard since we usually need to be perfectly conscious and ready for action in moments after being called, no matter the unseasonable hour of the night.

Which becomes a real problem when Calvin tiptoes to the bathroom occasionally in the dead of night.

Though he tries to keep the noise down as best he can, there's only so much a normal person can do without resorting to supernatural ninja tricks. Not that I truly mind since it's a relaxed carefree holiday after all. Once he's finished, silence quickly returns which does help my ensuing slumber.

Best of all, he doesn't snore much anymore. Or perhaps I've grown accustomed to it.

Fashion Monster

Fishy to Flashy. 
Gritty to Glitzy. 
Raucous to Respectable.

All that within the few interesting miles from the rowdy fish markets of Tsukiji 築地市場 to the more refined temples of commerce at Ginza 銀座.

Like every other visitor to Tokyo, I spent the earlier part of the morning sampling fresh seafood - the half of which I couldn't ever name - while brusquely pushing my way through the ever-growing crowds at the Tsukiji markets just to get that all-important tick on my bucket list. Though Charming Calvin raved about it, I wasn't too impressed with the rolled omelettes on offer but then I've never been a fan of tamago. However being over here in Tokyo has made me a serious fan of the tuna sashimi!

Stuffed to the gills with fish, oysters and other unrecognizable shellfish, we made our slow way towards the glitzier end of the neighbourhood. From Tsukiji where rowdy merchants handed out dried cuttlefish while hollering for a peek at their available wares slowly and inexorably transformed into Ginza with the more stereotypical Japanese salesperson deeply bowing and whispering a clear but muted invitation to their posh ateliers.

Think anyone who has heard of Tokyo would know of the world-renowned shopping of Ginza with its streets lined by department stores, world-class designer boutiques and well-established stores. With Hokōsha Tengoku 歩行者天国 in place leaving the main thoroughfare of Chuo-dori closed to traffic, it was the perfect time for a walkabout around Ginza while people watching.

Not to mention the occasional artist playing on the streets; only here would you have the talented Chie Hanawa in a kimono playing the age-old shamisen while utilizing some of the most cutting edge music technology available.

After a couple of days in Tokyo with an entire day spent just watching the people go by on Chuo-Dori, it would be hard to disagree with the general notion that yes, Asian boys do all look alike. Let's be entirely racist but even I have some difficulty telling the carbon copy hotties apart in a Chinese / Korean television series initially, at least during the first episode. Like the dozen or so male characters appearing simultaneously in the first episode of Nirvana in Fire, I could barely tell them apart.

Not that they aren't all equally attractive.

It is however entirely possible to tell apart those with looks more stereotypical of different regions in East Asia, such as me since I'm clearly from Southern China with my flatter nose and rounder face. Yes, yes there are wide variations of course but even the soldiers in the Terracotta Army can be differentiated by their faces to tell where they originally came from.

Quite a few of the boys could have come out of the many yaoi bara titles around!

One surprisingly easy way to differentiate the Japanese boys would be their distinctive hairstyles. Rather than slicked back up like me, most of them have their perfectly mussed hair hair flopping down meticulously over their foreheads.

Tsukematsukeru

Has it really been two decades since I left school?

Seems like it must have been since the last time I saw Skinny Stacey, we were taking our last steps out of high school after our exam results. Or wait, it could have been a week later when we were slightly tipsy after downing drinks at our last school party. Though we hardly spent any time apart during Form Six, we drifted apart after that as we went our separate ways. Cellphones were still bulky extravagances, social media was still in its relative infancy back then and ICQ was a pain to use.

It was only relatively recently that we pinged each other again on Facebook and started chatting briefly about what had been going on in our lives. Sheer coincidence indeed that we both happened to be in Tokyo at about the same time; seemed like fate was telling us to finally meet up.

Which we did.

Though for a while there it seemed like it might not happen since a sad lack of roaming data and miscommunication had us both waiting at opposite ends of the renowned Senso-Ji Temple in Asakusa. BTW when I say Kaminarimon, I obviously mean the Kaminarimon 雷門 otherwise known as the Thunder Gate. Fortuitously the gods of fortune seemed to smile upon us that day since after a frustrating hair-pulling hour of pacing around the temple gate searching for the hitherto familiar face of Skinny Stacey, I saw the even more recognizable mermaid insignia of Starbucks.

And reasonably stable wi-fi.

Amazing what they can do with woodblock prints these days! A memento of our trip there!

So it was that I spent an amazing day tour strolling around the ancient temple of Senso-Ji and the surrounding shopping streets of Asakusa - with Charming Calvin and Skinny Stacey. Can say without a doubt that she has changed but little since I could recognise her slender frame from a mile off. Did the conventional touristy prerequisite of cleansing rituals, soaking incense smoke and dedicating solemn prayers at the temple while leaving the bad luck tied up in knots behind.

Then it was time for a bit of reminiscing.

As much as I found the final years of high school utterly exhausting trying to catch up with endless revisions that never seemed to suffice, I still found it a time for slowly discovering the kind of person I would be; and yes, also tentatively exploring what it meant to be a sexually active gay man. Even then with all that near negligible homosexual angst, I found it an excellent experience to finally leave behind the macho all boys' experience and to finally have some feminine mystique around.

Hey I finally had girl friends. And I wasn't exactly unpopular.

Stacey : It wasn't that fun a time for us. 
Paul : Us? 
Stacey : I knew you were doing great in Form Six but not the rest of us. 
Paul : What? 

However it turns out Stacey - and quite a few of my classmates weren't having such a positive experience back then. An understatement if there ever was one. Unquestionably an epiphany for me since I unwisely figured that the rest couldn't possibly be undergoing as radical a change as I was. Happens that they just weren't dealing with it as smoothly as I was.

All behind us though so we can joke and laugh about it now. Still, has it really been two decades?

Kira Kira Killer

After the initial arrival misery and malaise, I usually bounce back from the terrible ordeal pretty rapidly. Not only do our travels not last very many days, we also usually have a really full schedule to cover.

And let's face it, once I'm signed on for a holiday I'm usually pretty much indefatigable for the entire length of the trip, barring the occasional unforeseen affliction. Unlike the more sedentary Charming Calvin who prefers a more leisurely vacation of course.

Therein lies the problem which is easily encapsulated by our vacation photos after. In the early mornings, he's usually the chipper robin while I'm disembowelling morons before my wake-up coffee; by evenings after our endless walks however it's usually the opposite with him looking like an extra from The Walking Dead while I'm bouncing off the rafters.

Sometimes literally.

And we walk and we walk and we walk all night.... 

Though I usually have a certain itinerary planned for the entire time we're there, it's usually entirely flexible depending on our whims and fancies. After all it's truly a free and easy experience. So I usually walkabout aimlessly with only a couple of must-see sights on the map that I want to cover. Hardly any outlined treks to religiously follow since I love the occasional stroll into the unexpected alley or dori as the case may be in Japan.

Of course that makes me cover a really large amount of mileage, which is alright by me since I tend to walk really, really fast. Spurred on even more by more travelling adrenaline, and maybe a lil bit of Kyary Pamyu Pamyu. Not the case for our slow and steady Charming Calvin so that leaves him utterly grouchy by the end of the day.

So you can imagine how grumpy he was when I abruptly made a plan to find a handicraft centre in Aoyama late at night on our first day there.

Poor fellow. Unlike the near unforgivable time I made him trudge through a chilly autumn night through the Quai Anatole France by the Seine, this time he found it a tad more tolerable though he still did give me the cold shoulder for at least half a mile down Aoyama Dori. Just about the distance between us when we're walking since his speed is perhaps half of mine which leaves me standing around waiting for him to finally catch up. Fortunately a plate of really excellent tuna sashimi perked Calvin right up.

Which gave me time to really ponder over the truly baffling maps of Tokyo, and we're not talking about the serpentine subway maps yet.

Yumeno Hajima Ring Ring

Charmed by Kyoto the last time we went, it wasn't hard to decide that our next trip would lead us to the other end of the renowned Tokaido road which is Edo. Otherwise better known as Tokyo 東京都 these days. A brand name known the entire world for that captivating mix of the ultramodern to the traditional, from neon-lit skyscrapers and futuristic androids to age-old ryokans and ancient temples.

With my debilitating insomnia coupled with an innate fear of flying metal boxes, the first days are usually miserable experiences for me but this time, a mixture of steroid-powered caffeine and the scent of autumn in the air spurred me out into the bewildering subway system of Tokyo the moment I dropped my bags at the hotel ( ironically called Innsomnia ). In a bid to avoid building train lines under the Imperial Palace, most transportation tracks belonging to two different companies go in tangled circles all around, which in a city touted as the most populous metropolitan areas in the world, leaves a bizarre, mind-boggling spectacle that takes several minutes to sink in.

And a couple of exhausting days to adjust to.

That's not even counting trying to make sense of the kanji, hiragana and katakana script written all over the maps.

Though it's rare to find a train carriage just that empty in Tokyo - well maybe at really unseasonable hours. 

Judging from the endless concrete towers surrounding us threateningly, we were definitely nowhere near provincial Kyoto at all. Even the crowds seem to have quadrupled with masses of suited salarymen pouring out of every nook and cranny of the train stations in perfectly timed intervals.

But I've never been one to hibernate on my travels so it was off to nearby Omotesando with their tree-lined avenue full of branded boutiques for a quick walk and dinner. Charming Calvin wasn't terribly amused to be dragged out of his extensive unpacking rituals but he certainly wasn't going to be left behind so off he went. How were we to know that the Japanese aren't too fond of modern-day conveniences such escalators and elevators? Steps and stairs everywhere we turned with the elevators tucked away in forbiddingly concealed corners.

Apparently the Koreans must have learned this bit from them.

So with our mildly befogged brains, we walked the length of Omotesando gaping at the beautifully dressed Tokyo hipsters in their trendy leather jackets and skintight selvedge denim. Fortunately we'd managed a quick shower and change otherwise we'd probably be hounded out of that posh enclave for dressing like abhorrent hobos.

Step Back In Time

Paul : Hello.
Lady : Good morning, young sir. And how are you doing today? 
Paul : I'm doing quite well. How about you? 
Lady : Not very well, I'm afraid. You see, my dear beloved husband finally went back to the Lord just last night and I'm preparing for his wake. 
Paul : Oh dear. 
Lady : Yes, he caught a terrible fever down in the mining camps and returned home looking quite peaked. Not much the doctor could do unfortunately, not even with all the new remedies and balms that just came by coach from Melbourne. 

Sounds almost like an English primer from school, doesn't it?

Though what is far more remarkable would be the fact that the lady in question finds herself appropriately dressed in severe Victorian mourning clothes with a delicate lacy black veil over her ashen face. After having been vouched earlier for having an irreproachably respectable character by a suitable chaperon, I was admitted to the heretofore sacrosanct ladies' parlour for a brief conversation. Any longer and it would certainly have given rise to gossip in this small town. From what I gleaned from her words, it was no surprise that her husband succumbed to whatever mysterious ailment struck him; given the meagre - and oh so doubtful - medicinal supplies then available in the mid 19th century.

And yes, it was the 19th century.

Or at least everyone there would have you believe it so.

Lest you think I've inadvertently fallen into a bafflingly spooky M. Night Shyamalan thriller, I didn't really buy into their far fetched stories either. After all this was Sovereign Hill in Ballarat, a living museum set on a goldfields town dedicated to life in the 1850s - and frankly one of my favourite places in Victoria. Thoroughly enjoyed myself there the last time I visited and wondered whether I would feel the same two decades later.

With much relish, I can wholeheartedly confirm that I love the place quite as much as I did the last time I was here. Perhaps even more, now that I have the time to explore every nook and cranny of the lil town without being rushed by my friends who had little interest in such make-believe historical proceedings.

Having that extra coin in my pocket helps a bit too since I can finally afford a pie or three rather than the packed sandwich I brought along that last time.

Thankfully the charms of Sovereign Hill seemed to extend to all ages so it didn't take much to persuade Rambling Raoul and Chatty Carmen to go. Ever so kiasu Chinese in search of that treasured nugget of gold, our hellbent Raoul spent half the afternoon earnestly panning for gold in the little creek with yelled instructions from his sister.

I however walked down every alley in Sovereign Hill, chatted to as many costumed townfolk as I could and just enjoyed the life in the 1850s. Wonder if they need an extra hand over there!

The Loco-Motion

Though plenty of folks, especially here in Borneo, rave endlessly over the spectacular wonders Down Under, I've always found myself a tad underwhelmed. Had my trip there way, way back during my university break years and to me, it's just another extensive Pacific Island - not all that different from the one I'm currently on - with just a little more development, far more Caucasians and lots of scorching desert.

Close enough it should come as no surprise that we have lots of amicable two-way travel between Borneo and Australia; with more than a few proper migrations!

After what amounted to a tedious three month stint over there, I never actually thought of repeating the visit. Hit most of the big cities there from Melbourne to Sydney, checked out the sights from the Great Ocean Road to the Blue Mountains, caught the penguins and the koalas. Didn't really see much point of making a return... till Sassy Sue and the kids finally made their move over there to what's apparently being termed the world's most liveable city.

I beg to differ of course.

Though this hot Aussie bloke could certainly convince me otherwise!

But it's hard to say no to family so I planned the trip to coincide with niece and nephew's Easter break.

Like every doddering elderly person, I gotta say this. It really is amazing how quickly kids grow up. Almost in the blink of an eye, Chatty Carmen has turned into a veritable young lady; though not in ribbons and lace as one would expect. Far more sober than I would have imagined, Carmen's more likely to be found in utilitarian sweatshirts and jeans than flouncy skirts and dresses. However her budding creative side has found life and expression in her artwork which I adore.

Which Carmen loves as well - despite repeatedly denouncing her supposedly astringent art teacher.

Several years junior, Rambling Raoul remains pretty much the same. Such a sweetheart that I'm sure he's the delight of all his classmates and teachers. Though I do wish he would attend to his school lessons just a little more - but then that's the kiasu Asian in all of us.

Dragged them all down to the city for a quick walk down Swanston eventhough I was feeling quite woozy from my usual wretched after-plane effects. Soldiered on I did!

Don't think I can say I've fallen madly in love with Melbourne like so many have but I did find myself reluctantly charmed by the Melbourne style architecture favoured by the inner city suburbs with the delicate lace ironwork applied to the balconies and balustrades. Obviously I was far too involved before with staring at my tourist map to look up at the pretty terrace houses all over Melbourne.

Then again they probably did undergo some gentrification.

Stranger Danger

Periodically in the main headlines we have our ever-efficient authorities trying their best - and tragically failing - to convince the people that our crime rate is at an all-time low. 'It's just your perception, people,' they repeatedly proclaim while desperately waving around dubious statistics to prove their point.

Our presumptuous police officers tend to act as if the perception of crime isn't a credible problem when it really is. It's easy enough to prove how fearful our people have become of our crime-ridden streets with a simple experiment. 

Remember how I mentioned a while ago that I prefer real humans to snap pictures of us rather than utilize the ever ubiquitous selfie stick? How difficult is it to just press a button. Really. Well since I've already made up my mind long ago that Thai and Korean girls are the undisputed world champs at snapping shots on the fly, I decided to try out our own resourceful countrymen this time.

Could you help me take a picture? 

Well, guess what? Our countrymen not only shy away from being asked ( the ever idiotic paiseh syndrome anyone? ), they also literally leap five feet up into the air with a muffled shriek if you even step close enough to ask. Go on, try it. 

If that's not poor perception of crime on our streets, I don't know what is. Stranger danger really. 

Really, darlings. I'm not here to rob you. If I wanted to, you'd already be missing several items. But from the way you present yourself in public, I'd be far more afraid that you'd hurriedly scamper off with my precious cellphone instead. 

Which is far different from how we're treated in other places. Not that you should just hand over your cameras to any random strange freak to snap a shot but if they have a gleaming new Hasselblad hanging around their neck, you can be assured that they won't willingly snatch your crummy equipment. In fact you could get real lucky with some amateur photographers; for instance the ever enthusiastic Thai and Korean girls would actually take several skilful shots from different angles along with masterful suggestions on how to properly pose for that perfect selfie. Somehow they instinctively know what you surreptitiously hope to have in the background and frame it perfectly for you. 

Once we even caught a Thai girl desperately hurrying by a train station who kindly paused to help us. Ever the go-getter, the lil lass didn't even slow down her steps; indeed she barely turned her head to look at the composition before clicking twice - and yet she took the most awesome shots before handing the camera back. 

Truth! Well practiced they are!

So help a stranger today. Take pictures for people if you see them struggling with the admittedly unwieldy selfie stick. It's not that burdensome, is it? 

And let's not go into the sad tale of paiseh folks who are deathly afraid of approaching others to snap a picture.