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Hot Cross Buns from the Surry Hills Bakery opp The Mall

Good Friday

22/04/201123/04/2011

Maybe it’s because I spent the first thirty years of my life in the country? Or maybe it’s because things have changed? But there was a time, I recall, when hardly any shops were open on Good Friday and there was hardly any movement. It was a day of sitting at home and watching those 1950s and 1960s religious epics that dominated the television schedule. In some ways, it seemed quieter than Christmas Day. That’s all changed.

Even at about eight o’clock, the local cafes in Surry Hills were starting to attract a significant crowd of customers, as I popped down to the street to my local bakery for some hot cross buns.

Seriously, I love hot cross buns. You can imagine my disappointment yesterday morning when I called in to my local baker (to buy some to take to work for morning tea for everyone) only to be told they were all sold out. This morning, however, they had plenty, and so I consumed all but one in a sitting accompanied by some orange juice and a coffee.

I consumed them as I half-watched Karl and Lisa and then Kerry-Anne on morning television (yes, they were on this morning), while mostly concentrating on listening to the radio. On the radio, by the way I learned from Tim Fischer who was on the phone from The Vatican, that Good Friday isn’t a public holiday even there.

By the time I left the house properly at around midday, all the cafes werel pretty busy, and so too was the pub on the corner.

I was on my way to a BBQ in Dulwich Hill to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It was a lovely afternoon filled with great conversation. I enjoyed it very much, even if I was – jokingly – chastised for a moment for failing to update my blog lately. “it’s part of my daily routine”, I was told. Sorry. I think I’ve got my mojo back.

Catching the bus home – oh yeah, the buses still observe the “go slow” on Good Friday even if everyone else doesn’t – I wandered in to Chinatown to grab some dumplings for dinner. Honestly, the place was packed. And in the area of my favourite dumpling places near the Burlington Centre, there was even someone playing popular classics on the violin. The place was jumpin.

So yeah, Good Friday has changed.

It’s Fun To Stay At The Y in HK

11/09/200805/04/2021

The first thing you notice when walk into the YMCA in Hong Kong is the smell of chlorine. “It really is a YMCA”, I said to the nice American bloke I’d met at the airport who was also staying here.

In the queue at customs he’d asked me where I’d obtained the map of Hong Kong. And then minutes later, we were both wandering around in that “I’m totally lost” daze that tourists often find themselves in. “Are you lost?”, I said to him, while at the same time wondering about his background: American accent but with Eurasian features.

We established quickly we were both headed in the same direction, and thanks to a Chinese woman with an American accent who recognised the confused look on our faces, were given easy directions towards the Y.

The place I’m staying is on the island of Kowloon, just across from the main business district of Hong Kong. And so far, it’s the only part of Hong Kong that I’ve visited. Prior to this, my only knowledge of Hong Kong came from my sister.

She lived in Hong Kong during the late 1960s and early 1970s when her husband was in the army. She actually had two children born here which means, technically speaking, they’re entitled to EU passports. I remember as a child seeing her documentation which at the time listed her as “British”.

She actually hated the place, which I put much of which down to her being a young woman with three kids under 5 a long way from home in a totally different culture to the one in which she’d grown up.

Ever since then I’ve been curious about the place. And then of course there was the handover, and all of that stuff which, as a student of politics, I’ve also found very interesting. Thus, when in planning my trip, I had the chance for a stop-over in Hong Kong, I jumped at the chance.

As you come in from the airport it’s the same Hong Kong that I remember from my sister’s photographs: those tall, very similar apartment blocks. Except now, of course, they’re forty years older and looking a little worse for wear.

The image you most associate or expect from Hong Kong.

But arriving in Kowloon was nothing like I expected. And looking over at the Central District is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Both in the daytime and at night, the city is spectacular. And so much larger than Sydney. I’m sure the CBD is three or four times the size of Sydney’s, so it’s something I’ve found almost incomprehensible.

The air was white with pollution and humidity.

I spent most of the afternoon wandering around the town taking in the sights. I popped in for a late lunch and enjoyed one of my all-time favourite meals: BBQ Pork with Rice. Tonight I’ve also wandered around some of the food courts to get an idea of how ordinary Hong Kong people eat, as opposed to the Western tourists I’m surrounded by here at the YMCA. Mostly, it’s like the food you find in Chinatown, except here, they all seem to eat dinner watching a soap opera of some kind which was screening on televisions everywhere.

As I walked around I was also constantly approached by men. In fact, I’ve never been approached by so many men in such a short period of time.

“No I don’t want a suit. And I don’t want a watch. And I don’t want to have sex with you”. These are the phrases that have been going through my head over the last few hours since arriving earlier today in Hong Kong. Honestly, I’ve lost count of the number of men (all of them Indian looking) who have come up to me today offering all sorts of things. Don’t they know I’m an Australian at the end of a 10 week European holiday, barely able to afford breakfast, let alone buy a suit?

With the intensity of the heat and the humidity becoming all a little too much, I came back to the Y, for a swim and for a sleep.

Although I normally sleep well on planes, I had a terrible night’s sleep last night. Part of it, of course, had to do with the time zone change. But there was also the nearby baby who was clearly of “teething” age, the man in front of me couldn’t sit still, and the woman next to me who took up more than her fair share of space, despite her dimunitive frame.

Tonight I’m back at the Y (I love saying that) watching a bit of television and trying to reflect on the culture shock I’ve experienced since arriving.

Terania Creek 2

03/05/201204/05/2012

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In case you’re wondering about the outcome of this, well here’s what I discovered this afternoon.

En underbar dag

30/03/201008/07/2017

I’ve had a really wonderful day. In part, because the weather has been so spectacular. In part, because of the great experiences.

I had lunch today with a guy called Peter Waak who runs a company called Radio Intelligence. Although based here in Stockholm, his company provides research and consultancy work around the world. He actually visited Australia a few years ago, and over lunch told me how his 27 hour flight to Sydney turned into a 41 hour flight. Eww..

Throughout the afternoon I re-visited some of my favourite walks, including taking the Katarinahissen lift and catching the Djurgarden ferry. These two walks have been a regular part of my routine here, and I’ve enjoyed them very much.

Meatballs for dinner, of course. And then a final drink at Torget. A bloke sat down next to me and started a conversation. He was from Somalia originally, but had been living in Sweden for five months. We chatted a bit about our different life stories. And then, just after midnight, I decided it was time to hit the sack. I said a “thankyou” to the bloke behind the bar at Torget, saying how much I’d enjoyed my time in Stockholm, and how nice the staff had been, making it my “regular” during my time here. He seemed genuinely pleased I’d taken the time to do that. “You must come back”, he said.

The unofficial home of ABBA these days. Note the sign on the door says they have dogs there.

Great statue at Royal Dramatic Theatre. Staring into the sun as many Stockholmers do at the moment.

My last evening meal - meatballs of course — My last evening meal – meatballs of course

Prague Spring Anniversary

21/08/200814/07/2018

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It’s forty years today since the Soviet tanks arrived in Prague to “take control”, amidst student unrest. The uprising was supressed, many people were killed, and the Russian troops shot at the National Museum, believing it was the home to the Czech radio station which had been broadcasting anti-Russian programming.

Forty years later, there was a tank outside the National Museum again today, except this time the there were flowers, not bullets, coming out of the end of the cannon. On top of the thank there were a number of men dressed as Russian soldiers, except this time, they were having their photographs taken with babies.

I can’t begin to imagine what the people of Prague went through. Even with a commemorative photographic exhibition, it’s still hard to comprehend what it must have been like in 1968.

I was only three years old at the time. And although I remember we had a young guy from Czechoslovakia (as it was then) in my kindergarten class, I had no real awareness of this kind of stuff until I was maybe 9 or 10 years old.

Even now, I’ve had to go online to read something of the history for an understanding of what occured.

The whole experience today has been re-enacted solely for the media and for tourists, I suspect.

And for a Western tourist, such as myself, who has worked as a journalist for most of his life in a country where there has been virtually no political strife, it’s a way of vicariously relating to something quite exciting. Bit obscene really, isn’t it?

It makes no sense. I’ll let the photographs tell the story…