holiday log: saturday may 2nd 2009, zat you, santa claus?
Landing in Hong Kong at 7 a.m., for the first time ever, coming from the sea, should be a thrill. I don't feel it. The beautiful sunrise stays hidden, above the clouds, just like it happens so many times in London, in Singapore, and wherenot. The city seems ugly beyond words with its huge white concrete blocks, coated in smog. The airport is painful, and painfully run. We are directed towards a transit zone, join the queue, then get redirected to another transit zone. Doesn't this happen each time on Saturday morning? Can't they be prepared? Have a procedure? No biggy. Customs stop Chris to check his cigar puncher, shaped like a bullet (a Christmas gift, what was I thinking?!), and give him two options: leave the whole thing in Hong Kong, to be collected upon return, or leave the bullet-shape lid behind, forever. They make it sound so complex, they are so uncertain, so young, so scared... We leave the bullet behind. Va bon. We buy our cigars and cigarettes from one of the many employees hidden behind face masks, note the yellow fliers inviting one to stop by the quarantine center if experiencing flu-like symptoms (as if one would willingly get stuck in Hong Kong!) and carry on to our plane.
Upon boarding, we get upgraded to business class. It is the first time I experience how silly it all is, how little different from economy. The food is somehow better (decent dim sum), but not immensely, and the tray of drinks has one champagne glass among dozens of glasses filled with boring water, PET orange juice, and the pink thing they call plum juice except it features a dry rose bud that makes everything, well, yack rather than rosy. The seats are so arranged that you can't talk with another person—I suppose most business travelers are lonely and alone and happy that way. The chair does come closer to a bed, but it will do us no good on a short flight, and the entertainment is the same. The service is the same, as well, rushed and careless. Sitting with one's back at the window, and having no ability to change that makes it nearly impossible to observe that sunrise once more, or anything else, for that matter.
One hits the runaway from the sea in Manila, too. I contorted my neck around the damn business class seat to glance at the city. It looks poor and crowded, and I can't help noticing canals covered in dirt. So glad we're not stopping here! A voucher cab takes us to the other terminal, through a bit of the city, covered in billboards of the president and other politicians. The driver is pissed off with the short ride, asking why not take the airport shuttle? We refrain from speaking our minds. The only way to enter the terminal is going through a quick security check. We have plenty of time, and having heard one too many horror stories about funny regulations and high corruption, we repack two pieces of luggage into three. Everything remotely interesting and luxurious will be in hold: spirits, smokes, and suntan lotion. Better safe than sorry.
Check in is smooth. We are told to make sure our hand luggage is no heavier than 8 kg. We repack again, to balance the two, and go ahead confidently, having paid the airport tax (yeah, on top of the ticket, in cash, local cash). The junior at security wants to weigh our luggage, but the senior lets us go (phew!). I look for the smoking area and find that it is a bar, the only one to sell beer. People play cards. Two Japanese men converse with difficulty in English (!). I'm the only white person. Chris goes looking for a restaurant among the endless little stools selling pastries—one in two Filipinos carry a pastry box. Chris eventually buys a lasagna (!), and seats down to eat it by the gate. I take many trips to the nearby loo, where ladies queue like mad, handing down toilet paper, like one does. We dose before the flight, nearly missing the announcement that we now have a different gate. We dose some more during the flight, waking up to a new island each time.
Puerto Princesa City seems to have a gleaming new terminal. Not open for arrivals. So a whole plane crams under a tiny, crooked roof, next to a luggage conveyor belt so ancient that it needs several kicks from willing passengers to do every small turn. Passport control is a desk of scribes armed with large notebooks and ballpoint pens. Optional, it seems. We learn that even this is a novelty, and only enforced in the airport, when a lot of people, tourists included, travel by ferry. If this country isn't more Latin than Asian, don't call me Romanian. Our host picks us up in van, laughing that she recognised my eyes from the blog photo and mentioning that she smokes. Too much. Just like me ;) She takes us to a different hotel than promised, explaining it is for one night only, but has breakfast included, unlike the other. I thought we were staying for one night only, anyway! Then, the bigger news breaks: not one, but two typhoons lurk around the island, our final destination. A bit too early in the year, but weather is funny all over the world. Suddenly, the change of accommodation bears little importance. Is there still a holiday to be had? Her husband follows the typhoons' evolution on the US Navy website, but the road across Palawan was impracticable a few days ago, so we are to wait. All of us.
We drop the luggage in our room, and sit down to a cigarette and a cold Coca Cola before showering and changing for dinner. Conveniently, Ditchay's Bistro, which came highly recommended, is a few minutes away, and we walk towards it on a narrow muddy street, at twilight, taking in the sounds and sights of this unlikely regional capital. Tiny, loud, and covered tricycles pass by, bougainvillea grows everywhere, and so do more local plants (though God only knows how local they are, as I've seen those white trumpets in Stromboli before, though distinctly purple). In an open yard, a large iron staircase painted white leads to a tree house with its lamps already on. Turning a corner, and then another, we find the bistro behind a tall fence. The garden is instantly different, in mood and setting, than anything else seen around so far. Minimalist, if you like, but resourceful, thus perfect. A large bamboo leans over the door, chilled music plays in the background, and fresh herbs grow harmoniously in the garden.
We sit down to a gin tonic, in this surprising and comforting oasis of zen. Good French wine, the best roast pork belly in the world, and flowing conversation make for a long evening. Tea with fresh herbs from the garden closes the accolade, and as we insist that we are tired but not jet lagged (no one ever believes us), a mighty rain starts falling. The first tricycle ride follows, taking us to the wrong hotel initially, but isn't it lovely to drive on empty, crooked, dark, perfumed, silent streets in the rain, yet untouched by it? If only this Asian-sized things would have a seat a tad larger, to accommodate both our behinds! Soon after we climb into bed, hardly coherent, deciding the obvious: to chill, and take things as they come.
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Upon boarding, we get upgraded to business class. It is the first time I experience how silly it all is, how little different from economy. The food is somehow better (decent dim sum), but not immensely, and the tray of drinks has one champagne glass among dozens of glasses filled with boring water, PET orange juice, and the pink thing they call plum juice except it features a dry rose bud that makes everything, well, yack rather than rosy. The seats are so arranged that you can't talk with another person—I suppose most business travelers are lonely and alone and happy that way. The chair does come closer to a bed, but it will do us no good on a short flight, and the entertainment is the same. The service is the same, as well, rushed and careless. Sitting with one's back at the window, and having no ability to change that makes it nearly impossible to observe that sunrise once more, or anything else, for that matter.
One hits the runaway from the sea in Manila, too. I contorted my neck around the damn business class seat to glance at the city. It looks poor and crowded, and I can't help noticing canals covered in dirt. So glad we're not stopping here! A voucher cab takes us to the other terminal, through a bit of the city, covered in billboards of the president and other politicians. The driver is pissed off with the short ride, asking why not take the airport shuttle? We refrain from speaking our minds. The only way to enter the terminal is going through a quick security check. We have plenty of time, and having heard one too many horror stories about funny regulations and high corruption, we repack two pieces of luggage into three. Everything remotely interesting and luxurious will be in hold: spirits, smokes, and suntan lotion. Better safe than sorry.
Check in is smooth. We are told to make sure our hand luggage is no heavier than 8 kg. We repack again, to balance the two, and go ahead confidently, having paid the airport tax (yeah, on top of the ticket, in cash, local cash). The junior at security wants to weigh our luggage, but the senior lets us go (phew!). I look for the smoking area and find that it is a bar, the only one to sell beer. People play cards. Two Japanese men converse with difficulty in English (!). I'm the only white person. Chris goes looking for a restaurant among the endless little stools selling pastries—one in two Filipinos carry a pastry box. Chris eventually buys a lasagna (!), and seats down to eat it by the gate. I take many trips to the nearby loo, where ladies queue like mad, handing down toilet paper, like one does. We dose before the flight, nearly missing the announcement that we now have a different gate. We dose some more during the flight, waking up to a new island each time.
Puerto Princesa City seems to have a gleaming new terminal. Not open for arrivals. So a whole plane crams under a tiny, crooked roof, next to a luggage conveyor belt so ancient that it needs several kicks from willing passengers to do every small turn. Passport control is a desk of scribes armed with large notebooks and ballpoint pens. Optional, it seems. We learn that even this is a novelty, and only enforced in the airport, when a lot of people, tourists included, travel by ferry. If this country isn't more Latin than Asian, don't call me Romanian. Our host picks us up in van, laughing that she recognised my eyes from the blog photo and mentioning that she smokes. Too much. Just like me ;) She takes us to a different hotel than promised, explaining it is for one night only, but has breakfast included, unlike the other. I thought we were staying for one night only, anyway! Then, the bigger news breaks: not one, but two typhoons lurk around the island, our final destination. A bit too early in the year, but weather is funny all over the world. Suddenly, the change of accommodation bears little importance. Is there still a holiday to be had? Her husband follows the typhoons' evolution on the US Navy website, but the road across Palawan was impracticable a few days ago, so we are to wait. All of us.
We drop the luggage in our room, and sit down to a cigarette and a cold Coca Cola before showering and changing for dinner. Conveniently, Ditchay's Bistro, which came highly recommended, is a few minutes away, and we walk towards it on a narrow muddy street, at twilight, taking in the sounds and sights of this unlikely regional capital. Tiny, loud, and covered tricycles pass by, bougainvillea grows everywhere, and so do more local plants (though God only knows how local they are, as I've seen those white trumpets in Stromboli before, though distinctly purple). In an open yard, a large iron staircase painted white leads to a tree house with its lamps already on. Turning a corner, and then another, we find the bistro behind a tall fence. The garden is instantly different, in mood and setting, than anything else seen around so far. Minimalist, if you like, but resourceful, thus perfect. A large bamboo leans over the door, chilled music plays in the background, and fresh herbs grow harmoniously in the garden.
We sit down to a gin tonic, in this surprising and comforting oasis of zen. Good French wine, the best roast pork belly in the world, and flowing conversation make for a long evening. Tea with fresh herbs from the garden closes the accolade, and as we insist that we are tired but not jet lagged (no one ever believes us), a mighty rain starts falling. The first tricycle ride follows, taking us to the wrong hotel initially, but isn't it lovely to drive on empty, crooked, dark, perfumed, silent streets in the rain, yet untouched by it? If only this Asian-sized things would have a seat a tad larger, to accommodate both our behinds! Soon after we climb into bed, hardly coherent, deciding the obvious: to chill, and take things as they come.
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