Wednesday 23 December 2009

Around the World in 13 Days Part 3. The voyage to Columbus

The Fado Irish Bar in Columbus was busy on Saturday morning. Like most fake Irish pubs around the world, Fado had multiple TV screens all showing English football. Much as I despise this cultural hi-jacking, I am enough of a hypocrite to immerse myself in it occasionally.

I pushed my way past the replica jersey wearing masses and found the TV at the back that was showing the Arsenal game. Space was tight and I was anxious to try out the “Full Irish Breakfast” which promised more cooked pig than you could shake an artery at. So I found a seat at the corner of a table where three blond, blue eyed American kids were watching the game, bedecked in 1979 Cup final replica shirts. I assumed their Dad was an English exile, cursed to live out his later years in the mind numbing emptiness that is mid west America.

But when he came over to check on them, it turned out that he too was a died in the wool yank, as where most of the other viewers. It seems that the pandemic of English football knows no boundaries. White Americans are the latest cheerleaders.

Having consumed the vast amounts of pig presented to me and having celebrated another great win with my three young friends; I left Fado and headed for the mall to prostrate myself before the God of American consumerism. I’d spent all week working in a dark windowless room and this would be my first chance to see Columbus properly. I had low expectations and sadly they were entirely met.

I had arrived at midnight six days earlier and found that my bag had miraculously made it through three flight connections. It’s a sad indictment of modern travel that we are pleasantly surprised when something works. I caught a cab to the Hotel and peered into the murky darkness to get some sense of what Ohio looks like. I couldn’t see much, but as it turned out, there isn’t much to see in daylight hours either.

Ohio is one of the fly-over States. Those you fly over when trying to get to interesting places on either coast. You have to wonder therefore why people live in places like Columbus. In the 19th Century there were gold rushes and a thirst for farming land that drove pioneers inland. But in the 21st Century what would make the average yank move there, rather than New York, New Orleans or Los Angeles? Or for that matter, what makes the poor unfortunates who are born there decide to stay?

Perhaps they like the emptiness, the big sky and the straight roads. Or maybe they just don’t like crowds and the smell of saltwater. Whatever the reason, Columbus is now a City of almost a million people, some of whom have even seen the big world outside and still decided to stay.

The Easton mall, which was luring my dollars on this Saturday morning, is unusual by American standards in that it at least tries to look like a normal town. That’s fine in summer I’m sure, but an outdoor mall is less alluring when it’s minus three and falling. I’ve become a soft Aussie in the last couple of years and I’ve grown intolerant to the cold. My mood wasn’t helped when I noted the type of shops that populated the mall. They were aimed at the more discerning customer, one willing to pay ridiculous amounts for designer gear. I’m more the Walmart kind of guy and was hoping to find one of those gargantuan factory stores for which America is famous. The sort of place that sells T-shirts up to XXXXXL and jeans for five bucks. Instead I found perfumed shops that would not have looked out of place on the Champs-Elysees .

So I jumped into a cab and hightailed it for the City, assuming I’d find more of the real America there. Unfortunately, America had packed its bags and headed to the suburbs for the weekend. Maybe there was a time when American city centres were vibrant at weekends. But I’m guessing that’s before the black folks got uppity and started demanding equal rights. The white people fled to the suburbs were they could watch English football in fake pubs and educate their kids in mono cultural schools.

America is the most ethnically mixed country in the world, yet it’s also the most ghettoised. I walked from North Columbus to the South through the Central Business district with its empty, gleaming skyscrapers and shuttered up coffee shops. I guess the cold didn’t help, but the streets were deserted apart from occasional groups of young black guys dressed in out sized puffy jackets and baseball caps worn at strange angles.

I suddenly felt very white and thought of all those episodes of “The Wire” I’d watched over the previous month. But confidence is everything and I struck my best James Deane pose and imagined I was strolling down the boulevard of broken dreams. Nobody mugged me or tried to sell me drugs. Like me, the street corner guys seemed only interested in avoiding the cold. Preconceptions are generally unfair on people.

My destination in the south was the German village which the guidebooks suggested was a little slice of Bavaria in the mid west. It turned out to be less German than the Queen of England. But it did have an authentic American Bar, with high stools at the counter and a world weary barman who knew everyone’s order before they did. I pulled up a stool and ordered a beer and a burger, just so people wouldn’t think I was an outsider. The TV behind the bar was showing a college football game between Florida State and Alabama and I quickly became immersed in it. Most Americans prefer college sport to the professional game and it’s easy to see why. It’s faster, less cautious and the crowds are vocal. I suddenly thought that Columbus wasn’t such a bad place after all.

But as I trudged out into the cold, I was reminded of Dr Johnson’s comments about the Giant Causeway. It’s worth seeing, but not worth going to see.

Thursday 17 December 2009

From Dante to Dublin

Dante’s Inferno described the nine stages of hell. I used to think there were only seven, but that was before George Bush became president. If there is an airport to bring you between these stages, then surely it is based on London’s Heathrow.

To spend four hours there is a punishment not unlike that found in Abu Graib. The endless queuing is akin to water boarding and they even take your picture in a humiliating manner as a nod those human pyramids the American guards built.

I arrived at 5.30am after a long flight from Singapore. Most airports around the world appreciate the discomfort that passengers are in at this point and that many will not speak the local language and may not have travelled abroad before. So airports are usually high ceilinged, well lit and with directions in multiple tongues. Heathrow on the other hand, chooses to ignore the fact that its passengers come from all round the world and may be tired and grumpy. And you’d do well to find a sign that’s not in English and is useful for that matter.

My first task was to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1. This involves a trek down endless corridors, long queues for buses and several interruptions to have your body, baggage and dignity scanned. The picture taking is at least novel. Why they need to photograph travellers in transit is a mystery. A security fetish for the age we live in, I guess.

Once you have navigated the Orwellian world of International Transfers, you have the pleasure of arriving in Terminal 1. This should really be renamed “Terminal Cancer” and it conjures up the same feeling. The Irish flights go from specific gates at the end of a long corridor constructed from corrugated iron and Lego. It has the look and feel of a temporary structure that went up fifteen years ago and has been forgotten about.

When you finally get on the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, you feel that you are back in Ireland. Modern Ireland at least, as most of the crew and passengers are Polish or Chinese. Dublin airport itself seems to be a never ending building site, showcasing a project that started in the boom times and now looks grotesque in the penny pinching era we live in. It reminded me that Ireland will be a great country when it’s finished.

I had only 48 hours to spare in the home country, so planning was essential if I was to cover everything I wanted to do. Visiting family and friends were at the top of the list, but just behind them came the practical things that I miss about home. Curry chips, Guinness and sausages just about sums that up. I had also managed to skilfully organise my trip to coincide with the final performance of Leeson Park Players epic production of “Blithe Spirit”. So that became the highlight of my trip, with apologies to the Lads who provided a thoroughly enjoyable Friday night in Dundalk (with special mention to the curry chips on the way home).

I treaded the boards at LPP for ten years, cornering the niche market in terrorists, farmers and village idiots. My proudest moment was when one of the grandees of the group came up to me after a performance and said “You do gormless better than anyone in the company”. But I’ve never actually watched a performance from the audience. It was a nerve-wrecking event. I’ve been in enough plays to recognise the nervous energy that can consume a cast and found that building in act 1.

My old mate Charles was playing the part of a sceptical doctor, which I’m sure Noel Coward wrote as a serious character. Anyone who has ever acted with Charles would know that he brings his infectious sense of humour to the stage. I’ve stood in front of 200 hundred people with him on several occasions and struggled to keep in the giggles when he diverts from the script and throws you one of his trademark cheeky grins. The cast this time weren’t as stoic and they erupted into a fit of giggles half way through act 1. I had to watch this section through gaps in my fingers. Thankfully, professionalism kicked in and we were treated to a rollicking second act.

Afterwards, I slipped backstage and took the opportunity to step once more onto a stage I last graced in April 2007 and which holds most of my favourite memories from my years living in Dublin. It was an emotional few minutes, partly blurred by the onset of jetlag and the nagging thought of a long flight yet to come.

The cast and crew party afterwards was a tame event when compared to the nights we used to have in the Northbrook Hotel. If there is one crime for which the Celtic Tiger cannot be forgiven, it is the money grabbing decision to convert this fine establishment into apartments. We used to party until morning there, often re-enacting particularly dramatic scenes from the play we had just completed.

The party venue now has a strict 1am closing policy and that hardly allows time to get merry enough to sing. We retired to Eddie Rockets for a fake American Dining experience and ended up drinking tea in the greasiest spoon that Ranelagh has to offer. I finished the night with two friends who are very dear to me. I had booked a hotel at the airport which was by now looking like a bit of an extravagance. At 5am the tiredness finally defeated me. I hailed a taxi and said my sad farewells. It’s never easy saying goodbye, particularly when you’re numb from lack of sleep.

As the taxi raced through the early morning gloom, I got to see Dublin in all its filthy majesty. A freezing fog hung over the City and the revellers left on the streets had their coats tightly held against the wind and rain. It can be a cold and miserable place, but the warmth of friendship makes you forget about that for a while.

Friday 11 December 2009

Round the World in 13 Days - Part 1

They say it’s often better to travel than to arrive. If that was the case somebody would be offering circular flights that bring you back to the place you’ve just left.

Personally I’m waiting for molecular transportation to be invented. I’d have no problem with my body been split into atoms and reassembled instantaneously at the other side of the world. You never know, they might mess up and I’d be put together again looking like Brad Pitt. It’s a better risk to take than losing your luggage in the modern world.

But if you are going to travel long distances, then flying at the front of the bus is the only way to do it, particularly when you are as rotund as I am. So thankfully that’s where I sat as I set off to travel around the world in thirteen days.

My first stop was Singapore, seven hours and change from Melbourne, which seemed measly when I contemplated the journey yet to come. Singapore is one of my favourite destinations. I got there at midnight and the steamy smell hit me first with a kick of recognition. There is an aroma which is distinctly Singaporean and conjures up images of outdoor food courts with tailless cats scurrying between the legs of sweaty cooks.

I took a walk to clear my head after the long flight and came across a late night market. I grabbed a ridiculously cheap Nasi Goreng and hit the hay, dreaming of airplane tail lights and the never ending hum of jet engines.

I awoke with one of those uncomfortable feelings you get when you can’t remember which country you are in, never mind which bed. I had entered the room in darkness the night before and forgot to close the curtains. The sultry Singaporean morning woke me and I stumbled sleepily to the window to admire the view. The sight was incredible. Gambling has always been illegal in Singapore, but they have watched enviously as millions of Asians pass through the casinos of Macau each year to fill their minds with dreams while emptying their wallets.

Singapore has finally embraced this gambling culture and is building two massive casinos to cash in (if you’ll excuse the pun). The one at Marina Bay is almost complete and filled the view from my hotel window. As an Irishman, I know many people in the building trade and I have been known to spend a passing minute or two on the Discovery Building channel. The Marina Bay Casino surpasses anything I’ve seen before and no doubt is being built by all those Irish engineers who are at a loose end since the Celtic Tiger picked up his ball and said he wasn’t playing anymore.

I spent the day in the Singapore office, pretending to work but really just waiting for Happy Hour to start. A beer in this otherwise cheap City can cost $15 which is about the same as you’d pay for a three course meal. So Happy Hour is the only way to go. My drinking buddy for the night suggested a food court in the City Centre called Lau Pau Sat. Apparently it has some of the best hawker food in the country. I’d like to provide a culinary report on this but unfortunately we never got past the beer counter which was selling jugs of Tiger Beer at marginally less than the cost of a small home.

We attacked the beer with the thirst of men that can only be created by the sort of humidity that Singapore is happy to provide. When Happy Hour finished, it had succeeded in its promised objective. We merrily made our way down to Boat Quay, where Nick Leeson used to party with the other red faced expats. We took out a mortgage and bought a couple of beers. I believe we spent the last hour plotting the takeover of the Asian Investment Industry, but we probably just talked about football.

I jumped in to a cab and when we got to the airport, I handed the driver all the Singaporean money I had in my wallet and told him to keep the change with the sort of grand gesture normally reserved for Arab sheiks and rock stars. He counted my collection of coins and told me I was $1.50 short. He smiled and said I could treat it like a reverse tip. My opinion of taxi drivers changed instantly and I promised myself that I would repay this karma. Thankfully, I had the opportunity ten days later.

The flight to London was long, hot and uncomfortable, despite the extra room provided by the Business Class seat and the copious amounts of alcohol that the crew ply on you after take-off in an effort to make everyone sleep. But at least I did get to see the new Woody Allen movie ‘Whatever Works’. Not one of Woody’s best it must be said, but it still had more laugh out loud moments than the rest of the dross offered on the Qantas entertainment system. Unfortunately, loud guffaws are fine if you are in a movie theatre sharing the experience with a couple of hundred like minded fans or watching a DVD in the privacy of your home. It’s not such a polite thing to do when you are locked in a tin box at 35,000 feet with 300 other sleeping passengers.

Mind you, it wasn’t as bad as the experience I had later on that flight while watching ‘Bruno’. In a movie filled with embarrassing scenes, there is one where Mr Cohen displays his John Thomas on screen for what seems an eternity. After 30 seconds or so I had to look away and caught the eye of the old age pensioner across the aisle. He looked at my screen and then back at me with a look of shock. I struggled to find the off button on the remote control beneath my blanket before realising that my furtive scrambling was giving out the completely wrong message!