Searching for locations: Hong Kong

This is not so much about searching for a location, as it was for the experience. Seeing is one thing, but experiencing a different culture, and what it might have been like back in another era made that visit all the more worthwhile.

Not that I’m about to be writing about Hong Kong in the early 20th century, but you never know.

I’ve seen in many times when we visited Hong Kong, but never quite made it to stay at the Peninsula Hotel, not until I decided to put it on my bucket list, and, having just turned 65, we decided to spend my birthday there.

Of course, arriving in a green Rolls Royce helps to enhance the experience. and is, if you are going to stay at the Penisula, a mandatory extra.

It is rather difficult to imagine what the hotel would have been like in 1928 when it was built. Without the central tower behind the old hotel building, the tall buildings around it, and all the buildings between the hotel and the waterfront, it would be easy to say it had a prime position.

It’s not far from the Star Ferry terminal, the main transport from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. Since then, there is the MTR and the underground tunnel for vehicles, but back then it was the ferry or nothing.

Outside, the centerpiece to the driveway is a fountain. Around the edges are the cars, the Tesla’s, the Mercedes, the Audi’s and a Rolls Royce or two. There was even a Lamborghini. I could see myself doing a tour of the island by Lamborghini.

Or not. The traffic would be very unkind to such a machine.

Inside the front door, the main part of the ground floor foyer stretches from one side of the building to the other, save for arcades of shops at the ends. High priced goods can be bought here by the rich and famous.

What is interesting is that they have a very smartly dressed porter at the front door to open it for you. It seemed very appropriate for a hotel steeped in old world charm.

Either side of the entrance walkway that leads to reception and the concierge desk, and two magnificent staircases. It is all marble floor, marble columns with sculptures at the top and ornate ceilings.

And the endless cacophony of sounds you would expect in such a large space. Either side of the central walkway is the cafe, elegantly set tables, each with its own flower.

People coming and going, people meeting other people, people arriving, people departing. Hotel staff bustling from place to place and serving staff moving among the guests dining in the Foyer cafe.

The staircase leads to the mezzanine floor where there are more shops, and then up to the first floor where the veranda cafe and the Spring Moon restaurant is located. The Spring Moon is where we will be having dinner tonight.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 15

Our main character Bill probably needs to give an account of the situation he found himself in. I have, for a while, considered that he is just another soldier who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but now, I want to add a dimension.

He finishes up where he is, in the end, because he chose to be there, and it was something of a rocky ride to get there.

That I’m still planning in my head.

In the meantime, this is the initial piece I wrote for his situation description:

I used to joke about telling people my middle name was ‘danger’. It seemed I was not the only one, and for a time, worked with a group of soldiers and ex-soldiers in a capacity similar to that of being a mercenary.

Each one of us had a specialty. Mine was being the sniper. Johnny had knife skills and not the sort that was used in a kitchen. Freddie, explosives, Bill, well, you just left Bill alone because he had a grudge against the world and everyone in it.

The Colonel used to say we were all handpicked, but that wasn’t necessarily the case. I knew for a fact some of the team came straight out of the stockade before their time was up.

Because some of us were expendable.

The thing was; none of us cared. For those who were ‘rescued’, it was better out in the jungle, dodging bullets, than being inside, your fate left in the hands of the Gods.

I knew how it was. I’d been there once or twice myself.

This morning had started the same as many others. Rise and shine, a breakfast of sorts, into the chopper, and after an hour or so, dropping into a grassy patch, with nothing but jungle in every direction. Our mission was to find and liberate a number of our people who had gone missing, read captured, on the border between Cambodia and Vietnam. It was a familiar country because I had, over the last year or so, gone hunting missing POW’s in the area. Old prisons had been converted into drug laboratories, and we’d broken up a few of those too.

The noise of the chopper put paid to any sort of stealthy approach and, by the time it dropped us off, if there was anyone nearby, our advantage, if we ever had one, was gone. The trouble was, to cover the same distance by foot would take a week, and, by the time we arrived, if we arrived, more than half the team would be dead. We may have been good, but we were not that good. It was not our home turf.

It was hot, sticky, and nothing like home. There wasn’t a day that passed when I thought to myself it was getting harder and harder to remember when I wasn’t constantly hot and sweaty, nor as frightened. It happened that way, towards the end of a tour.

Once on the ground, every man was on full alert. We changed the lead and tail end constantly, to make sure we didn’t lose anyone. And it was hard going, the constant heat, sweat, punctuated with slight relief when it rained.

Then as quickly as it came, it went, leaving you wet then sticky.

And if that wasn’t enough to contend with, there was the enemy. You couldn’t see them, nor hear them yet you had the feeling he was watching you the whole time, and it made your skin crawl.

Sometimes the enemy attacked when we had to camp, invisibly swooping, shooting from the trees, and firing a mortar or two, then disappearing back into the luminous greenery without a trace. These were the remnants of the Viet Cong, Cambodian armed forces, disaffected Laotians, or the Chinese, or so we believed, but they were well-trained mercenaries and just the sort of people the drug cartels would use.

And surviving the operation, any operation, was like playing Russian roulette. Was it your turn this time, or someone else’s? You could be walking along, straining your eyes and ears, and next minute, find the man who was covering your back, dead. Booby traps were silent and swift. Landmines are loud and very messy. Both hangovers from the war, and never cleaned up. People you’d meet, you never knew whose side they were on, so it was best to avoid all contact.

It’s dark, it’s late, we’re waiting for the rain…

Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s gone, the day is cold, even freezing, and you’ve got better things to do than go outside and shovel snow

Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about…

Now, hang on, that can’t be true, because we all know the world is round and there had to be something or somewhere opposite. I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.

Been to China, and Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.

And, as you can see, the impending rain and the rather warm night has amped up the boredom factor and pushing me to do anything other than writing. I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,

Writing the next Walthenson case, the next Private Detective novel
Writing several episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
Finishing off the last of the edits for “Strangers We’ve Become” the last before publication (Yea!!!!)

None of them is appealing to me at the moment.

Instead, I find myself looking at what is showing on Winter TV in the US and Canada, trying to find out when Murdoch Mysteries restarts, what’s going to happen next in God Friended Me, and curiously interested in a show called Emergence.

Fascinating, they are, but no Murdoch yet. Guess I’ll have to settle for Masnifenst, series 2, FBI, and something called Lincoln Rhyme.

Then there’s one of my favorites, Elementary, on the re-runs. I’m a Sherlock Holmes nut, but what’s getting me is the fact Lucy Liu has blondish hair. Sorry, it’s distracting.

There’s the InBetween I’m watching again, you know, that spooky place between life and death, much the same as saying I see dead people, hang on, didn’t Bruce Willis say that once upon a time? It was interesting, but will. there be a second series.

But, the thing I like most about northern winters, the ice hockey. Yes, we are huge Maple Leaf fans, and even though they are having an up and down year so far, and a change of coach which doesn’t seem to be helping, we are glued to the TV watching the live-action. Fortunately, that’s on at about 9 am or 10 am here so we can watch it at a respectable hour.

Good thing, then I’m almost retired, except for the writing thing.

There’s more, but I better get back to work.

In a word: Blank

Yes, I’m drawing a blank, which means I have no idea

It seems that I do this a lot these days, perhaps one of the perils of being a writer

But…

Using blank in a story doesn’t necessarily convey the antagonist is clueless, more likely he or she just used one in a gun, put there by a person who didn’t want to get shot.

No, still drawing a blank on this one.

A blank space means there’s nothing in it, and you see a lot of these in crosswords and sudoku, even when the user has been toiling for hours

I’m thinking anyone who met me might misinterpret my blank expression, well, it’s not too expressive in the first place

Perhaps before the coin becomes a coin; it is a piece of blank metal to begin with. How good would it be to get a one-sided coin, that’d be worth a lot?

And the very worst description of blank; having a blank piece of paper in front of you, and you really are drawing a blank!

Searching for locations: Waitomo caves house, North Island, New Zealand

A relatively unassuming lane leads to what could be described as a grand hotel, called Waitomo Caves Hotel.

The original hotel was built in 1908, and it was later extended in 1928 it was extended. Part of it is ‘Victorian’, based on an eastern Europe mountain chalet, and part of it is ‘Art Deco’, the concrete wing, and a feature, if it could be called that, is none of the four corners are the same.

Views from the balcony show part of the surrounding gardens

and the town of Waitomo in the distance.

In gloomy weather, it does look rather spooky, and I suspect there may be a ghost or two lurking somewhere in the buildings.

I’ve always wanted to be in a disaster movie

But not one where the plane crashes, though the figurative kinds of disasters always seem to feature, aeroplanes, airports, and passengers.

Certainly, every time I go near an aeroplane there’s a plethora of detail available for the next plotline, or even a short story.

It seems almost inevitable when travelling anywhere on a plane that something can and will go wrong. Not necessarily with the plane, but that happens too, but rarely, if ever, have I been on an overseas flight that has not left or arrived late for any one of a multitude of reasons.

The last was just one in a long line of many…

It is not always a problem with the aircraft that causes delays. Whilst often it is a case of technical difficulties, but this time it wasn’t.

We are missing a passenger.

Yep, on a plane that carries 301 passengers, we were missing the one. And because they have not made the boarding cutoff, their baggage has to be offloaded. Since there are 300 plus other bags to sort through, it will take time.

Scheduled departure time 8:45, an announcement about the offloading was at 8:35, it’s now 8:50. Ok, now we’re closing the front door. Let’s see what happens now.

8:52, the captain says we’re sorted, but…

Oh, the dreaded we’ve missed our slot and now have wait for the next. Last time that happened, in France, we waited an hour. In New York, Newark actually we just pulled over to the side of the taxi area and switched off the engines.

This is Brisbane, not so large an airport so it may not be a long wait.

9:01, we’re pushing back. Finally a slot.

But…

There are five other planes in front of us, so it’s all adding up to a delayed arrival. 9:15 and still taxiing.

9:30, 45 minutes late we finally take off. Let’s see how this affects our arrival time. The flight time is advised to be 2 hours and 25 minutes. This means if the flying time is correct, we should be landing in Auckland at 13:55 pm, local time. New Zealand is, by the way, two hours ahead of Brisbane.

11:45, (or 13:45 local time) we commence our descent. Landed at 14:10 local time.

It could have been worse.

What am I saying, we have now to negotiate immigration and then find our baggage?

Searching for locations: Greve-in-Chianti, Tuscany, Italy

When we first planned to stay in Tuscany for a few days, we wanted to be in a central area. We had thought of staying in Florence and making daily treks, but the tour operator we selected told us it would be better if we stayed closer to Arezzo.

We picked Greve in Chianti, and a place called Antico Pastificio, we booked a standard apartment with two bedrooms, and it was about as authentic Italian you could get. The building we stayed in was the yellow pasta factory, and the apartment named ‘Iris’.

It was only steps away from the main square, shops, restaurants, and at the opposite end, the quaint ringing of church bells at various times during the day.

Gaining access was through a very narrow arch which required some deft driving and then up the road. There were villas and two large apartment blocks.

You can just see the archway at the end of the road.

This was the entrance to our room,

along a passage and up the stairs, turning left at the top.

Going straight ahead through the gate to the car park,

and access to the grounds behind the buildings.

This was the view from the lounge/living room. The days were hot, and on several evenings it rained, breaking the heat and making the evenings sitting by the window cool and refreshing.

And the last view is looking towards the town piazza and the church

In a word: Saw or Sore or Soar

In the first or is the second instance of the word Sore, we all know this malady can sometimes fester into something a lot worse.

Or that a person could be a sore loser

Or after spending an hour on the obstacle course, they come off very sore and sorry. I never quite understood why they should be sorry because no one ever apologises to inanimate object. Or do they?

Or perhaps he was sore at his friend for not telling him the truth.

Then, there’s another meaning, saw, which can mean the past tense of seeing, that is, I saw them down by the pool.

I could also use a saw, you know, that thing that custs through wood, steel, plastic, almost anything. And yes, it’s possible someone might actually saw through a loaf of bread.

There are hand saws, electric saws, band saws, coping saws, even a bread knife, all of these have one thing in common, a serrated edge with teeth of different sizes, designed to cut, smoothly or roughly depending on the size.

Add it to bones, and you have Captain Kirk’s description of his medical officer on the Enterprise. I’m not sure any doctor would like to be addressed as saw-bones.

But then, confusingly in the way only English can do, there’s another word that sounds exactly the same, soar

This, of course, means hovering up there in the heavens, with or without propulsion or oxygen.

Yes, it’s difficult to soar with eagles when you work with turkeys. I’ve always liked this expression though most of the time people don’t quite understand what it means.

Searching for locations: Arezzo, Italy

There’s nothing like being a few days early or a few days late for a major festival.

We have the dubious honor of being able to both without thinking. I guess this is why you should try to plan your holiday around events, if possible.

We love Italy.

We’ve been a number of times, but the last visit was the best. Of course, it was not without a lot of hiccups just getting there, but in the end, later than we expected, actually about five minutes before they closed Florence airport, we made it.

So, little did we know there was such a thing as Calcio Fiorentino an early form of football and rugby that originated in 16th-century Italy and thought to have started in the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence. But we were in Florence, at the right time, and even got to see the procession through the streets of Florence.

You can read more about the game and rules at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calcio_Fiorentino

We were not so lucky in Siena where we were about a week early for the Palio di Siena which was to take place on 2nd July.

Nor were we in Arezzo at the right time for the Saracen Joust which was held on the penultimate Saturday in June. It is held at the Piazza Grande in the heart of Arezzo and is one of the most beautiful piazzas in Tuscany.

The Piazza Della Liberta and the Town Hall tower

The Piazza Grande, also known as Piazza Vasari, is said to be situated on the site of the ancient Roman Forum. Here, it is being set up for the coming Joust.