Eating Out - Part 2

Where to eat then? Chinatown, came the cry. That’s the place for two young(ish) rakes to be on a Singaporean weekend. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones privy to this secret. Saturday night a few days before Chinese New Year and the place was hopping. I mean wall-to-wall bodies, little shuffling steps, noise, color, and not a seat to be had at any of the hundreds of restaurants or food courts lining the streets.

It wasn’t long before we gave up on our goal to find the "best" place to eat in Chinatown.

"I think we just need to find somewhere that has some open seats" said Joel.

It took a while, but eventually we managed it. I saw an empty spot at a sidewalk table and enthusiastically parked my bum. At the time, Joel was a few feet away and almost kept walking, the press of bodies being too thick for him to notice my absence. Fortunately he heard me yell as a few steps further and we would probably have never seen each other again.

In moments, Auntie was by my side. Very old, very small, but with an energy I didn’t even have in my youth.

"You want soup? Tom Yum soup? Chicken soup?"

I only heard the first part. I discovered Tom Yum soup in Thailand, many years ago. Very hot, sour, spicy and delicious, of all Asian food, it’s my very favorite.

"Yes, tom yum" I nodded enthusiastically. Excellent. I couldn’t believe our luck.

"Oh Joel, you’re going to like this!"

Eating Out - Part 1

"I think we need to call the girls" Joel said "and ask them the Chinese for 'No more food.'"
"No, we need to be more specific than that." I replied. "We need the Chinese for 'In the name of God woman, please stop bringing us food, we’re begging you!'"

We’d been spoiled, you see. For our week in Taiwan, and the first couple of days in Singapore we’d had a delightful harem of co-workers to guide us through every meal. Not only did they order for us, but they explained what we were eating, how to eat it, which implements to use for the process and a lot of the time, even spooned the food onto our plates for us, waiting on us like latter-day Geisha. Oh, I could get used to that life.

Every evening once the business meetings were done came the question

"What would you like to eat tonight?" At first they were concerned we’d be missing Western food but once we explained that we could get Western food at home, and were keen to try whatever they could think up for us, they were happy to show us the best that Asian cuisine could offer.

Oh boy. Vegetarian stuff, pastries, beef, mutton, poultry, fish and other seafood at every level of weirdness. Dumplings, rice and noodles. Chili crab, fish-head curry, bone marrow soup, o· bí-ko (pork blood and rice) and this is just off the top of my head. Korean, Japanese, Malay, Chinese – even French. Upscale restaurants, food courts, street stalls, you name it, we ate it. And it was all good. Unbelievably, deliciously, "Oh man, this is good" good.

Having been preceded by USAian co-workers who visited Singapore only to eat at TGIFridays (hurl) or via Room Service, the girls were thrilled to find Joel and me willing to tackle whatever they served up. OK, I baulked at the stinky tofu. And I’ve eaten durian and testicles before (the latter without realizing what they were until later) so they are both on my "Now I’ve done it I don’t need to do it again" list. But the rest, we attacked with gusto.

But now it was the weekend and we were cast loose on the town. We’d left Regina in Taiwan, Amanda and Serine were off on a business trip of their own, while Sha and Adeline were at home reacquainting themselves with their respective husbands. And in good conscience, we couldn’t ask Emi, the only single girl in the group, to spend her Saturday night with a couple of middle-aged guys.

So it was just us lads.

Adventures in Europe - Part 6

Still Sunday. And a bit of Monday

Of course it didn’t last. Moments after disembarking we were thrust into a maelstrom of frustrated wannabe travelers. As with Schiphol airport, lots of people were spending their weekend in London’s railway stations, wishing they were on their way somewhere else. Word was, the entire country was clogged like this and for the first time in several hours, I began to worry once more that this might be as far as I would get.

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and as trains to Glasgow leave from Euston Station, a short-ish walk down the road, I decided to make my way over there and see if there was by any chance, a train leaving tonight. As it turned out, there was. In 45 minutes. Now if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll remember that I had a plane reservation from London City Airport the following morning. So why was I looking for a train? Because I had already established that if there were any hotel rooms available in London for tonight – and preliminary enquiries suggested there were not, they would cost more than the plane I was considering abandoning. Taking this into account, and given there was no guarantee the plane would even get off the ground in the first place, it just made more sense to take the train.

I hummed, I hawed and with fifteen minutes to spare, pulled the trigger and bought myself a train ticket. A whole five minutes before the loudspeaker announced the train was delayed and to wait for further announcements. In my brief time here at Euston station, I’d seen enough examples of “delayed” to know exactly what it meant. A precursor to “cancelled”, that’s what.

Off to do battle once more then with my nemesis awaiting me in the corner. This bank of payphones were even more evil than their Schiphol counterparts. Not only did they not like my American Express card, they no longer wanted anything to do with my debit card. It had worked 20 minutes earlier when I’d called my wife to let her know which country I was in, but not now.

So...I had to find an ATM to withdraw some cash. Then stand in line at the newsagent to buy a bar of chocolate I didn’t really want in order to get change. Then watch in horror as said change was swallowed by the payphone at an astonishing rate, barely giving me enough time to recite the payphone’s number to my wife so she could call me back. She did call me back but due to the phone’s habit of cutting us off every 20 seconds or so, it took me a while to get the message across. “Yes, I know I have a flight booked tomorrow, but I’m going to try and get there by train tonight. It’s just I don’t know when or even if it will leave, that’s all.”

Finally, we were done and I determined to find myself a quiet corner in which to sit, get my breath back and wait to see what would happen with my “delayed” train. I never made it to the corner though. No sooner had I wrestled my way through the throng and back to the notice board when I heard the announcement “This is the final boarding call for the delayed train to Glasgow Central.” Well, what are the odds? Of all the “delayed” trains I’d seen in the last hour, mine was the only one which was really just “delayed”.

The last leg was uneventful. My back was aching now, after far too long in uncomfortable seats, or standing in endless lines. And it had turned dark long ago, so there was nothing to see out of the window. And as on the earlier trains, we had to go slow because of the weather. But we got there eventually, just a little over an hour late. The weather didn’t stop me after all.

I learned later that the plane I had booked for the following day did take, but didn’t arrive in Glasgow until mid-afternoon, which would only have allowed me a few hours with my family. I also learned that another storm hit Amsterdam not long after I left on the train, and had I not done so, I might be there yet. So it was a pleasant surprise to learn I made the right call in taking the train.

But the best surprise of all came just after we rolled into Glasgow, a little after 1am. Standing at the end of the platform was my brother-in-law, who had driven an hour through the snow to come and get me. And my nephew too. And best of all, my 82-year old Mum, bundled up against the cold, with a big smile on her face.

It’s good to be home for the holidays.

Adventures in Europe - Part 5

Sunday

Banging on the door. Loud banging. And shouting. Lots of shouting. A big Russian man is in my room shouting at me. An angry Russian man.

“I CALL YOU NO ANSWER SHUTTLE IS READY TO GO PEOPLE ARE WAITING I CANNOT WAIT I GO NOW YOU CATCH NEXT SHUTTLE ONE HOUR!”

Moments later he’s gone and I’m sitting up in bed, gradually approaching consciousness and wondering if I have any chance of getting back to the world I know. Or if I’m destined to spend the rest of my life in this surreal, nether-world where everything is recognizable but nothing is familiar.

So, another hour until the shuttle swings back round, which might make things a bit tight for catching my train, but at least gives me long enough to experience the shower, which with its two settings (hot and very hot) made my ablutions more exciting than I normally prefer. I managed breakfast too; sitting all alone in a barn-like dining room, munching on what I’m going to believe was bread. A somewhat depressing experience, but nobody was shouting at me, so it’s all good.

Soon the hour was up and my scary Russian friend and I were heading back to the airport. He deposited me at the curb with a grunt of farewell and it was on to the next adventure. Finding the platform at which my train should be arriving any minute. I found the platform easily enough but given the events of the last 24-hours, I really wasn’t all that surprised to hear a loudspeaker announcement informing me that my train had been cancelled. Resignedly, I hauled my weary carcass back up the escalator and into the line for information. “No, your train isn’t cancelled!” exclaimed the clerk, “That was a different train. Hurry, it leaves soon.”

And leave soon it did. With me aboard. Out of breath and sweaty, but aboard. Maybe I’ll be home for Christmas after all.

The next few hours saw me take one of the smoothest and least stressful journeys of my life. I’ve always been a train geek. Not to the point of standing on windswept station platforms with a notebook, an anorak and a thermos, but I’ve always enjoyed reading about them, looking at photos of them and watching them as they go by. And traveling on them. Oh, I love traveling on them. Spending as I do, way too much of my life cramped in airplanes alongside, beefy businessmen, screaming children and grumpy flight-attendants, it’s a treat to travel in a comfortable seat, with a proper table in front of me and things to look at out the window. Ah, bliss.

Not that there was too much to see of course. The winter storm had hit Belgium and France just as hard as it had Holland and Britain, so visibility was reduced to a couple of hundred yards before the world disappeared behind a wall of white. Still, I had my book, I had my iPod and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps from the buffet. Travel doesn’t get much better.

The weather meant we couldn’t utilize the advertised “high-speed” aspect of the train and we were late into Brussels. But not late enough to matter. I had time for a very pleasant lunch before boarding another train for the next leg, through the Channel Tunnel and on to St. Pancras, London. Not only that, but we were only 1 hour late arriving there. I could get used to this.