Tag: travel

Naples

In Naples, I met Hugo Pratt.

The National Archeological Museum’s permanent star is Caravaggio the Neo-classic. Canova’s sculptures mesmerized me. But the underground exhibition space that exhibited Corto Maltese is where I found a kindred spirit. A 20th century transnational artist, a fellow travel aficionado. Perhaps Pratt’s works have been recognised as classic; instead of being exhibited at the modern art museum Madre Napoli.

Sol LeWitt’s “10,000 Lines” at Madre Museum

Naples is a walking city; its Metro only has 2 lines. When we arrived at Napoli Centrale from Rome, we decided to walk to our first accommodation Diletto apartment. The cobbled pavements made dragging wheeled luggage a hassle. Once we dropped our luggage, however, we were free to explore the charming bad boy. 

We stumbled into an anarchists’ commune Santa Fede Liberata. They squatted an abandoned monastery. The denizens formed a cooperative sans government support or corporate sponsor. An Antifa stronghold. Many members are intellectuals and artists. Murals and manifestos decorate the premise.

Elena Ferrante’s hometown is a juxtaposition of poverty and high taste. The lack of glamour makes it a haven for tourists interested in bohemian aesthetics. The narrow alleys towered by building with faded paint job and scraped stuccos. The sepia hued city bathed under the Mediterranean sun. The neighbors hanging their laundry in public. Altars and shrines at every corner. Local kids training to be footballers in the streets under the grace of Santa Diego, the unofficial patron saint of Napoli.

Neapolitan presepe is the crème de la crème of Nativity diorama; commissioned by the Papacy to be exhibited during Christmases in Vatican and Jerusalem. Even Tuscan Nativity dioramas, with their Northern riches, do not compare.

Naples is a city above ancient cities. Below 2019 Naples are Roman and paleo-Christian cities. During World War II, the underground cities relived as shelters from the Allied bombings. A port city, Naples was a strategic military target. Napoli Sotteranea runs a guided tour that takes you to the humid and claustrophobic underground. We were guided through secret trap door which leads to Roman amphitheater and cistern, hydroponic garden made planting possible by artificial UV light, and World War II themed installations.

Whilst waiting for the tour to start, an African souvenir seller approached me.

‘Salemaleykum!’, he saluted me.

My hardwired dogmatic reflex replied, ‘Aleykumsalam.’

I knew I lost to him that moment. He proceeded with the usual brothers-in-faith charade. Gave me a Chinese made trinket, a red miniature elephant, as a gift. He asked me if I have a gift in reciprocity. Gave him a 2 euros coin.

I kept the elephant. A reminder of another defeat in negotiation with the locals.

Santa Fede Liberata, the anarchists commune

I needed a haircut. I would not want Instagram picture of me in Italy to look bad. Neapolitan men are well groomed. I asked the receptionist of Hotel Piazza Bellini, our second accommodation, for a recommendation: Dixie Barber. The main barber Cheero looks like Mario of Nintendo. I would have asked for a close shave too if I have proper beard and moustache.

Coffee here is simple: espresso or cappuccino. No takeaway, if you don’t have time to enjoy a cup of coffee then don’t. This is not Starbucks or Costa. Don’t waste the indulgence out of a good cup, especially when accompanied with a sfogliatella.

We always eat well, obviously. Italy is one of two countries where we can eat the local cuisines for the entire trip. We only had burger once at Salumeria Upnea with its guerilla beers. They are worth skipping Neapolitan cuisine (but just once).

Napoli is our London dad’s hometown. He works at the Italian Foreign Ministry, now stationed in New Delhi. Coincidentally he was in town, on leave to visit his mama. We were invited to the best restaurant: Nonna’s home in ERCOLANO.

‘Nonna apologized that she couldn’t serve handmade pasta,’ Om Nello translated.

Whilst preparing the food, assisted by his sons, she watched us observe her living space. A VHS video player, a tubular telly, an audio cassette player. Her house is speck clean; all her items are vintage. A photograph of a soldier caught my interest. Nonna’s father (or grandfather) was a cavalier, fought in World War I for the Italian Kingdom.

There is something romantic about the Great War. The soldier’s uniforms looked more befitting in a gala than a battlefield. Camouflage was not invented or adopted yet. It was an unapologetic white men world. The First World War brought an end to the 19th century. Trench warfare is the worst. Try digging a hole in your garden, fill it up with water and live inside there for three days. The ‘world’ was Europe in those days. Most of Asia and Africa were colonized or primitive kingdoms. But here we are now, in the 21st century, Europe enjoying the peace and prosperity. The Blue Continent has ceased to be the bloodiest battleground.

The appetizer were tomato salad and fresh clams. The tomatoes from Mount Vesuvius were so sweet from the volcanic nutrients. The clams were something you can’t get in London, or from Jakarta’s mercury laden Sea of Java. The pasta was spaghetti vongole, the secondi was fried seafood.

I have learned about Italian way of dining: don’t fill up at pasta (tempting as it may). Make room for the next courses, the second.

We didn’t go to Pompeii, but Om Nello took us to Herculaneum, another ancient Roman city wiped by Vesuvian eruption. Smaller but less crowd. The weather was lovely, the transition between spring and summer. Sunny blue sky with gentle breeze.

Found Seneca’s On the Shortness of Life in the souvenir shop. The Stoics are the occidental Zen. Both seek to find calm in chaos. Their method is slightly different; Zen koans demonstrate the limit of our reasonable mind to articulate our understanding of the unconscious. The Stoics insist on logical deductions. Another gift from the time we live in now, the globalized world; we can learn both ways.

The stroll around the necropolis was a contemplation on the psychology of extinction. How men and women of Herculaneum came face to face with their mortality as a part of the mass and as an individual. A soldier stood steadfast manning his post. The crowd screamed in panic. a sister comforted her little brother. A son searched his mother.

Om Nello waited for us at the exit. He got us chilled water, with gas. We took the train back to Napoli Centrale. The cars were full of tourist returning from Pompeii. It was golden hour; the landscape outside and the cabin were gently lit by the dusking sun. We didn’t get seats. The white ladies were reddish, blotched by their excursions under the sun. Some passengers reviewed pictures taken and video recorded. Some napped, some chatted. Some, like us, just sat or stood in the silence.

We took a taxi from the hotel to the ferry port. Neapolitan traffic is a passionate as its people. The Italians speak with their hands rather than with their mouth. When our driver got out from the car—to yell at the driver who kept honking when he stopped for pedestrians—we knew he was spewing obscenities despite we know very little Italian. Some languages are so beautiful that even their curses are gracious.

The ferry took us to CAPRI. It was weekend, a lot of tourists – local and international. The cabin was full. Passengers were competing for seats. Ladies in tacky fast fashion took the priority seats. When a family with a disabled member wanted to claim the seats, the ladies refused to budge. Hand gesture got lively; a crew joined in the entreaties. ‘Signora, mi scusi!’

We left the cabin and sat on the deck. It was cold and windy, but we didn’t have to compete for seats or caught in the crossfire of arguments between the locals. The views are nicer. Capri is the opposite the Napoli: touristy luxurious. The town is a labyrinth of shoppes. A sum of Mediterranean vacation with piazzas, cafes, and seascapes.

We stayed two nights at Hotel Villa Eva Anacapri. The funicular is the most romantic way to move around Marina Grande-Capri-Anacapri, but the buses are more practical.

We always had lunch at E Divino. We became familiar with the entire crew: the proprietors, the chefs, and the waiter.

E Divino’s meals are divine, true to its name. This hidden restaurant changes its menu everyday according to their garden and whatever source fresh from the market. Whenever the weather was permitting, we sat at the garden table.

We met Amadeo, an artisan jeweler, the prodigal son of Capri who set up his business in New York and London. Every time he comes home, he always dines here.

Too bad we missed the Blue Grotto due to poor weather. It was rainy during our visit. We had plenty of time drinking limoncello, a local specialty sweet liquor served almost frozen.

We wandered and visited churches, Roman ruins and gardens. Took the chair lift to the top of Monte Solaro; the rainy days made the peak of the island blanketed by fog and chill breeze. Strolled Giardini di Augusto, watching people—fellow tourists—taking selfies, solo and group pictures. Climbed to Emperor Tiberius’ imperial quarter at Villa Jarvis. It was up on a cliff with killer views. The climb was demanding and rewarding despite the cloudy weather. We talked and quarreled a little on our way up.

The imperial quarter is a chapel with a gigantic statue of Mother Mary. Overlooking the ocean, I imagined the Emperor’s life. I read that he lived there in his last 10 years of his life. How did he govern with the telecommunication technologies available at that age? I remember my visit to the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. The Ottoman sultans spent their lives inside the palace—held court, heard petitions, met with advisors and emissaries, entertained themselves in the harem, planned wars, eavesdropped and spied on conspiring courtiers.  Ruling an empire was a sequestered existence. Emperors lived like hermits with luxury.

It is true that Italy forces you to slow down. To appreciate the moment for what it is.

The art of doing nothing. But when your ‘nothing’ is sustained with wine, food, and coffee—added passionate sex and conversations, it is not too hard to meditate.

Neapolitan street

Hiroshima

Hiroshima. The first city on which a nuclear weapon was used.

I took the Nozomi shinkansen from Tokyo and arrived at Hiroshima train station in the afternoon. We walked to our hostel, K’s House. Crossed the Enko River. The sunset from the Enko Bridge was beautiful despite the sakura trees were dry and leafless. It was winter yet snowless.

I tried to imagine when the atomic bomb was dropped. Many of the towns people jumped into the river. Their bodies burning, flesh melting. Hoping the water would reprieve them from the pain. In the aftermath, the river was full of floating rotting bodies.

A contrasting image in my mind’s eye compared to present day Hiroshima. The city has been rebuilt from rubble and ashes; like Berlin. I can smell the newness. Gray concrete buildings with blaring neon signs, typical of Japan and East Asia.

Our first stop in Hiroshima was the Bake Cheese Tart and Bic Camera, the gigantic electronics store chain. Japan, despite their traditional arts styled in austere aestheticism–a legacy of warrior class, samurai, rule–is a gastronomical paradise and shopping mecca. The main traits of consumerist capitalist society. 

Hiroshima Station

I do not like shopping when travelling. However, Japan is an exception to such a rule. Jan Chipcase, a global innovation designer, in Hidden in Plain Sight, said Japan is the centre for design thinking and innovation. Japanese precision and attention to details have allowed them to create products which are aesthetically beautiful and practical. Their culture of hospitality and helpful nature makes great customer service experience.

Unlike Tokyo the overwhelming metropolis, Hiroshima is a compact city. Big enough to have a wide range of options for amusements and entertainments. Yet small enough not to be walkable.


Eat: Okonomiyaki

Wherever I travel, the main activities–aside from walking–are eating and drinking. Hiroshima is well-known for their okonomiyaki, an omelette like dish. Hiroshima style okonomiyaki has soba (buckwheat noodles) in them.

In our first night we dined at Hassei, a family run okonomiyaki restaurant. The walls of the restaurant was full of the local baseball team’s memorabilia—the Hiroshima Carp, photographs and graffiti by the customers. The chef cooked our meals on a large flatbed stove in front of bar (we did not seat at the bar because it was hot to be that close to the kitchen). Suffice to say the food was splendid.

Hassei Okonomiyaki

The other night we went to Okonomimura, a 5 storey building full of okonomiyaki stalls near the red light district. It seems touristy, but we saw the locals were eating there (and it’s Japan, the quality of food, products and services are consistent–a byproduct of an equal society). We randomly picked up a stall simply because the proprietor seems like a sweet old lady. We ordered the house special (I forgot what it was, but oba-chan’s okonomiyaki coupled with cold biru made a delightful dinner).

They were watching the television whilst the customers were eating. I have this bad habit of easily distracted by screens, so I could not help not to turn my attention. I do not watch television at home, but I like to flick through local channels whenever I travel. I think we can observe local peculiarities by watching them.

And I was in Japan. The land of peculiar television shows.

The screen was showing Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. Dubbed to Japanese. Seeing Maccaulay Culkin (and Donald Trump) speaking Japanese was a Lost in Translation moment. Even though I was not in a five star hotel room and not as cool as Bill Murray, it felt surreal and peculiar. A wonderful experience worth travelling for.

Drink

I read Hiroshima is home to many cool independent bars. We only went to two bars, and both seems to confirm such claim.

The first bar we visited was Organza. They have Grimm’s fairy tale style decoration, complete with chandelier and a deer head hunting trophy. There was a book club that night. A group of young people exchanging books and then, I think–they were speaking in Japanese, they read a part quickly and tell their impression. It was cute. The vibe is similar to Hepzibah in Seoul.

I ordered single malt whiskies. Unfortunately, they did not have Japanese whiskies. So I had to ‘settle’ with Macallan (just kidding, for me whiskies have to be either Scotch or Japanese. Irish are still welcomed. A good Scotch is good to drink anywhere, all around the globe).

The proprietor Suzuki like to dress in noir film style. Naturally, a charming subject for portrait photography. I asked his permission to take his photograph (Japanese are very conscious about having their picture taken, unlike South or South East Asians).

Suzuki, Organza Bar

The second bar we visited was Koba. It is a heavy metal themed bar with industrial style interior design. 80s glam rock bands’ songs were the only playlist. The projector was screening music videos of Guns ‘N Roses from MTV. Posters of 1974 Queen concert, Judas Priests, Kiss and other musicians with lion mane hairdo. They hung notes from the customers at the bar, giving close knit feelings among metal heads. I drew a leak (Balinese evil witch) and hung it as a memento there too.

Koba has a wide selection of Japanese whiskies. They are as good as (some even better than) Scotch. We decided to sample them. I only remembered we had Yamazaki and Yoichi. The other three glasses were a bit blurry in our memories.

We note that there were many gaijins that night. There were Mexican couple, an Australian solo traveler, and a British Royal Marine Commando medic. Then a group of Japanese salarymen came in. Unlike stereotypically shy Japanese, they spoke to all customers. Like a good host, they brought together the gaijins. They invited us to conversations.

There were three of them. Unfortunately, I only remember two of their names: Toji and Yuki. They work for a national broadcasting company. Unlike us the gaijins who knew the bar from the travel bible Lonely Planet, they were just passing by and followed their curiosity.

We talked about Japanese pop-culture; from manga (Japanese cartoons), tokusatsu (Japanese transforming masked superheroes) to J-Rock. I told them my childhood were enriched by Doraemon, Gavan, Sharivan, Ultraman, Kamen Rider and I listened to Laruku in my teenage years (although Britpop/alternative bands still dominate my playlists then and now).

On my carnal adult side, I told them JAV (Japan Adult Video) is my preferred porn (but not the ones which fetish are too extreme for a plain vanilla like me). I named them my favourite actresses: Maria Ozawa and Ameri Ichinose.

To avoid sounding like a dork/porn addict/basic bro, I also discussed about Japanese literature. I did some name-dropping of Japanese literati I have read: Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, Natsume Soseki, Kenzaburo Oe, Yukio Mishima, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Eiji Yoshikawa.

Toji is a fan of Murakami (Haruki) and has read all of his books. A kindred spirit. I told and showed him my Sputnik tattoo. I told him that it is inspired by Sputnik Sweetheart. Toji was puzzled, he could not figure out which Haruki’s novel is that.

I realised that Toji read Haruki in Japanese and I in English. I tried to say the title in (broken) Japanese “Sputnik Koibito”. He still did not catch it. I Googled the book and showed the Wikipedia page. He said “Ah! Supūtoniku no Koibito! Sputnik Lover!”

We laughed for that Lost in Translation moment and drank to that. Pronunciation in languages is a peculiar thing.

As for the ‘other’ Murakami (Ryu), Toji recommended his first novel Almost Transparent Blue. Yuki seems to prefer Ryu over Haruki. The recurring complaints against Haruki is that he is a one trick pony. There is even a Haruki Murakami bingo which demonstrates that his characters and elements of plots are recycled from one novel to another; such as mysterious woman, cats, old jazz record, urban ennui, parallel worlds, weird sex, etc. Haruki likes to ruminate a lot. Ryu’s fans claim that Ryu’s works are cooler, fast paced and intense.

For Ryu’s fans, Haruki is the ‘mainstream’ Murakami. They seem to take pride that Ryu is less mainstream.

Hipsters.

After my trip to Japan, I decided to give Ryu a try. I read Almost Transparent Blue and Coin Locker Babies. Blue is plotless, a story about a group of junkies in Okinawa. Naturally the story revolves around sex and drugs; heroin, orgies with American soldiers, abusive relationships, suicidal tendencies. Like Trainspotting, but with some surreal elements albeit not as much as in Haruki’s story. While Babies is about twin babies left inside coin lockers by their biological mother, adopted by a couple from a small fishing town. I finished Blue, but I did not finish Babies.

Ryu’s writing pace is too fast for me. The surreal elements are dominated by descriptive actions with little room for narration. I think I will stick with Haruki.

At a certain point, our conversations I moved to cultural wars on matters of excretion. I praised the innovative comforts of Japanese toilets. Those ‘washettes’ settled the hygiene dilemma between East and West. Asians think it’s gross if one does not wash one’s anus with water after shitting. Westerners believe a contact between your hand and your anus after shitting—which is often required if you wash with water in traditional/primitive manner—is disgusting; therefore the toilet papers. I personally prefer the Asian approach; even NHS suggest you to wash with water. You can (and should) always wash your hands after going to the toilet. However, the bidet or the bum gun gives you the best of both world; and Japanese washettes are the gold standard of bidet. Washettes are a complete comfort system, they come hot/cold waterspray, seat warmer, and even music player to cover the sounds of your sharts.

Toji said he is balding because he is a hibakusha (literally translated to ‘person affected by the atomic bomb’, the Japanese prefer the term ‘survivors’ instead of ‘victims’. This preference demonstrates the stoic attitude of the Japanese). I laughed at his joke, but the Westerner gainjins were a bit uneasy. Even the  RMC medic asserted that he is English, not American.

All of us had a great time at Koba. The Mexican girl did a handstand (apparently she is a yogi), Toji danced with his black umbrella, singing Singing in the Rain. He said goodbye and ‘merikurismasu’ (Merry Christmas) before leaving.

When it was our bedtime and we asked for the bill, the proprietor said Toji has settled everyone’s bills. I hope one day I can repay his kindness. It was the ‘unexpected connection that may not last, but stays with us forever’.

Toji singing, Koba Bar

The A-Bomb

I think it is inevitable (and important) to learn about the history of the atomic bomb and subsequent developments in nuclear proliferation when one visited Hiroshima. The A-Bomb Dome and the well curated Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum are two must see sights in Hiroshima. The Peace Memorial Park and the surrounding area, which was the epicentre of the explosion, is a nice place to walk around.

The Atomic Bomb Dome

The atomic bomb is a grand scientific achievement. An advance on human civilisation, paid with significant costs. I read that the Americans chose to target Hiroshima for political and experimental reasons. There would be no authority to surrender if Tokyo was targeted, and the relatively flat topography of the city allowed them to measure the optimum effect of the explosion. Additionally, the US Government wanted to demonstrate the ‘deliverables’ of the Manhattan Project which costs significant sum of taxpayers’ money for the research and development of the atomic bomb.

The justifications for the atomic bombing on Hiroshima are, to put it diplomatically, controversial at best. The Japanese Empire would have lost the war—with or without the bomb. However, they might have surrendered to the Soviet without the bomb. The Empire was an aggressor and has declared total war, under which everyone is a combatant.

Nevertheless, not all Japanese were pro-fascist militarist government. Blanket labels may be necessary (or at least effective) at times of war but, as cliché as I am writing, they always failed to give us the nuanced view of a society or a group. I read John Hersey’s Hiroshima before I visited Hiroshima. While it is a good reference for understanding the plight and heroism of the hibakushas,  I would recommend reading the 10 volume series manga (or graphic novel, if you want to sound more artsy) Barefoot Gen by Keiji Nakazawa to understand better the anthropological nuance of imperialist Japan.

Gen tells a story of an elementary school student named Gen’s struggle in surviving the fascist Japanese regime and the aftermath of the atomic bombing. The characters illustrated in manga style; wide eyed with hyperbolic facial expressions (unlike real life stereotypical Japanese). However, the historical and cultural context are very realist and impartial.

Gen’s father was an anti-war and anti-fascist writer. Due to his family’s political affiliation, they became an outcast in World War II Japanese society. After the bombing, Gen has to adopt ‘every man for himself’ approach–he begged, stole, and borrowed to survive in a disorderly Japan.

It is a personal historical account of the time by Nakazawa (Gen is his alter ego). He tells how the dissenters against the fascist militarist government were persecuted and suppressed during the war. The birth of yakuza (Japanese organised crime organisations; the word refers to the losing hand of an ancient card game, implying the members that they have been dealt with bad cards in life) which control the black markets, often the only places where people can get supply of goods in lawless and disorderly Japan could (at that time, the Japanese police force was disorganised and were not allowed to carry firearms). How the American occupation enforced censorship, despite claiming to be champion of democracy and freedom. In Nakazawa’s account, no side is spared from being exposed of their ‘sins’.

The graphic novel also pictures high degree of domestic violence (it was an acceptable norm in Japan for a parent to beat their kids as part of educating them) and nudity (although not in a sexual manner), but they serve the cultural context accuracy.

One of the most interesting points of discussion related to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima was raised by Art Spiegelman, author of Maus, in the foreword of volume 2: ‘Would the Americans use the atomic bomb on Nazi Germany, a white nation?’ Michael Ondaandtje’s The English Patient posit that ‘they would never dropped such a bomb on a white nation.’

The fascist militarist Imperial Japan also advocated racism (reversed, if you are white) with their Pan-Asian ideology. However, the Japanese are, perhaps, the first Asian nation which can disprove that modernisation and industrialisation are reserved for white nations as well as dispelling the myth of ‘European’ racial superiority. The Pan-Asian ideology gave rise to the idea of self-determination for many Asians, many of which were under European colonial rules; thus seeded the birth of modern/emerging states such as Indonesia.

Despite advocated Pan-Asian ideology and their propaganda as the ‘Older/Big Brother for all Asians’, Japanese occupation in Asia was brutal. In Indonesia, the Japanese soldiers were known to be ruthless compared to the Dutch colonisers. My grandmother told me she was once hidden, spun inside a carpet, by her parents when the Japanese soldiers came to their home. The Japanese Imperial Army were notorious for kidnapping local women from the occupied lands and forcing them to become jugun ianfu (literally translated ‘comfort women’, an euphemism for sex slave). My grandmother was a pretty girl, she would have been taken.

After Hiroshima 1945, sapiens entered the nuclear age. While nuclear technology can be used for peaceful purposes such as energy (albeit environmentally controversial), great nations entered into nuclear arms race ever since then. Oppenheimer, the lead scientist for the Manhattan Project, understood the terrible consequences of his scientific achievement. He cited Bhagavat Ghita after the successful experiment of the atomic bomb:

‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’

Visiting Hiroshima is a pilgrimage for me; a chance to reflect on our existence as a species. Is it not fascinating and terrifying to see apex predators which can divide atoms? The probability for a nuclear war to happen is small given the ‘balance of nuclear powers’ (perhaps increased quite significantly with President Trump as a factor), yet a nuclear war only need to happen once to expedite our extinction.