View allAll Photos Tagged Monetization
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5339
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In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5268
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It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
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In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6173
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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In-depth article: japan-kyoto.de/entokuin-subtempel-kodaiji-kyoto/
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4968
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It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
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In general: ©Christian Kaden - Japan-Kyoto.de
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I was having a coffee on the other side of the street, playing around with my 70-200 mm and it's only when I zoomed into the shot on the back of my camera display that I noticed this old gentlemen was keen to monetize his daily doze of news with 1$ for a photo.
Happy 15th Birthday bratz!
While my original doll collection started with My Scene I didn't really become a collector until I got my first bratz maybe 10 or so years ago (11? 12? 13?!) in a box of other assorted my scene dolls (a B-R-ATZ, BRATZ CLASS! Yasmin) and soon started to see them as more than the 'skanky' barbie counterpart I immediately felt before simply due to prior Barbie loyalty and after the kidz came out? The rest was history XD
Opening my mind to them allowed me to open my mind to not being so stuck in my stubbornness about things and was instrumental in expanding my personal horizons in general.
Bratz for me came with new friends who have been instrumental in making me the person I've become to this very day and learning things like 'different isn't bad' and thinking critically about, like, value judgements mainstream society places on expression of urban culture when they can't monetize it in a way they see fit. (and, as I got older, the racial aspect of said value judgements became even clearer but that's perhaps a conversation for another time ;3)
The biggest thing bratz gave me was learning how to understand & value different perspectives as valid experiences and to really be willing to let myself grow. If you only saw their clothing you missed the focus on friendship & individuality.
Not to mention? Bratz was uber feminist for an audience that needed it - Nobody's Girl, the Rock Angel ballad about prioritizing yourself over a potential spouse? ICONIQUE and something I don't feel girls hear a lot - and even if I go back & forth on the current incarnation at times I can say that there's still a glimmer of what made Bratz such an important part of my own life and if these dolls lead to that for other people then I can be all for it.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5970
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It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
# Want to use it in a commercial or monetized project? Leave me a message.
Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5887
- About sharing ------------------
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
# Want to use it in a commercial or monetized project? Leave me a message.
Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Thank you for your understanding.
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I'm really struggling to get along with this redesign. I'm not opposed to change if it's in the right spirit and for honourable reasons. But in this case I'm finding it difficult to see the rationale (other than boosting the monetization).
I know it always takes time to adapt to 'the shock' of the new, but surely with interface design the goal should always be to increase the intuitiveness - in other words, we should be able to grasp the benefits and adapt very quickly if done well.
I'm also quite surprised at the lack of engagement with (especially Pro) users prior to this change. Yahoo boasted of the speed at which this redesign was implemented (apparently the project was only initiated in March) but perhaps a more considered approach would have lead to better results.
Anyway, enjoy this massive photo of Emily (press 'L' to view on....oh...)
Kiev 60
Biometar 80 / 2.8
Ektar
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Copyright: ©2009, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: CIMG2296
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
# Want to use it in a commercial or monetized project? Leave me a message.
Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Facebook: fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5201
- About sharing ------------------
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
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Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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The Hojo and its garden of Tofukuji Temple
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4404
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: 20151121-IMG_5255
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It's really ok to use this photo as e.g. your wallpaper and in any non-commercial(!) project, but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please give credits to the creator as stated below and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
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In-depth article: japan-kyoto.de/fundain-subtempel-tofukuji-kyoto/
This picture is part of my "Best of Japan"-album, check it out here: flic.kr/s/aHsjBHeaBb
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5062
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-- About sharing -----------------
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IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
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Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Thank you for your understanding.
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Facebook: fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5354
- About sharing ------------------
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either directly linked via @Japan-Kyoto (preferred) or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de (if @Japan-Kyoto is not possible).
# Want to use it in a commercial or monetized project? Leave me a message.
Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4295
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In-Depth article: japan-kyoto.de/taizoin-subtempel-myoshinji-kyoto/
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4790
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-- About sharing -----------------
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IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
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Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_7110
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It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
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Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5258
- About sharing ------------------
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
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# Want to use it in a commercial or monetized project? Leave me a message.
Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Hiranoya is an old establishment, being said in business for around 400 years now and selling sweetfish (ayu) and tea. It even has a shrine gate thanks to an old connection with the Otagi Shrine.
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4241
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with
' ©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de '
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6200
IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
©Christian Kaden / www.Japan-Kyoto.de
# If sharing or reuploading to Facebook, in addition to the above mentioned credits please add a link to the Facebook-Page of Japan-Kyoto as well. Either with @Japan-Kyoto or fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
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japan-kyoto.de/unryuin-subtempel-sennyuji-kyoto/
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_7436
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-- About sharing -----------------
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IT'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
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Examples
In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5270
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It's really ok to use this photo as your wallpaper etc., but if you reuse it on the web or other public spaces, please read following lines carefully and don't give the impression that you took the photo yourself. A lot of work was done creating it, so please be respectful and help build some 'internet trust', thanks!
Credits as stated below are mandatory, not optional!
# If you want to use this photo under the given Creative-Commons-Licence, please credit it with:
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Examples
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[polski opis niżej]
SU42-536 with the southbound extraordinary passenger train ROS 56200 "Magistrala" between Kraski and Kłudna, naturally on the Coal Trunk Line (Polish: "Magistrala Węglowa"), June 19, 2022.
"Magistrala" A.D. 2022 was not shrouded in the atmosphere of scandal, as it was a year before. As far as I know, the organizer (Turkol) did not try to monetize the train this year by trying to get something out of the photographers on route. The train, like a year earlier, ended a few-day event in northern Poland.
Photo by Jarek / Chester
SU42-536 z pociągiem ROS 56200 "Magistrala" na szlaku Kraski - Kłudna, na Magistrali Węglowej naturalnie, 19 czerwca 2022 roku.
"Magistrala" A.D. 2022 nie była owiana atmosferą skandalu, jak to było rok wcześniej. O ile mi wiadomo, organizator nie zabawiał się w tym roku w monetyzowanie pociągu poprzez próbę wydębienia czegoś od osób fotografujących. Pociąg, jak rok wcześniej, kończył parudniową imprezę w północnej Polsce.
Fot. Jarek / Chester
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
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9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
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It was a cloudy day with a bit of rain. Really luck! Lucky...? Yes, because only then you can see the beautiful ice-blue. When it's sunny, it will be a lot more white, making it really hard to take good photos of those beauties. And they deserve gorgeous photos only.
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Matcha with Wagashi "Sumire" - Enjoying Matcha at the beautiful tea house Saryo Hosen in northern Kyoto. Read more: www.japan-kyoto.de/teehaus-saryo-hosen-kyoto/
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Join Fliiby and monetize your content fliiby.com/?ref=koled
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Why is it that time seems to pass quickly the older one gets?
A philosopher called Paul Janet many moons ago came up with Janets Law which basically says that young folks feel that time passes slowly and old farts (like me) feel time passes quicker. The reason given is that a person of 10 years of age will experience 1 year as a tenth of their current life time. A person of 34 (me ^^;) will experience 1 year as a mere 1/34th of their life time.
Before I know it, time will come to an end for me and I want die in knowledge that I lived my life the way I wanted. For me, that means to work for myself building/achieving goals and aiming for destinations that I set for myself as opposed to working for others and achieving goals that they set for me.
I believe that one should always invest time in reflecting on what they want from life before its too late. The saying goes that "its never too late to start" but the fact is that we wont be as physically able when we are of an older age unless we can easily replace our body parts ala Ghost in the Shell.
This post will be of interest to folks who have a feeling that they want to work for themselves at one point in the future.
A step to starting your own business
No matter whether you are working for others or schooling, if you are making money on the side or intend to (no matter the amount) then I recommend that you set up something called a Sole Proprietorship. A proprietorship is a business entity which allows you to declare your expenses against your earnings as opposed to declaring just your earnings.
Lets say that you earn 100,000 USD per annum. Lets also presume you make 50,000 USD from advertising on your site/consulting services that you provide etc.
Usually, you would pay taxes on your total income of 150,000 USD. Getting the full amount of 150,000 USD taxed is not funny at all.
BUT! Lets say you had a proprietorship. When you declare your earnings, you will also declare your expenses. Lets say your expenses were 50,000 USD. The tax declaration that you make at the end of the fiscal year will be...
(100,000 USD (your annual salary) + 50,000 USD (money you make from the side)) - (50,000 USD (your expenses)) = 100,000 USD Taxable
The above means that you only need to pay taxes on your annual salary (100,000 USD).
Now lets go a bit more into detail. Lets presume you declare expenses of 70,000 USD...
(100,000 USD (your annual salary) + 50,000 USD (money you make from the side)) - (70,000 USD (your expenses)) = 80,000 USD Taxable
The above means that you need only pay taxes on 80,000 USD and will end up with you getting a tax refund. I have simplified this but thats the general idea.
What can you expense?
You can expense anything related to running your proprietorship. For example lets say that you use 75% of your apartment/house as your office - you can expense 75% of your monthly rent/mortgage. Your Internet/phone/mobile connection can be expensed under "communications". Your trip to Japan can be expensed under "business trips". If you are making money from running a figure site for example, then the figures are an essential part of your proprietorship which can be expensed.
If you buy a computer however, you can only expense 20% of it for the first year, another 20% the next year until a full 5 years are up (this percentage varies depending on where you live).
How to set up a proprietorship in Japan
Setting up a proprietorship is as easy as farting. Go to Japan's National Tax Agency site and download the PDF file you see on that page. Decide on a name for your proprietorship (in my case I called it Mirai) and fill in the nature of your business (web design/IT consulting etc). Also fill in your address and send it off to the tax office that represents your ward - you can find out which is your nearest on this list. Done. You can call up the tax office to see if they received your form (but you dont have to). You dont get anything sent back to you. You dont need any special tax IDs or anything either. All you have to do is use a different form when declaring your taxes at the end of the fiscal year.
Who runs proprietorships in Japan
Go to your nearest shotengai (shopping district) and look around - most of the small ramen, sushi, bakeries, dry cleaners etc will be proprietorships. Theres no reason for them to incorporate and they rarely do.
Proprietorships in your country
I only know how to set up one in Japan but dug around to find info for America, Singapore, Canada - a search for "sole proprietorships + your country name" should bring up results as this business entity seems to be globally recognized.
What you will learn
It took me ages to make the decision to set up a proprietorship (known as 個人事業(こじんじぎょう)in Japanese) as it just seemed like a pretty big step. The perception is that its too bothersome or another case of afraid-of-unknown-territory. There is really nothing to it...
1.Send form to declare that you are starting up a proprietorship.
2.Keep tidy records of your income and expense. Keep all receipts.
3.Use your tidy reports and receipts to make a Profit and Loss statement - hand it in with your declaration forms at the end of the fiscal year.
4.Depending on how much you declared (income vs expense), a tax return for 900,000 yen (for example) is deposited in your bank account 30 days after you send in your tax declaration.
As you can see - proprietorships are no brainers. Theres no reason not to do it and so many reasons *to* do it.
I learnt so much through my proprietorship in terms of issuing invoices, receipts, keeping good accounting records etc. You cant expense everything under the sun and each item has to be filled under a particular category - learning business accounting together with the other bits n pieces that go together with running my proprietorship has made the transition to incorporate my company an easy one.
If you read Rich Dad, Poor Dad then this should sound familiar as this was something the author suggested.
Saving tax
Now that you know about the huge tax benefits of owning a proprietorship, you can see that many set up proprietorships just to save tax. This however may only work for the first few years. Making a loss for the first few years of starting up a proprietorship is normal but when one continues to make a loss every year - a tax wo/man may knock on the door one day to ask questions.
If you have not done so already, you may want to read my reasons for starting up a proprietorship.
The next step
Those who want to go beyond working for others can incorporate themselves like I did. Leaving a comfortable job and-a-not-so-bad salary is a big risk. My personal recommendation is to secure a steady flow of side income/clients while you work for others.
While I do already have clients and that steady flow of income from online activities - incorporating and going it alone is still a big risk. Personally, I decided that I would take that risk to achieve my goals in life rather than sit at a well paid conformable job and forget about my life goals.
A well paid comfortable job is the worst kind of job to have for folks wanting to start their own business and I have met many during my AMZN/MSFT years. Their comfy status prevents them from doing anything to jeopardize their current situation as that would affect the safety layer in Maslow's triangle.
Anyway enough babbling for one day - next will be the long awaited Blog Monetization post ^^;
Nearly forgot to mention about the image in this post - not absolutely nothing to do with proprietorships but is a hint to the next feature that I'm launching in a few days - I'm really excited about it ^^. Its also to keep people awake after reading a long post like this ^^;
View more at www.dannychoo.com/en/post/815/Japan+Proprietorship.html
"The race was on to find other areas of search where we could build a commanding lead," says one high ranking Yahoo executive familiar with the deal.
Flickr offered a way to do that. Because Flickr photos were tagged and labeled and categorized so efficiently by users, they were highly searchable.
"That is the reason we bought Flickr—not the community. We didn't give a shit about that. The theory behind buying Flickr was not to increase social connections, it was to monetize the image index. It was totally not about social communities or social networking. It was certainly nothing to do with the users."
And that was the problem. At the time, the Web was rapidly becoming more social, and Flickr was at the forefront of that movement. It was all about groups and comments and identifying people as contacts, friends or family. To Yahoo, it was just a fucking database.
"I spent years at Yahoo trying to signal the alarm that Facebook was going to take over the adult market unless we stepped in and used our existing social networks to fight back," laments one former Yahoo engineer who worked on products at both the parent company and Flickr. "Obviously this never went anywhere for a multitude of reasons."
If the Internet really were a series of tubes, Yahoo would be the leaking sewage pipe, covering everything it comes in contact with in watered-down shit.
Picture and text from:
gizmodo.com/flashback-how-yahoo-killed-flickr-and-lost-th...
___
And it's now happening all over again, as the yesterday's massive flickrape of paying customers,
and this discussion, conceived in its wake clearly shows...
Even the newspapers have raised their brows to the enormous backlash from Flickr users.
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This picture is part of my "Best of Japan"-album, check it out here: flic.kr/s/aHsjBHeaBb
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Monument PC Gameplay Trailer Oldschool FPS. Hardcore classic gameplay. Huge hordes of monsters. Blood. Fun. Each level is unique and not similar to the previous. Play with your best friends: shotgun, machine gun, plasma gun and a homemade rifle. Send to the grave evil chickens, aliens and other evil spirits. Title: Monument Genre: Action, Indie Developer: D-Games Publisher: D-Games Release Date: 5 Jun, 2015 System Requirements MINIMUM: OS: Windows 7 64 Processor: 2 GHz Memory: 4 GB RAM DirectX: Version 9.0 Hard Drive: 1 GB available space Buy It Here: store.steampowered.com/app/376730/ Buy PC Games at a very cheap rate: www.g2a.com/r/poky28 Don't Miss it!! Subscribe us for More PC Game Trailers Gamers Paradise : www.youtube.com/channel/UCtTHtdZNFhwdFo0_Ixb_AvQ Monetize your videos quickly and earn lots of money by joining me (100% Guaranteed) : www.freedom.tm/via/vbas28 Earn money through your website using infolinks ads , join now : www.infolinks.com/join-us?aid=1861695
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
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We photographed and chased this Praying Mantis in September 2023. So much fun. Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss you dearly.
Gregg had an interesting life. He was a Green Beret, a Zoo Keeper at Woodland Park Zoo, Seattle, and a keen observer and photographer of birds, bugs, and flowers. Once he was on a subject he had to learn everything about it, not just the species, but about that individual, returning multiple times for a series. He donated his photos to Birdnote. He flatly poo poo'd any thought of monetizing his photography. And since he focused on recording behavior, I repeatedly suggested that he do video. It became a running joke. But I thought one day I could convince him ... He passed away January 23, 2024.
www.birdnote.org/search/node?keys=gregg+thompson
Edit: attended Gregg's memorial 4-6-2024 at the Swedish Club (west side of Lake Union, terrific views, Gregg would approve) in Seattle (thanks for the lift, Andy Rogers!). In attendance were friends from his youth, zoo career, and bird photography. Also present was his twin sister, Susan. Didn't know he had a twin, did you? Lots of things we didn't know about Gregg. Many interesting stories were told, especially by friends from his young adult/college days who arranged this memorial. It was apparent that he was well read, an independent thinker, not afraid to stand up to superiors in the Army or at the zoo. He was fearless and he was respected. He was a deep and complex man of many layers. Wish I had more time with him to peel back more layers, get more stories.
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