View allAll Photos Tagged monetization
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_4387
# 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: ©2011, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_3829
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
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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: ©2012, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6624
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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D4: Dark Dreams Dont Die -Season One PC Gameplay Trailer This is the story of a man with a very strange fate. His name is David Young – formerly with the Boston PD Narcotics Unit, now a private detective. He possesses the supernatural ability to “dive” into the world of the past by touching left-behind items called “mementos.” Two years ago, Young’s wife was killed by an unknown assailant, and Young suffered a blow to the head that cost him his memory. His wife’s final words: “Look for D.” D4: Dark Dreams Don’t Die - A new mystery adventure game from SWERY, the mind behind Deadly Premonition. This unsettling tale unfolds through a series of episodes as the hero pursues his wife’s murderer and dives into the past. Season One includes the Prologue, Episode 1, and Episode 2. Enter the crazy world of D4, meet its cast of quirky characters and watch as the gripping tale unfolds. Game Features An unpredictable story. Numerous weird and eccentric characters. A brand-new game experience, with immersive controls adapted to keyboard and mouse. Clues scattered about the world to help you find your mark. Use your special abilities to find hints and open the way forward when you’re stuck. Collect credits to buy clothing and beards. Dress David up however you like. DEMO DOWNLOAD d4-game.com/pc/index.html Title: D4: Dark Dreams Don’t Die -Season One- Genre: Adventure, Casual, Indie Developer: Access Games Publisher: AGM PLAYISM Release Date: 5 Jun, 2015 System Requirements MINIMUM: OS: Windows 7 64-bit edition or Windows 8 64-bit edition Processor: Intel Core 2 Quad Q9550 @ 2.83GHz or an equivalent AMD CPU Memory: 6 GB RAM Graphics: NVIDIA GeForce GTX 470 or AMD Radeon HD 6870 (VRAM 1GB) DirectX: Version 11 Hard Drive: 10 GB available space Sound Card: A DirectX 11 compatible card Additional Notes: Keyboard and mouse necessary. Compatible with XInput controllers such as the Xbox 360 controller. Display: 1280x720. RECOMMENDED: OS: Windows 7 64-bit edition or Windows 8 64-bit edition Processor: Intel Corei7 4770K @ 3.5GHz or an equivalent AMD CPU Memory: 8 GB RAM Graphics: NVIDIA GeForce GTX 670 or AMD Radeon HD 7850 (VRAM 2GB) DirectX: Version 11 Hard Drive: 20 GB available space Sound Card: A DirectX 11 compatible card Additional Notes: Keyboard and mouse necessary. Compatible with XInput controllers such as the Xbox 360 controller. Display: 1920x1080. Buy It Here: store.steampowered.com/app/358090/ 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
To make know your business by creating a blog to people who love what you post in other to gain audiences, and monetized your blog and also post useful content.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_7069
- 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
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6722
# 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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Facebook: fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5197
- 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
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5644
# 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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Tea room "Juan"
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5663
# 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: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4759-Bearbeitet
# 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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This picture is part of my "Best of Japan"-album, check it out here: flic.kr/s/aHsjBHeaBb
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Copyright: ©2012, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_7636
-----------------------------------------
-- 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
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5910
- 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
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Frontside and Entrance of the Workshop
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6891
# 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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Facebook: fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5333
- 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
On Facebook: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de - @Japan-Kyoto (linked)
Thank you for your understanding.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5767
# 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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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5810
# 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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Copyright: ©2014, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_3689
# 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: ©2012, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_0597
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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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5264
# 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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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4272
# 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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They don't like my photos.
Dedicated to my friends from Pixabay.
Die Monetarisierung von Pixabay: Amateurfotografen laden lizenzfreie Bilder hoch, vielleicht, um bekanntzuwerden oder überhaupt in den Stockfotomarkt hineinzukommen. Die Zensur wird von Fotografen, die schon länger Mitglied sind, selbst durchgeführt. Es gibt keinen Auswahlalgorithmus. Das kostenlose Stockfotoangebot soll Nutzer anlocken. Gleichzeitig werden Kunden, denen das absichtlich einfache und stereotype Angebot nicht ausreicht, auf bekannte Stockfotoportale aufmerksam gemacht und dorthin weitergeleitet. Pixabay erhält für jedes verkaufte Foto dann eine Provision als Vermittler.
www.alltageinesfotoproduzenten.de/2017/07/12/das-geschaef...
The monetization of Pixabay: Amateur photographers upload royalty-free images, perhaps to become known or to enter the stock photography market at all. Censorship is carried out by photographers who have been members for some time. There is no selection algorithm. The free stock photo offer is supposed to attract users. At the same time, customers for whom the intentionally simple and stereotypical offer is not enough are made aware of well-known stock photo portals and forwarded there. Pixabay then receives a commission as an agent for each photo sold.
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5173
- 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
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_5314
- 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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In general: ©Christian Kaden - www.Japan-Kyoto.de
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The Enbu Taikai is an event where the japanese martials arts Jodo, Iaido, Kobudo, Naginata and Kendo can present their respective schools and personal skills. The main part is the big Kendo tournament, divided into the shogo titles called Renshi, Kyoshi and Hanshi.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6639
# 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/fundain-subtempel-tofukuji-kyoto/
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_5069
-----------------------------------------
-- 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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The backstory: as a capstone to the redevelopment of Welfare Island, but outside of the UDC scheme, the city and state of New York pushed for the southern tip of the island to be redeveloped as a memorial park dedicated to Franklin Roosevelt. Louis Kahn was brought in to design, and his second scheme (1973) met with the approval of the project’s most powerful champions – Governor Nelson Rockefeller and Mayor John Lindsay. A year later, the scheme was totally adrift: Kahn was dead, Rockefeller had ascended to the Vice Presidency after Watergate, Lindsay had left office, and the city was beginning its slide towards the 1975 bankruptcy crisis. Nothing happened on-site. For many years afterwards, the project’s shepherds were Kahn associate Romaldo Giurgola and former UN Ambassador William vanden Heuvel. Improbably, in the mid-2000s, the project was re-started with a series of fundraising campaigns and exhibitions; seven years and some $54 million later, Kahn’s design was completed in 2012.
The statue of Roosevelt became a bust (presumably for cost reasons) and a few stairs became ramps to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act - kind of obvious in hindsight given Roosevelt's paralysis. But otherwise, this is a Louis Kahn design and should be evaluated as such. In keeping with his poetic, quasi-Functionalist manner, Kahn broke the project down into two basic features: there’s the Garden and there’s the Room: one a broad green triangle framed with funereal trees, the other a tight square enclosed by enormous granite prisms (sized based on 1970s crane-loading limits) framing the city and the river. In addition to the bust and the carved recap of the “Four Freedoms” speech, allusions to Roosevelt include the riverfront site and the “ship’s prow” composition (Roosevelt was once the Secretary of the Navy), and the oblique view across to the headquarters of the United Nations (Roosevelt’s brainchild – and another Rockefeller pet project). As has been observed, Kahn’s own admiration of Roosevelt, whose New Deal housing programs kept Kahn employed during the Depression, may explain the shift here towards fairly literal symbolism versus Kahn’s usual reaches for abstractly monumental “timelessness.” Note that to reach the park one must pass the ruins of the Smallpox Hospital - a reminder of the incompleteness of government efforts to promote the general welfare before the New Deal.
With this in mind, it's interesting that the scheme bears at least a passing resemblence to Kahn's forgotten 1932 memorial to Lenin, as Michael J. Lewis points out. It may be that Kahn spent forty years waiting for a chance to stick a triangle in some water and terminate it with a Platonic figure. Alternately, perhaps he found some connection, at an emotional level, between the two figures being memorialized. Before the show trials, before the Hitler-Stalin pact, and indeed before the election of Roosevelt, it was not so uncommon for American progressives to express admiration for the Soviet system and its (purported) achievements in equality alongside nominal industrial growth in the Five-Year Plans. In the depths of the Depression, Communism perhaps represented hope of a return to sanity in the same way that the New Deal later would. Kahn may well have begun his design trying to remember how Roosevelt made him feel during his darkest professional hour.
More generally, the park develops on Roosevelt Island’s fundamental near-but-distant theme. It’s just far enough back from the city to turn the traffic and the bustle into a silent tableau of buildings against the river and sky, and Kahn’s design goes for silence above all else. The vast blankness of much of its square footage, especially the angled granite flanks of the “garden,” is a declaration against fussiness, against usefulness. The gaps between the granite blocks not only permit one to realize they are, indeed, solid blocks. They also give distorted, shimmering glimpses of the commercial forces that have been banished from this cenotaph: industrial production in Long Island City, commercial manipulation in Midtown. (Hilariously, the view dead ahead is of the unabashedly Kahnian Waterside Plaza, well underway when the park was designed.)
The severity of the park so clearly refuses monetization that even the few sops towards practical park operation (electric outlets, “don’t walk here” cordons, generic ground lights) stick out like sore thumbs. The park is designed to receive fifty million dollars into itself and never give it back, and by holding capital in suspension it gives the visitors a chance to exist without it – or, at least, to imagine that they do. Another Communist fantasy? Or just the chance of some damned peace and quiet, enhanced by the gentle approach through South Point Park and past the scenic ruin of the Smallpox Hospital? It’s often observed that New Yorkers love their city so much that their favorite places in the city are the ones that make you feel like you’ve completely escaped it; Kahn’s park belongs in this paradoxical canon. Not incidentally, this attempt to throw away both money and the prospect of making more has much in common with the United Nations building itself, if my reading is correct. Kahn's use of white stone here invites the comparison in any case.
Of course, all this comes at the expense of other things. If Kahn began by asking things what they wanted to be, here he seems to have been chatting with a mausoleum and not a park. As a funereal monument, it's excellent. As a “park” on an unmistakably spectacular site, the design seems to fail for the exact reasons it succeeds as a memorial. There’s nothing to do but think deep thoughts and maybe have a picnic. In particular there’s no way to get to the water, which is a cardinal sin in today’s landscape architectural discourse. There might have been some way to activate the flanking paths without robbing the park of its silence; perhaps some kind of stepped seating could have been integrated into the great retaining walls, angled in some way as to hide it from the northern approach, but still allow a good spot from which to view the city (or clamber down to the riprap at water’s edge). Could this have been done without undermining the very silence and decency Kahn was shooting for?
To be fair to Kahn, the Clean Water Act had only been passed the year before this design was completed, and the idea of “getting in touch with the river” would probably have seemed absurd. Today, an enthusiastic team works to develop a swimming pool that will float suspended in the river not far away (see Kickstarter to get your name on a pool tile, should it be built). But in the Seventies, the site of the Kahn memorial was splashed by a kitschy “geyser” that raised ire from East Siders convinced it was fumigating their neighborhood with aerosolized sewage. (In the Eighties, the water also killed off a grove of trees recently planted on the site by island beautification organizers, but this was due simply to erosion.) To retrofit the Kahn design reflecting today’s realities and landscape ambitions would be anachronistic.
One might then ask, as seier did a few months ago, why we should feel ruled by the master’s design at all? Why not have a new competition for a design that addresses the contemporary conditions of the island and the city? If one sets aside the hero-worship arguments (Kahn was great, he has very few buildings, etc.), it has to come down either to the quality of the design – which is very good though not sacrosanct – or the money. Inevitably, what enables this anti-commercial temple is the aforementioned fifty million bucks, and that kind of donation money is not going to manifest itself without a good hook. “Unfinished masterpiece” has a nice ring to it and I suspect this was more important in getting the building completed than the appeal of any particular design features. In a way, one wishes the project had been less completely designed at the time of Kahn’s death; it would have offered an opportunity for its stewards to constructively challenge the design, as José Oubrerie did with Corbusier at Firminy.
Ultimately, though, I’m pleased with this result. Roosevelt Island has plenty of parks, playgrounds, and gardens. It can afford one temple.
A footnote: Kahn’s design bears a slightly more than superficial resemblance to a 1970 proposal by the Classical architect John Barrington Bayley to construct a “Museum of Man” on the same site. According to Bayley, this was in response to a Met competition, but I haven’t yet been able to track that down. The Bayley project has a similar terminal square courtyard or plaza, reached through a Classical temple (rather than a ‘garden’) scrunched into the ship’s prow triangle. Kahn’s project could almost be imagined as the “ruined” version of the Bayley scheme, which would be a fun way to design something. I bring this up not because I think it really changes anything about the Kahn scheme, but because it seems to have gone oddly under-reported in the coverage.
Also, you'll note that the photos here jump around quite a bit in season and time of day. I've made five or six visits to the site since the park opened in October, each time apparently getting not quite the complete set of images. Frankly, I think the wintry evening images "get" the park better than the others; at the same time, the place is beautiful and extremely pleasant on a summer afternoon, with river breezes blowing past and the trees kissed with golden light.
And...that's it for Roosevelt Island! Thanks for reading along. If you missed any of it, the overview post is back here. Eventually I hope to reformat all of this for an offsite illustrated blog post, possibly with drawings, etc. For now I'm ready to move on to some other things I've been saving up...
Around 150 years old Matcha Chawan.
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NEW YORK, NY - SEPTEMBER 27: Jim Horton, Rob Wilk, Tim Castelli, Josh Richmond, Jed Hartman and Julia Boorstin appear onstage during CNBC Masters of Monetization panel at Thomson Reuters during 2016 Advertising Week New York on September 27, 2016 in New York City. (Photo by Robin Marchant/Getty Images for Advertising Week New York)
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A chashaku (Matcha tea scoop) named yama-gumo (mountain cloud)
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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!
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!
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'S ALL ABOUT TRUST
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International wedding at Matuso Taisha Shrine, April 30th 2016.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4434
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_4265
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Copyright: ©2015, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
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- About sharing ------------------
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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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Thank you for your understanding.
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- Best Hip hop & Trap Workout Music Mix 2020 🔥 Rap And Future Bass Remix 2020 🔥 Gym Motivation Music 2020 🔥 EDM Workout Motivation Mix 2020 🔥 Female Fitness Motivation #.
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Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
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-----------------------------------------
-- 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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Facebook: fb.me/Japan.Kyoto.de
Copyright: ©2016, Christian Kaden
Licence: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0
ID: IMG_6750
# 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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