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Overoften IS MOVING
I lost enthusiasm towards the end of last year for continuing the site as it is, and I've just about reached the extent of
what I have the time and inclination to do with Notepad and raw HTML. When I started, it was as an exercise in
learning the basics of HTML and design, sorting my thoughts, keeping myself from being idle when I had lots of free time.
It achieved all those things. What I want to do now is to achieve something simpler, more interactive, and not so one-way.
The site will continue much as it is, but with quite a different look, and at a new address. So come over to
the new place
(which will be in a state of constant refurbishment for a while at least), and say hello.
The life of airports
Aside from the Orwellian nightmare that the Japanese government's fingerprinting of all foreign arrivals represents, there
is of course also the practicality of administering the scheme. There were murmurings of hours-long queues at Narita and
staff not au fait with the equipment. With this in mind, you might think I was dreading the encounter with Immigration, but
the truth is a 12-hour flight in a tumble dryer leaves you not fearing much of anything.
In fact the place was deserted. There were 3 immigration officers waiting just for the likes of me, with nothing to do.
Each of them beckoned me to approach, implored even, eager to break the boredom of an almost empty arrival hall. And after
no more than 2 minutes, not even enough time for, say, a decent guitar solo, I was fingerprinted, photographed and sent on
my way (into the country, that is).
And because those in charge had the foresight to build Narita safely tucked away from all modern convenience, there followed
that hour-long train ride to civilisation (standing room only, of course). Suffice it to say, New Year's Eve it may have
been, but 2008 came and 2007 went with us staring numbly at a hotel room TV, and then sinking into what I was hoping would
be a deep and lasting sleep.
On New Year's Day we made our way through a deserted city to Haneda, for the flight home. We got our first excited glimpses
of the snowcapped Mount Fuji from the train, catching snatched glances between buildings as we sped through the city. One
of the advantages of jet-lag is that getting up at 4.30 in the morning gives you some leisure time. Haneda airport has a
super viewing gallery, which afforded a clear (not to mention stable) view of the famous volcano. We spent quite a while up
on the roof, a welcome sun-trap on an otherwise cold January morning.
Haneda airport is in fact a nice place in general. Nothing's too far away. The shops are small, and the staff don't
assault you with offers of 'assistance'.
And the toilets...
Any public building should be judged by its toilets, and Haneda's offers levels of comfort that even Starbucks doesn't.
Haneda doesn't have toilets, it has rest rooms. Not in the American sense of a twee euphemism to hide the torturous
embarrassment of having to utter the word 'toilet'. No, these sparkling marble rooms allow you to go and have a... rest.
For a start, they smelled of cinnamon, and thus, of Christmas. Good start, eh. And when/if one sits down, the toilet
automatically plays the sound of running water over a speaker system, in order to cover your sensitivity should any of your
emanations be a touch orchestral. And this is the gents. What accoutrements might be on offer to protect a lady's public
dignity, we never found out, but I suspect they carry explicit warnings of extreme comfort. And of course, to round off your
rest, the toilet detects when you've alighted and flushes itself with no need on your part to touch anything soiled by the
hands of a thousand others of perhaps questionable hygiene. In case the auto-flush doesn't materialise, there is of course
an infra red panel that you can wave at to let the machinery know it can get on with it. I left with a half-smile on my
face, and with an hour to go until our flight was due to be called, a determination to pay another visit.
Having survived a 12-hour rollercoaster ride the day before, a mere 2-hour flight should've been a breeze. Or rather a
howling gale. Even the slightest hint of turbulence sends my fevered imagination to the very depths that it can plumb. My
mind flashes up every plane crash picture I've ever seen, every sombrely-delivered news headline I've ever heard. As the
cabin shook, I recalled that our hotel room last night was number 404 (error!), and that the flight left from gate 13.
Everything is suddenly a meaningful sign.
The approach to Kumamoto airport takes you over the mountains of Aso and Kuju. As we began our descent, we entered the thick
snow clouds and the plane started to rattle and shake. The wings actually began to flap as my mind helpfully made me
ponder the required force to break an aircraft's wing clean off. I don't like flying through clouds, mainly because of
their liking for hanging around mountaintops. I awaited oblivion.
What the English do on Boxing Day
And that may or may not be true of the Hartley Morris Men who did the same outside the Rose and Crown in Wrotham, providing
us with a bit of post-Christmas entertainment.
Whilst I've never actually seen Morris dancing in person, I have often wondered what sort of fellows are involved. Odd coves,
I've always assumed. And it seems I wasn't far off.
But it felt good 'n English. I came away feeling I'd had a good dose of medicinal culture. Or cultural medicine, whichever.
I certainly knew I wasn't in Japan any more.
Monsieur et Madame Overoften en vacances de Noël
Being able to engage the natives in their own language is of course a huge aid to communication. But not navigation. For the
natives of the north-eastern corner of France are a playful lot, and have replaced all place-names with random strings of
letters, giving rise to indecipherable and unpronouncable gems like Zudausques, Muncq-Nieurlet, Audruicq, and Zouafques.
Ah, those crazy Almost-Belgians.
Nestling in the middle of this linguistic minefield is Tilques, and its
picturesque chateau, where we were to stay.
Northern France, a week before Christmas was cold. Frost lay everywhere as thick as snow, unmelted even by mid afternoon.
The following morning the car reckoned it was -4. And a thick fog engulfed everything while the sun tried to break through.
The trip was defined by its gastronomic moments. The moment I saw oysters on the chateau's dinner, I knew they were for me.
And what monsters they were. And the desserts were worthy of an art gallery.
Lunch the following day was in Mont Hubert, at
Le Thomé de Gamond,
a restaurant affording panoramic views. I can't describe the views, alas, as the stubborn fog still hadn't lifted. But it
all added to the wintry, pre-Christmas feel. I stopped reading the menu there when I got as far as "indecent quantity of
mussels". It was, and I enjoyed them very much.
Another highlight was the very "French waiter" French waiter. In England he would have been cited as an example of the
falling standards of customer service. In France, however, he's probably lauded as the perfect embodiment of national
aloofness. Despite the restaurant only being peopled by a handful of diners and two goldfish, he was unimpressed by our lack
of booking, but wandered off, without actually inviting us to follow, to an empty table nonetheless.
When it came to serving cheese, he really came into his own. He desultorily shoved the cheese trolley in the direction of
our table, stopping it just short of a spectacular and messy crash.
(translated from the original French)
FW: So what do you want?
Mum: What's the name of...
FW: Which one?
Mum: Well, all of them.
Showing all signs of being tired and irritated, he let out an audible sigh and proceeded to reel off a succession of long,
rapidly-spoken, and of course entirely made-up words while slapping each cheese in turn with the blade of a knife
FW: This one's (*slap*) Poftuique de Ghefreauq, this one's (*slap*) Grosdruife en Tuidhaoecque, this one's (*slap*) Petit
Suecq de Waflinghem, and this one's (*SLAP*) Camembert.
He then proceeded to serve the cheese according to the Chop 'n Chuck method, and we continued with our meal, while he
retired to a corner of the restaurant from where he could ignore us. Bless him, he was a legend and I would hurry back to
be served by him in a gourmand's erratic heartbeat.
A room with a view
But following a friend's advice, Mrs C and I found ourselves in a lift, heading for the top of Tokyo Tochou (the
Metropolitan Government Building) in Shinjuku. Being a bumpkin with vertigo, I don't often venture into buildings much
higher than 10 floors, but here I was in a viewing gallery on the dizzying 45th floor. And that affords quite a view.
In every direction.
Back in the saddle again
But lots has happened since then. So let's get on with it.
Of course we've spent the last fortnight in England, enjoying Christmas the way it's supposed to be. And that trip began with
our first ever trip to Tokyo...
Back to November (there was no December)?