A Connection is Made.

A Grand Time.

Tokyo, Japan —Touching down at Haneda Airport, I rub my hands anxiously at the prospect of having only two hours between connecting flights.
 
The hands of time spin, too.

Kelin had graciously offered to guide me by train to terminal three for the long journey home, but we have our wires crossed and he's nowhere to be found. With the recent state of the world's airports – long lines, constant delays, mounting frustrations, backlogs and cancelled flights – I choose instead to say a quick goodbye to the team and hustle off to catch the bus on my own.

Slower, sure, but easier to navigate at this point, particularly after last night’s wrap-up celebrations at Nagi – featuring more than a dozen Okinawan dishes, including SPAM sushi, and bottomless drinks – followed by somehow making it to the 3 a.m. last call at the Grand Line.
 
I needn’t have worried: the efficiency of Japan’s airports is something to behold.
 
Nineteen minutes later, I’ve arrived at the terminal, scanned my passport, cleared security, waved a couple papers at indifferent officials who barely looked up from their conversation and arrived at my gate.
 
Fifteen minutes of that time was the bus ride.

Interlude.

history sighs – along the beach, okinawa, japan

Heavy guns grunt
a still-living oral history
over the waves
and over the graves.

Power is unforgotten
amidst mountains
with shoulders stooped
in a culture
that does not forgive
failure.

Today, the guns still thunder
like a belch at the dinner table.

2022.10.21

it is written – okinawa, japan

History is written in the waves:
muffled letters scattered
in the ripples.

The hands have continued
to turn,
scooping up less
with each year.

But history is written
in the waves.

2022.10.20

No Words.

Breath, exhaled with each ripple.

Fuji, in a Gasp of Breath.

Orderly, in quieter times.

Tokyo, Japan — The train’s windows serve as frames of film on fast forward as we take in our final showing of Tokyo.

Jerking around a corner, we look up.

In a blink, Mount Fuji rises majestically between buildings. And then, is gone.

It’s rush hour and we’re crammed into the busiest cars we’ve seen all week. It doesn’t help that we’re on our way to Haneda Airport and have our bags with us. 

Up next: Okinawa.

I’m wedged between men in dark suits and a pole, attempting to be Pélé while corralling the suit bag at my feet. This morning, it’s far easier to imagine how seven million passengers trace these rails every day.

The city is so big it must be the only way.

Tomorrow, there will be snow.

The train lines are a marvel once you become more comfortable with them. But they’re not without their quirks and problems. It’s not uncommon, for example, to see women-only cars during rush hour given a history of wandering hands.

My favourite, though, is if a train is even the slightest bit late, station staff bow to passengers in apology and hand out train delay certificates to take to your boss or teacher. 

Punctuality is serious business. Even a train that left 20 seconds early received an official apology.

Now, for a change of pace: Okinawa only has 1.5 million residents.

Wide-Eyed.

More red light than we're comfortable with.

Tokyo, Japan – Anime eyes with pastel outlines stare down from outsized billboards.

Rings, dings and heavy drumbeats rise from basement arcades housing cartoonish stuffed animals in glass cases. Electronic claws dangle ominously overhead.

We’ve come expecting ornate swirls of neon set against the darkness, but the streets of Akihabara Electric Town are desolate. 

Loose papers cartwheel like modern-day tumbleweeds.

Sidewalks of the shopping district known for anime, manga, video games and electronics are instead lined by young women in short skirts and sailor outfits. Apparently, the area is also known for its maid cafés and hostess clubs.

While most of it is apparently innocent cosplay, it doesn’t take us long to see the Lolita fashion as an irreconcilable difference in culture.

For our group of middle-aged men, it’s Game Over.

Unfollowed.

Tokyo, Japan — We were treated to a generous, yet extremely rushed visit to the Miraikan National Museum of Emerging Science and Innovation this morning.

I was particularly struck by the Mission Survival: 10 billion exhibit, which includes a massive shake table that launches marbles of various sizes into the city to demonstrate the vast impact of various threats to our survival. Even with the doom and gloom, it's science communication at its finest.

This, however, will forever haunt my dreams.

I'm Not Lion.

History lesson in a time capsule. With beer.

Tokyo, Japan — An elderly Japanese man staggers to the table, poking around our bench. He has obviously poured himself into his stein.

And now, his wallet is nowhere to be found.

The din of Ginza Lion Beer Hall is both aural and visual: green-tiled columns rise like fists set against red brick walls, framing a large glass tile mural of women harvesting barley. Stoic fountains stand sentry on the bar beneath bright fall leaves that have been windswept by laughter.

Frosted glass bulbs fall from the ceiling like bubbles.

Wooden chairs crunch against the floor as new groups of revellers order plates of pretzels and thin sausages to sop up the hefty glasses of straw- and peat-coloured lagers. A nearby table of men is far more animated than anyone I’ve seen in the city so far.

Revving up for a night in Ginza.

German beer hall kitsch to attract foreigners, maybe?

It turns out Ginza Lion Beer Hall is, in fact, the real deal. One of the few buildings to survive the bombings of WWII, it’s the country's oldest beer hall and has been slinging beer in trendy, upscale Ginza since 1934. It has also recently been designated as a Registered Tangible Cultural Property of Japan.

It's staggering how little it has changed since it first opened.

Having spent two-and-a-half hours commuting to and from the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan today, I hadn’t planned to go back out tonight. But good company, history and beer made the decision a wise one. So much for my edict to only eat Japanese food while I’m here.

Then again, this is obviously enough of an institution that it’s close enough.

In a Jam.

Tokyo, Japan — With a satisfying ‘snap,’ success.

Japan is renowned for simple and functional design. I’m loving these small marmalade packages, which allow you to trace a perfect bead over sweet croissants once you fold them in half.

Particularly useful given the lack of knives.

King Tsutaramen.

Suica card charge, charge, recharge.

Tokyo, Japan – The coloured lines of the subway system fall before me like pick-up sticks.

 

It’s a dizzying blur of people, pastry shops and options.

 

Each of the seven major private railway companies in Tokyo is assigned a colour and a two-letter code. When the lines continue seamlessly like a rainbow, the code can be relatively easy to decipher.  

When they don’t, you might find yourself walking several blocks to a competitor’s station of the same name. Or, in my case, to the wrong competitor’s station of the same name in the completely opposite direction. 

There are so many destinations wrapped up in these bright ribbons that flow through the city like the neon signs hanging over the streets above. In Shinagawa Station, I, for the longest time, find only platforms (there are 20), and neither of the two exits. 

Sometimes it’s easy to understand why I walk. 

For Pete's sake.

And walk I did: first to Meiji Shrine and nearly up to Shinjuku City for ramen at Tsuta Ramen, the first Michelin-starred ramen restaurant (first earned in 2015 but lost in 2020). At approximately $15, I figure it's worth the walk for my first ramen and first Michelin-starred restaurant. 

I arrive to a white steel shutter, fallen to the ground like a long metal gown. The internet says it’s open, but the gate giving me the cold shoulder says otherwise. 

I can’t read the sign taped to it, but imagine it says they've sold out for the day.

Back to Harajuku station to pick up more colours for my ride home.

Towering.

Sky, tree.

Tokyo, Japan – The sun finally breaks through the knotty black pines as we make our way past Tokyo Tower and through the grounds of the Imperial Palace. 

Following an overcast morning, I figure this might be my best chance to see Mount Fuji, so I turn my map to Tokyo Skytree, the world’s tallest tower, at 634 metres. 

It’s a 40-minute train ride away, which should really give me an idea of how large this city is. To this point, I’ve been more surprised by how incredibly clean and quiet everything is than by the size or the pace.

It’s disorienting: I still haven’t heard a single siren, street racer or car horn – not even anyone yelling. It’s hard to imagine more than 14 million people live here. Or, incredibly, that a population nearly equal to Canada's 38 million can be found in the Tokyo Metro area.

Lego, scattered across the floor.

That is, until you climb Tokyo Skytree. 

The illusion evaporates into miles of city stretching into the clouds in all directions. It's as though endless Lego bricks are stacked onto each other, scarred by a gauzy web of roads, neon and the Arakawa River. 

But Fuji-San is bashful today, cloaked in a mist of mystique, fog and distance.

Dusk begins its slow descent and the city transforms again. I’m lost in the mess of train lines and stations and opt to abandon the final rails home out of frustration, choosing instead to walk the final hour home.

But I’ve certainly not cheated myself on my first day: 22 kilometres by foot and twice that by train. 

Take that, jetlag.

Sashimi and You.

How it started.

Tokyo, Japan – A hand-painted menu is placed on our table like a piece of art we cannot understand.

A carafe of green tea follows.

While the flourish of black kanji holds the solution to our hunger, Google Translate can only give us “sea bream.” 

We shrug and point, our server similarly unsure of what we’re trying to order. But he’s eager to please. 

Having wrapped up my morning visiting Harajuku and seeing the cosplay and fashion kids lined up outside pastel-coloured crepe shops, I’ve come downtown to meet colleagues from London for the first time. 

How it's going.

Naturally, I’ve travelled around the world to have lunch with people who work across the street. 

Being open to eating anything is helpful, but we audibly sigh as elegant bowls of miso soup and of rice, topped with fresh sashimi, arrive at our table. Delicate threads of nori are perched on top like tail feathers.

It is, unsurprisingly, delicious – in a way you don’t need language to describe.

Scrambled Legs.

Why did 3,000 people cross the road?

Tokyo, Japan – The city’s sidewalks unfurl before me like the rolls of paper I hope to fill with my memories. 

Here, they’re endless and orderly, even if my thoughts aren’t after 28 hours of travel.

Having arrived last night, curiosity and limited time to explore the city now carry me into the residential and business areas that have traditionally allowed me to disappear and to stand out alike. 

At my height, staying hidden may be more of a challenge in Japan. 

As people pass, they say sweet-sounding things into air that smells suspiciously of gummi bears. I’m not able to place the source, but Katsura trees are known to emit a scent of cotton candy or burnt sugar in the fall. 

Gotta catch 'em all.

I nod and smile behind my mask, unknowing. Japan only opened its borders two days ago and masks are still worn everywhere.

From Ōimachi, I wind through Shinagawa City and up to the famous Shibuya Crossing, which, as the world’s busiest intersection, peaks at 3,000 people streaming across it each minute. It’s Saturday morning and less busy today as I fall into step, criss-crossing the scramble several times just for the fun of it.

As the walk signal fades, the streets clear, a couple final stragglers sprinting like black birds separated from the flock.

Orderly, but with outliers.

Oh, Bey.

No words.

Bintan, Indonesia — Fan palms live up to their destiny.

Hanging magnolia turn cheek in the breeze.

We’ve arrived for a night at Lagoi Bay Villas and the large, private residence is eye-opening in an “I cannot believe this is ours” sort of way. I can feel my shoulders relax from the moment the wooden doors creaks open.

That just doesn’t happen.

It’s the perfect blend of indoor-outdoor living with a large, covered living room and bathroom, but with the comfort of air conditioning in the bedroom. Tropical flowers scent the outdoor shower.

It’s the private pool, however, that shimmers in the heat with a come-hither finger. The lazy humidity has rubbed off on me and it takes no time to indulge with a smooth ripple.

And not get out for hours.

A bald eagle floats overhead as a monkey tucks itself quietly into a tree. Anoles zig and zag across the wall like lightweight bolts.

Even the nearby sea can't seduce us.

The pfft of a cold beer opening.

Bliss.

Venti Selfie, Extra Foam.

We've addressed this.

Singapore — Today, we have woven new into old.

This morning, we set out down Arab Street, stepping into colourful fabrics and stained glass lamps that wink in panels of red, yellow and blue. The narrow streets nearby carry us into a pocket of hostels and the cheap tackiness that tends to accompany them.

Brightly painted Mexican murals, it turns out, attract selfie hunters. So much for seeing Singapore.

One one side of the street, a shop prints these selfies onto your coffee — no, really. The thought makes my eyes roll, but everyone needs to make a living and the joy of travelling so often involves taking the good with the bad. At least they know their market.

Allah t'a History.

Prayers from the golden-domed Masjid Sultan, built in 1824, soon thunder down the alley, calling my ears to the area’s true majesty. The base of each of the national monument’s domes is decorated by glass bottle ends donated by lower-income Muslims. Everyone’s ability to contribute to the mosque’s construction has helped foster a community.

Our next steps take us back to yet another era as we perch ourselves at the end of a dark, wooden bar. Punkah wallah fans sashay their hips from the ceiling over a staircase that corkscrews at the centre.

Slinging.

Raffles Hotel, in all its colonial glory.

A vintage drink shaker is kept busy as orders flow for the iconic Singapore Sling, invented here. As a writer, I give a nod to Rudyard Kipling instead, ordering the golden milk punch, which was conceived of for the author and topped by a tuft of saffron. As is tradition, we toss peanut shells onto the floor while we wait for the abysmally bad service.

It beats the cockroaches that would be beneath our feet in the hawker centres.

Looking around the room, I can’t help but realize it’s colonialism cum Disneyland.

But we have a great time anyway.

Back to the future, we take in the laser and light show at the Marina Bay Sands, perching ourselves beneath the Merlion’s spit. Lines are drawn across the sky twice-nightly to muffled sounds, crowds with tripods waiting for the Earth to move.

While a fine evening out, it doesn't.

East Eats.

A cut above.

Singapore — In our quest to eat our way through the country, we began the day by taking the four-kilometre walk to the iconic Old Airport Road Food Centre.

Except, we didn’t.

Not initially, anyway. We found a smaller one upon turning the corner, believing it to be our destination. It was Old Airport Road, after all.

Just not 51 Old Airport Road.

It's no wonder the first location was so quiet, in relative terms. Perhaps we were just a little keen. The opportunity to explore Singapore's hawker culture —plate-by-plate — has been my primary reason for visiting, and I've been keen to compare it to my food experiences in Malaysia.

After a little more walking (and a small meal, naturally), however, we find what we're looking for. Built in 1972, and boasting more than 150 vendors, Old Airport Road was recently named Singapore’s best hawker centre.

Lineups for each of its two Michelin Bib Gourmand-awarded (meals under $32) stalls snake between tables and halfway around the building. People are patient and orderly. And yet, there's a non-stop chaos of talk, soup slurping, order calls, bowl stacking and wok clanging.

Colourful chopsticks dance into dishes.

Worth the wait.

I tuck into the line for Lao Fu Zi Fried Kway Teow, which has occupied a spot in the building since 1973. I've ordered the black version, which includes sweet, dark soy sauce. Each stall has its specialty, and kway teow, done two ways, is theirs.

Tan Lee Seng dances with the heat, scooping bits of broth and other ingredients into the large sizzling wok with the flourish of an artist. He makes every order individually.

At $5, it's considered expensive for hawker food, but it's worth it.

Garlic, chillies, Chinese sausage. I’m greeted by little bursts of the sea as clams explode in my mouth, alongside shrimp, crunchy dried fish and two kinds of noodle. Despite vendors’ constant questions about our ability to handle heat, it’s only mildly spicy.

Clean-up crews sort and wash dishes, before returning them to the appropriate vendor for yet another round. Got to keep the lines moving. I love hawker culture.

Sitting for a craft beer with a couple locals, we find we’re lucky: as of Monday, the centre will be closed for five days for a deep cleaning.

My tastebuds are grateful.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Robot Overlords.

Forest of the future.

Singapore — In a garden of glass, a garden.

We have spent the afternoon wandering down to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel — with its ship for a hat — and into the adjacent Gardens by the Bay, from which sprout futuristic-looking Supertrees.

The 50-metre-high solar-powered structures function as vertical gardens, collecting rainwater and venting air. More than 158,000 plants contribute to a living painting on the surfaces of the 18 Supertrees found throughout the park.

At first glance, though, it looks like we've been invaded by giant, wine glass-shaped robots.

That could have its advantages.

Behind them, giant glass beans arc from the gardens. One hosts the Flower Dome — the world's largest glass greenhouse — and its ever-changing horticultural displays from around the world. It's a garden in a bottle.

I'm half expecting a bungee jumper.

The other is home to the Cloud Forest, which replicates cool, moist conditions found in tropical mountain regions. It claims to have the world's tallest indoor waterfall.

But, as of a couple months ago, it's no longer even the tallest in this tiny country. That distinction goes to the newly constructed, 130-foot-tall Rain Vortex at Changi Airport.

Which doesn't mean it's any less impressive. A mane of tropical plants and flowers punctuate the 35-metre mountain set at the facility's apex. The climate offers respite from the swelling heat being kept at bay beyond the building's dizzying array of angles.

I can't help but think I'm stepping into the plant zoo of the future — one that harbours the last remaining species not yet lost to climate change or habitat destruction. Despite the facilities' efforts to increase awareness of sustainability, it strikes me as an apt metaphor. The irony is not lost on me that these gardens are indoors.

Alas, as we wind through each of the facilities, people, one by one, take time not to smell the roses, but to arrange them as backdrops for Instagram selfies.

My imagined dystopia may not be far off.

Sari, Not Sari.

Sri Krishnan Temple.

Singapore — Singapore’s India Town is fragrant and alive.

Stopping at Komala Villas for rava dosa and masala tea, we’re chatted up by a curious tablemate. He wonders how we found the place, which seems to be a popular breakfast spot for locals.

It's also one of Singapore's oldest vegetarian restaurants.

Casting a bushy eyebrow, he worries the food will be too spicy for us. Instead, there's just tremendous flavour. Like everyone who has spoken to us the past couple days, he asks if there are many Indians in Canada.

The friendliness here — and the willingness to engage — is far more immediately evident than it was in Hong Kong.

Freshly picked garland.

While still running at half speed, the Tekka Centre is much busier today, ringed by tailors marking lines in chalk as sewing machine whirrs dissolve into the cacaphony of butchers and fishmongers breaking down the day's product on solid wood blocks.

Still, the colour of saris swirls into fruit stands and freshly cut rings of flowers. A rainbow of drinks sits on blocks of ice, rising in small, swirling clouds in the mild heat.

It's like the start of a rock show.

But with better aromas.

Yesses and Nose.

Add hawk.

Singapore — My nose is on a journey.

The garlic, the incense, the curry. Cardamom, charcoal and fry oil. Fresh fish. The sweat. India Town’s flowers. It’s a strong argument for the invention of olfactory photographs as nothing else can do this justice.

In the neighborhood, colours burst from buildings like ripe fruit. Ripe fruit bursts with flavour.

In the Tekka Centre, fans oscillate over the market and hawker stalls as a pigeon pecks at our feet. A vendor weaves between orange tables, offering to sell us beverages.

It’s a community of religions and backgrounds breaking bread and it’s individuals serving their hunger, sitting alone, eating curries with their hands. Crushed beer cans stand unevenly at the centre of tables, huddled beside crooked cigarette stubs. It’s also men catching up.

More than half the shops are closed and still, the clanging of woks, the heat of the tandoor, the boisterous laughter.

The aromas.

This is amazing.

Lights, Camera, Action.

Alighting for an evening.

Central, Hong Kong — Birds fly across the International Commerce Building — once the fourth-tallest building in the world — as laser beams and search lights streak across the sky.

Their feathers are built of blinking offices.

The Symphony of Lights takes place across the Hong Kong Harbour every night for 10 minutes at 8 p.m. and draws quite a crowd. You can even listen to accompanying music performed by the Hong Kong Philharmonic Orchestra through an app — if you can hear it over the revellers on the party boat.

Or the amplified singers down at the pier.

Buildings on both side flash like strobes, celebrating the city. Choreographed images light up otherwise boring office windows. Neon signs blink in unison.

There are worse ways to spend an evening than with a box of takeaway dumplings — pork, and kimchi — and a beer, sitting on the pier.

Nearby, a model preens to her own portable lights as five photographers take their best shots. A bride and groom stride down the pier to capture their own memories.

The hearts cascading across the tower across the bay, it seems, are appropriate.

Macau, It’s Hot Out.

I suddenly feel like having sherbet.

Macau — Green molars rise from the water as we cross the South China Sea to Macau.
The sun is already a flamethrower.

I’ve taken an impromptu journey aboard a Turbojet hydrofoil with a colleague’s spouse — it’s like we’re collecting Chinese Special Administrative Regions. (Now, with fewer human rights violations!)

Upon reaching the island, we’re greeted by brightly painted concrete buildings in teal, yellow and a mosaic of ice cream flavours.

White marble scattered outside the mint green St. Michael’s Chapel is ornately carved into angels (“angles,” as we see a couple signs say), crosses and the Virgin Mary. The cemetery also boasts a bust with an epically robust moustache.

It's all a façade.

From the ruins of St. Paul — the former ‘Vatican of the East’ — and its massive facade, which looms over the centre of the city, to the colourful Senado Square, the island’s Portuguese heritage is obvious in much of its architecture, particularly in the UNESCO-recognized historic centre.

The colours are vivid, as is the history.

Vendors hawk jerky, laid out in sheets and cut into strips. Bakeries perfume the air, packaging endless bags of flaky egg tarts.

Setting itself up as a dystopian counterpoint, every third shop once we leave the historic centre is a Nike Store. Something about the frequency, paired with the plastic-wrapped shoes, gives me a sneaking suspicion they’re not legitimate. Or, the Macanese really, really like their sneakers.

At least their colours match the buildings.