Bucking the Stars: New York and around, Christmas 2011

Preliminaries

This page isn’t quite finished, but it seemed close enough to put it up, even though it is a bit rough around the edges.

Friday, 16 December 2011

My last day at work, and isn’t it always the way? The pressure comes off ... and you get sick.

I ate the chocs and put the book into my travel bag. Thank you everyone; it has been a privilege working with you.

Saturday, 17 December 2011

Alas, I was feeling too crook to appreciate the civilised 1130 departure time. Usually, all of our trips seem to require that we tumble out of bed at about 0300, in order to get to the airport four hours before a 0900 takeoff (there’s no special reason for this; it’s just the way it normally works out) so the relatively late departure on this occasion should have been luxurious. But between the headache and the snot, I was oblivious to it.

All the connections went smoothly, and US immigration at LAX was actually the quickest and most efficiently organised in my experience – including the many trips I’d made pre-9/11. It wasn’t all good, though. At LAX we transferred from Qantas to its code-share partner, American Airlines. And there is no food on AA; not even a crummy biscuit! Even the irremediably shitty Air New Zealand gives you a crummy biscuit. Even Air China gives you a freeze-dried squid or something equally ghastly to poke at in the air between Beijing and Shanghai. Even ... Ok; I won’t go on.

But I have to record one other AA peculiarity which left me speechless: they board their planes starting from the front seats! This procedure certainly scoops the pool for sheer stupidity in my experience; it absolutely guarantees the maximum jostling, sweating, unpleasant and slow boarding experience I have ever encountered. Little wonder the outfit went tits-up. [In fact, American Airlines filed for bankruptcy in November 2011, but eventually survived by merging with US Airways to form the American Airlines Group.]

Nor was I enjoying flying with blocked sinuses. The descents, especially the one into Fort Worth, were miserable.

We eventually landed at Philadelphia around 1945. Our accommodation there, at the Le Méridien Hotel, was chosen for no other reason than nostalgia for our trip to Borneo last year, but it seemed fine. After more than 24 hours either in the air or in various airports, we were too shagged from our long flight to bother going out for dinner, so we ate in the onsite restaurant. It was friendly, and the food was fine, though my dish was swamped by too many lentils (filthy things) and it was outrageously overpriced.

I decided on the spur of the moment that, wherever I went, I would try to drink beer that was brewed locally. This strategy has yielded variable results in the past: it served me very well in Austria, Germany, and Italy; less well in England where it seems that any old brownish fluid can be bottled up and flogged off as beer. So I took some advice from the wine waiter and bought some concoction which I thought very hoppy but otherwise unremarkable.

My left ear crackled with every swallow, as the mucus forced into my Eustachian canals during the descent into Fort Worth rattled about. Yich.

Travelling About

Sunday, 18 December 2011

Unsurprisingly we slept in until nearly noon, and Bex, particularly, really struggled to get motivated today. The hotel concierge told us that the Rodin Museum (the main reason I had for wanting to come to Philadelphia) was closed until January for rennovations. I guess I should have checked, but it never occurred to me that they’d close one of the city’s most unique attractions over Christmas! Never mind, I consoled myself: we’ve slept away a quarter of our time here already, so I guess it all works out in some perverse kind of way.

Eventually we sallied forth, up 15th to Walnut. The wind was extremely cold, and we were really rather miserable. Being unfamiliar with everything, we succumbed to breakfast at Starbucks, which we could at least recognise and which at least got us out of the biting cold.

A few doors onwards, I picked up a copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Glass Key when we stumbled into Barnes and Noble for another few minutes’ reprieve from the wind.

Eventually, we made it all the way to the Academy of Natural Sciences, which is a simply wonderful institution, and well worth a visit to Philadelphia if for no other reason. It has all the usual attractions of a big city natural science museum, of course: dinosaur skeletons, diaramas, shells, insects – pinned and live, including a nice, walk-in butterfly room – one of Captain Cook’s cannons and Robert Peary’s flag, for some reason. I mention these prosaic items because our national museum in New Zealand, Te Papa, is an entertainment house which has abandoned all pretensions of being a museum at all.

One of the halls featured giant model bugs and some real ones, too. Only Rebecca and I had the courage to stroke the Madagascan Hissing Cockroaches; Jo was conspicuously less keen, and we didn’t notice any other takers among the few visitors following us into the hall, either. Bex was really getting into the place by the time we moved on to the fabulous dioramas.

It was getting dark by the time we left, and returned to the hotel via a festive open air market where we purchased some giant pretzels for dinner.

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Fig. 1: Velociraptor scultures outside the Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences, photographed 19 December 2011.

Fig. 2: Joanne and Rebecca at the Christmas Village, Philadelphia, 18 December, 2011.

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Fig. 3: Rebecca standing with the giant insect models, Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences; photographed 18 December 2011.

Fig. 4: Joanne and Chris eating pretzels for dinner, Philadelphia, 18 December, 2011.

Monday, 19 December 2011

Both girls were finding the time zone thing a problem. Jo had a particularly bad night, and they both woke up at least once in the middle of the night, then were still asleep around 10 a.m. when I went down to the hotel business centre to get off an email to Stan. But, to my surprise, they were up and more or less ready to go out by the time I returned to our room, 20 minutes or so later.

Today’s main feature was a visit to the Franklin Institute, where the visiting dinosaur exhibition left me cranky. It was the usual triumph of sensationalism over what we really know, and further compromised by some journalist-grade (i.e., very bad) narrative. The prime example was a stupid theory about carnivores’ size being limited by the size of their heads. The heads (and specifically the mouths) of carnivorous dinosaurs were typically larger than those of their contemporary herbivores, and their diet many times more nutritional, so if head size were truly a limiting factor then you’d expect herbivores to be smaller than carnivores. And yet they are not.

Then there was the Confuciusornis fossil with both ‘original fossil’ and ‘touch me’ plaques. Obviously an error. Presumably, it is the ‘original fossil’ plaque which is the error. Let’s hope so, anyway. I don’t like to think of an irreplaceable and scientifically important fossil being poked and prodded by thousands of fingers.

Two exhibits I liked better were the Tesla coil and the liquid air show. Rather than describing them myself, I’ll copy Bex’s email to a friend back home, also nicknamed Bex, and also aged 11 at the time:

hi Rebekah im in Philly right now it’s so cool and really cold/its winter here and its hard to sleep at night because of the time change/today me and my family went to franklin insditute/its really fun its this interative science museum with dinosuars and stuff/we did this CSI thing its about who killed who and you have to solve the mystery/and the best part was at the end of our trip out and that was the liquid air show it was so much fun!! :) :)

Pietro’s Pizza for dinner was highly acceptable.

We turned in still shagged from lack of sleep. My left ear was still crackling.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Email to Stan: We’re booked into the hotel tonight, and we’ll come out your way as early as I can shift the girls tomorrow morning. But we’ll be loaded up with bags, so it would be more pleasant to avoid the commuter traffic which means departing around 10 or after from Temple (?) and arriving around 11:30 or midday. I’ll print the timetable, find out where the station is, talk to Jo, and email you again this afternoon/evening.

============

Up fairly early to catch the SEPTA out to Wilmington

In the underground plaza there was a Salvation Army collector ringing a bell and occasionally shouting “Merry Christmas” to nobody in particular, in a mechanical tone which conveyed no festive warmth in the least. Not doing anything else; just ringing … that … damned … bell ... and shouting sporadically. We had to walk past her a couple of times, looking for our platform, and the incessant headache-inducing din was starting to seriously get on my tits. When she shouted “Merry Christmas” practically in my face, I replied, also quite loudly, “Oh, bugger off!” straight back at her, to the horrified mortification of my girls.

About an hour ride on a nearly empty train; Stan picked us up upon arrival, and brought us back to Landenberg via a nice coffee shop and an equally pleasant walk around the university campus.

Mud, horses

Amish area; and the dreaded Intercourse

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

Local creek – not sure which – covered bridge, horses – river float was mafic volcanics or perhaps metamorphic; hornblende crystals and serpentenite

Then a snack and on to meet Suzi at the Longwood Gardens

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Fig. 5: The Christmas Pool at Longwood Gardens, photographed 21 December 2011.

Fig. 6: Trees lit up after dark, Longwood Gardens, photographed 21 December 2011.

Thursday, 22 December 2011

When we finally arrived in NYC well after dark, the Double Happy driver took some convincing – specifically, the entire passenger body standing up in the aisle and shouting at him – to halt at the scheduled 36th Street stop opposite Macy’s.

Joanne announced we were going to walk to our hotel, and so began the ‘long march’ from 36th to 64th, towing our suitcases along in our wake, on those funny little wheels which are designed neither for long distances nor uneven sidewalks. With uncharacteristic wisdom, I kept mostly silent as we toiled up 5th Avenue for probably a couple of kilometres, through heavy throngs of fellow pedestrians who variously hopped out of our way, or got sideswiped by a heavy trunk.

At one point, an ice sculptor had taken up a spot on the kerb-side, and was about his art. A milling crowd formed on the pavement, though how any of them could see much was beyond me. The throng was bovine, and I am delighted to say that I left quite a number of bruised shins and run-over feet in my wake, as I pulled our heaviest suitcase through their midst, making no attempt to disguise my impatience with the whole business.

Interestingly, Rebecca seemed to make a point of discretely steering me away from Salvation Army collectors, a number of whom were lustily ringing bells, and calling out “Merry Christmas” to the passers-by.

Here’s something I found interesting: These collectors, and the lit-up trees, were the only symptoms of Christmas I spotted at all, in New York. Our impressions formed on previous trips were that Americans really “do” Christmas. The atmosphere is so much more festive than in our homeland. But not, it seems, in the Big Apple.

Affinia Gardens – faintly redolent of the mafia, but pleasant and well-placed

There is a small supermarket just around the corner, so we went there to pick up a few supplies, including something we could eat for dinner. There was a woman wandering the aisles ahead of us, yammering away on her cell phone, and obviously discussing her prospective purchases with someone, as she put them into her trolley. For the love of god, can’t people even shop, these days, without peer support?

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Fig. 7: The family gathers with well-founded apprehension at the Double Happiness bus depot, Christmas 2011.

Friday, 23 December 2011

At the Met.

In particular, I was just blown away by Botticelli’s “rocker chick with the hair”, as Rebecca and I took to calling her. What a modern looking piece. What a babe!

But here’s something: Why are museum cafes always overpriced and awful? I guess we first noticed this at the BM, where a dry sandwich and a cup of truly awful coffee each, cost Jo and I roughly the equivalent of NZ$50. But it’s been a perennial observation ever since, and the Met certainly did nothing to break ranks with our previous experiences. A couple of hotdogs, a pot of chips (Americans call them “fries”), two soft drinks and one coffee set us back about US$45, which is nothing short of extortion.

Overall, the crowds meant we did not have the best experience. I’d like to go back some time, not two days before Christmas, and try for a more leisurely wander around the galleries.

VW advertising: Nothing down except your signature. Just drive away. So easy. So cheerful. So sub-prime. Haven’t these people learned anything from the past three/four years?

Saturday, 24 December 2011

The rest of the day we spent cruising the Avenues. To be honest, I found it boring. Everything, every shop, seemed to be some brand name or other. You see the same stuff – the same shops – in every city all over the world. There was nothing unique and nothing interesting; in the end, they’re just clothes and watches and jewellery and crap. But the girls seemed to have a good time. Perhaps it’s genetic.

Tiffany’s to check out the toilets.

It was dark when the girls decided they wanted to go up the Empire State Building. A tout grabbed us as we drew near; I bravely fought off myocardial infarction upon learning the cost. I’d already been up to the viewing platform years before, and had no interest in going again, so we decided I’d wait at ... looking around ... and, oh my god, is that really the only place nearby? So I spent an hour or more in yet another goddam Starbucks, reading a NY Times and trying to make a hot chocolate (you don’t think I’d drink their coffee, do you?) last what felt like half the night. And this was the point I first noticed my phone had lost contact with The Matrix, too, so I couldn’t even call to see how they were going.

Eventually they returned (I was freezing my nuts off, waiting outside by this time) and we sallied forth again.

Little shop – tee shirt and tote bag for Bex

Macy’s – packed – what a contrast with Seattle three years ago, where the staff outnumbered the few shoppers

Holding doors is something I’m conditioned to. I believe it is polite, and I always do it if there is somebody close on my heels. They do not have to be female or old; I’ll hold the door for anyone. Most people smile or nod or say “thanks”, though a distressing number of Macy’s shoppers – especially young, well-dressed women – just walk through without a second glance, as if it is my expected function in life to clear the way for them. Go figure.

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Fig. 8: Outside the iconic ice cream parlour, Serendipity.

Fig. 9: Inside the iconic ice cream parlour, Serendipity.

Sunday, 25 December 2011

Slow start, mostly due to the Dr Who marathon on BBC America

Neither of our phones (both natively Vodaphone, but connecting via AT&T in the US) could raise even a single signal bar today. We were Out Of Contact. This was a minor inconvenience, meaning we couldn’t go separate ways and then call to meet up somewhere, but mostly we didn’t notice.

Eventually the girls went for a jaunt out through Central Park, south to Times Square, then back up 5th Avenue. Meanwhile, I just cruised down Madison and back up 5th, looking for Barnes and Noble. I found it, but the shop was closed.

Jo made some pasta for dinner, while we all happily ODed on Dr. Who.

Monday, 26 December 2011

The BBC America marathon today was Gordon Ramsay’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ which I’ve never seen before. What a hoot. Where do they get these people from?, I wondered. Little did I realise, my question would be answered in a few days.

We went via Central Park to the American Museum of Natural History

Subway to Times Square

Tiffany’s

“Dinky”

We went to Eat Here Now (corner of 3rd and 64th, from memory) because we were impressed by the no-nonsense name of the place. The whole time we were there, a young Spanish-speaking woman, seated with two companions at a table near us, spoke continuously and loudly enough to totally dominate every other sound in the room. And when I say continuously, I mean she ... did ... not ... stop ... not even once. Jesus! I’ll bet her father was glad to ship her out of the house when she turned 17, though the poor devil was probably well-deaf by then, already.

The food at Eat Here Now was not too expensive, but it was also pretty damned ordinary. The service was prompt and polite, but, let’s face it, the waitress was doing nothing more than her job. Paying the bill emptied my wallet, so I had only a couple of extra bucks for a tip. That wasn’t enough apparently: “The bill doesn’t include a service charge, you know,” she whined.

We never bothered to Eat There Again.

Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Chelsea pet shop – puppies

Container Shop – my fossil containers

Children’s Bookshop, and lunch at Alice’s

“Pop-up Tea Cup” -- what does that mean?

Gap Kids

Barnes and Noble

Anthropologie on 5th Avenue at 16th; while we were inside, it began to rain heavily

Washington Square

Greenwich Village – multiple chess shops

Caught the subway to South Ferry, then the free Staten Island ferry – round trip, just so Bex could see the Statue of Liberty

Subway back to Lexington Avenue, and walked (rain had stopped) to hotel

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Fig. 10: Bex with the Statue of Liberty in the background.

Wednesday, 28 December 2011

The agony of getting packed and ready. Bex long on talk; short on action.

Cab ride to the bus terminal took about 20-25 minutes, though it seemed longer. Cost about $10.

There was some confusion at the boarding gate, because some bozo had opened one of the cordon tapes, allowing multiple queues to form. At some point, the driver, who had taken the trouble to walk down the (originally single) queue and verify that everybody was in fact queueing for the correct bus, got fed up with the many who were not, and began to appear quite cranky. “Nobody listens!” became his frequent refrain. Once underway, however, he proved himself quite a wit, delivering the in-bus rules over his PA with a good dollop of humour.

Promising-looking roadside outcrops just “before” (presumably to the east of) Knowlton, PA.

The change at Binghamton was tedious. The only prospect of food was a diner and a convenience store (off the lot, so you had to watch the time) and the whole affair seemed pretty disorganised. For no apparent reason our bus to Ithaca departs 25 minutes late. There are snowflakes in the air and a fractious child two rows behind me. Ah, joy.

Scenery poor, except for a few more rock outcrops and spoil heaps at Allentown, and north of Owega

William Henry Miller Inn – lovely welcome – Rebecca immediately homes in on Millie the geriatric dog.

We walked just three blocks or so to reach the Commons, in search of food. Our luck was in: we had a dinner at the Mexican joint (Cantina Viva, 101 North Aurora) which was utterly brilliant. The food, the service, the atmosphere – it could not have been any better.

Damn cold outside though. We did not hang about, but retreated immediately afterwards to the warmth of the Inn.

Thursday, 29 December 2011

Wandering around at about 28°F (about -2°C). The mineral shop in the Commons was closed but we saw obvious corals, brachiopods, and even one little trilobite in the ornamental rocks bordering the parking lot at Maguire’s Ford dealership, on Meadow Street.

Barnes and Noble had more shelf space labelled ‘Astrology’ and ‘New Age’ than it did to science, which seems an odd thing in the home town to Cornell University, and should be a concern to them, I think. In disgust, I returned to the second hand bookshops I’d noted earlier in the day: one in the Commons and another, The Bookery, in De Witt Mall. Both are very good. At the latter, I scored a good copy of Jeffrey Levinton’s excellent Genetics, Paleontology and Macroevolution – perhaps the most sensible words written on the intersection of those particular subjects, ever.

We had a late lunch at the broccoli place. Apparently it is famous.

Friday, 30 December 2011

Cornell campus. As we would our way up the hill, we passed a most remarkable plaque, describing the fate of the Rosebud Woods: razed in 2005 by the Cornell administration to make way for a car park. I immediately though of Joni Mitchell’s song, Big Yellow Taxi, but of course that was written at least as far back as 1970, so the lost Rosebud Woods could not have influenced her.

I thought Jo might want to visit the Johnson Art Museum, so we set off to find it, and eventually discovered a huge concrete monstrosity that only somebody whose sense of good taste has been completely cauterised by over-exposure to modern art could ever like. Moreover, it was closed.

There was another small waterfall which we passed on the way back; Joanne’s inspection was rather brief, owing to a need to return to the Inn – specifically the bathroom – though Rebecca and I were able to hang out a little longer. Unfortunately, the path was closed, owing to winter weather conditions, so we were not able to get too close, nor examine the rocks.

Picking up a much relieved Joanne as we passed by the Inn, we returned to spend the afternoon in and around the Commons/De Witt Mall area, where I secured a new pair of shoes.

For dinner we tried a pizza place called Napoli. The waitress was friendly and efficient, but that’s where the good news ends. The place is stark – formica tables and plastic chairs – no atmosphere at all. The prices are not outrageous in any absolute sense, but they are well over the top for a pizza joint. But the food which, let’s face it, is the most important feature for any kind of restaurant, was just utterly, spectacularly, revolting. For something to nibble on while we waited for our pizza – something the rest of the world calls an entree, though in America the entree is the main course for some inexplicable reason – we requested chips with bacon bits and cheese. What arrived was a mound of gloopy yellowish-orange stuff. What in god’s name is that? Any relationship to real cheese, living or dead, is purely coincidental I can assure you. This object was followed by possibly the two worst pizzas ever conceived by the mind of man. The grease formed actual puddles on the salami. Come in Gordon Ramsay! If ever there was a nighmare kitchen pleading for your attention, this one is it.

If you’re one of those people who enjoys eating deep fried grease, with a topping of grease, by all means, give it a try. But, dear god, don’t call this shit food.

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Fig. 11: Ithaca Falls, December 2011.

Fig. 12: Fossil shells in boulder at Ithaca Falls, December 2011.

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Fig. 13: Plaque at Rosebud Woods. Shades of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi.

Fig. 14: Johnson Centre, Cornell University, Ithaca, December 2011.

Saturday, 31 December 2011

We left the Inn and caught a cab to the Greyhound depot, where the bus arrived more or less on time. The bus was pretty crowded and a couple of vulgar bastards just elbowed their way in ahead of Bex. Cutting-in in front of an eleven year old? Really? The “c” word was invented for such people.

Changed busses at Binghamton, then settled in for the long haul via Scranton and Harrisville, to Washington DC. The only notable thing I remarked from the drive through forests of bare sticks (an odd sight for a Kiwi) were some domed, churchy-looking buildings around Pottsville.

Arrived 2000

Cab to hotel – we think we were driven around

Indian place for dinner – no reservation – good food

Did not bother to see in the new year, although just the way things worked out we may well have missed the witching hour by mere minutes as we crashed into bed.

Sunday, 01 January 2012

Of the four or five breakfast tables I could readily observe from where I was sitting, ours was the only one where nobody had their nose buried in an iGadget of some description. There was one table of three people where all three of them were busily iFidgeting away. I find the delicious irony of this sort of behaviour hilarious: Each so desperate to be “connected”; each so blind to the other people actually physically seated before them. Honestly, it’s about on a par with masturbating in public, except slightly less dignified.

Walked to the Mall – Washington Monument – Lincoln Memorial – Whitehouse

There was an immediate impression of fewer crowds and a more relaxed atmosphere than NYC, though the poverty was very much more conspicuous. I am sure it is purely a function of the crowds, or where we happened to walk, but we never saw street people in NYC, nor were we ever approached for money. (The ubiquitous Salvation Army collectors just stood ringing their bells; they did not solicit.) In Washington, it happened all the time.

Lots of squirrels; we vowed to bring Cheerios tomorrow.

Museum of Natural History

Thai Tanic (14th Street) for dinner – excellent

Monday, 02 January 2012

took cheerios for the squirrels, but they were all hiding today!

Air and Space Museum

National Museum of Art

Bucked the trend of crappy, overpriced museum cafes! Yes, it was fairly expensive, but it was nice, table service, and provided good food at a fair price.

Jo stayed; Bex and I moved on via the sculpture garden, Barnes and Noble, and met Jo in Macy's later.

I left the girls in a retail orgy, and went back to our room on my own. Can't remember what we did for dinner.

Tuesday, 03 January 2012

Jo planned to visit Anthropologie, which she'd looked up in the phone book, then return to the National Museum of Art, while Bex and I went to the National Aquarium and the Spy Museum, meeting her at the art gallery cafe around 1400.

Aquarium

thence to the Spy Museum. On the way we spotted Anthropologie: nowhere near the address given in the phone book

Spy Museum, but had to rush out to meet Jo after just an hour, which was nowhere near enough

Arrived just as the cafe in the art gallery was closing, so went to investigate the food court in the east wing - a horrible sweaty McBun-fight with queues straggling out the door - so we returned to the Spy Cafe, which was nice.

Then we set Jo off in the direction of Anthropologie (success at last, but why are they making it so hard?) while Bex and I resumed our tour of the Spy Museum, eventually reconvening with Jo after another hour and a half.

Spy Shop together - oh, so long - then back for a vile dinner at the hotel. (Look, the hotel itself is fine, but they should really quit poisoning their guests with disgusting food. If they can't turn out anything remotely palatable, other than cereal which, let's face it, nobody can cock up, then they should stop trying.)

Laundry and TV.

Wednesday, 04 January 2012

Up at 5 to get ready, then a long and expensive ($70) cab ride to the airport.

Long flight to LAX on the dreaded AA. The plane was old and particularly awful: the seats were hard and lumpy, the cabin was too cold, the blankets smelled of mildew, there was no luggage space and, of course, no food.

Some quite nice scenery was occasionally visible outside the window, which helped alleviate the boredom somewhat.

The change at LAX was again very efficiently done, but the sheer number of passengers made for long queues and a long wait.

Flight to O‘ahu. Again we were allocated seats near the rear and the plane boarded from the front, so by the time we were called, we had to wriggle past 25 or more rows of fellow passengers standing half in the aisles, trying to lever bags into the inadequate overhead locker space. And, so, AA further cemented its position as the worst airline in my experience, ever.

At Honolulu, we were met by some space cadet from the Diamond Head Vacations crowd, who were supposedly handling our transfers. She draped some wilting dendrobiums around our necks and droned through her standard litany ... blah, blah, call this number to confirm your pick up. Excuse me. It’s already 9 pm, and our pickup is at 7 am tomorrow. Do we really have to call you up to confirm it? Can’t we just tell you now? For a moment, I think there really was a chance her brain was going to wake up. It seemed just about to, but, then, no.

“Oh, yes. Just call the transport company directly.”

There was once a time when America was great. Well, the service sector worked, anyway. It doesn’t any more. I hate to say this, because I love the place, but America is broken, and this is why. Like the waitress at Eat Here Now, this chick was just going through the motions. Everybody’s just going through the motions, and all of them with their hand stuck out for the tip which used to be reserved for something special; for going the extra mile. Maybe it’s partly Gen Y, with their laughably over-inflated sense of entitlement, but it’s not only that. We have Gen Y, too, yet the New Zealand cabbies will help you with your bags, and usually round the fare down as well.

That’s not a typo.

Fortunately, it’s not all that way. The dispatcher for VIP who gathered us up from the Diamond Head crowd checked his schedule and gave us our pick-up time for the following morning on the spot, with polite competence.

Just then, the luggage carousel which had broken down prior to delivering our bags, burst back into life. Our two suitcases duly appeared and the dispatcher flagged down the next bus to whisk us off to our hotel. Alas, our hotel was in Waikiki, which is nowhere near the airport, so it took half an hour to get there, and the driver seemed confused about where we were going.

The Aqua Waikiki Pearl is not salubrious. We got Bex into bed about 2215.

Thursday, 05 January 2012

But the manager on duty at the Pearl wouldn’t store our bags for us. She said they’d no suitable facilities, and was concerned about the liability. Now I’ve stored my bags at lodgings in many places – including the depths of Borneo – and this is the first time I’d ever encountered this. What a bitch. What a dump Do not go to the Aqua Waikiki Pearl; do not stay there.

The airport was shambolic. The signs saying Hawai‘i Air Check In pointed right; in fact, the check-in facilities were located to the left. There was a counter I tried to walk up to, but we were intercepted by an airline staff member who insisted we use the self-service kiosk. When the kiosk didn’t recognise our booking from just scanning my credit card, she rushed off behind the counter herself, eventually returning with a number written on a piece of paper. That got the ball rolling again, but a limitation of the kiosks is that they weigh and evaluate the charge on each bag separately. So, even though we were bringing only two bags between three people, and the aggregate weight divided by three was well under our allowance, we were charged excess because the large bag (with my geological hammers in it) exceeded the single bag allowance. The dizzy bitch who wouldn’t allow us up to the counter had no solution for this, so we were stuck with it, and I began to think that HA was pushing AA for the distinction of world’s shittiest airline. Honest to god, an imbecilic five year old could do better. I also thought further ill of the Waikiki flea pit for being stuck with the bags in the first place.

We had breakfast at the airport Starbucks – there was no apparent alternative – where they couldn’t toast the bagels, the way Jo likes them. (According to Rebecca, her breakfast was the “worst muffin in the world” and my assessment of the tiny crumb I adventured supported her appraisal. The ATM timed out the first time I tried it, but eventually came through. I kept the receipts.

All in all, points out of ten for the O‘ahu service industry, transport, and accommodations: minus eighty seven.

The seats we’d been allocated at the kiosk were at the very back, where there was not even a window to look out. But at least they called boarding the plane from the rear, so I guess someone, somewhere, in this benighted airline had a functioning brain cell.

On the Big Island, the arrival of Dan from Mel’s Taxis signalled an altogether brighter turn in our fortunes. He met us, happily agreed to take us directly to the Hawai‘i Forest and Trail depot, and then take our bags on to the Outrigger for us. What a difference! I had to purse my lips at Joanne to dissuade her from eloping with him immediately. And this is the thing, I guess: Yes, America seems to me to have broken, in some deep and fundamental sense, but not all of it. There are still people like Dan, who do a decent job, use their heads, try to help, and make the world worth living in again. Mel, if you ever read this, please give that man a promotion.

That wasn’t all: the Forest and Trail people were brilliant, and the Outrigger, when we eventually got there, was terrific also. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our ‘Twilight Volcano Tour’ of 11 guests in a minibus piloted by Eugene set off up Saddle Road. We stopped briefly at Mauna Kea State Recreation Area where most of the passengers disappeared into the restrooms, while I surreptitiously chose a couple of representative chunks of scoria, and slipped them into my pocket.

We ate packed lunches on the drive down towards Hilo, stopping at the Rainbow Waterfall, and eventually pitching up at the park museum looking out on the Kiluea caldera. The museum is moderately interesting, though I wouldn’t go any further than that. Actually, Bex seemed to find it far more riveting than I did, and I needed to chase her along on a couple of occasions, because we didn’t have very long before all needing to pile back into the minibus to drive a few hundred metres to a trailhead.

Here we finally went for a walk. Now we had been expecting some serious hiking over rough terrain, but, alas, this is “hiking” for the US tele-tubby market: a dainty half-hour trot along some well-worn gravel paths with an overall vertical relief of probably less than 100m all told. To judge from the asthmatic wheezings from some of our fellow travellers, it was probably just as well, but to be honest the three of us arrived at the end (and Bex is a skinny little eleven year old, remember) wondering when the proper stuff was going to begin. We passed some cool phenomena – sulphur vents, steaming cliffs – but an adventure tour this was not.

After the “hike”, Eugene took us to the Devil’s Throat, a precipitous collapse structure, then through an old, cold, lava tube, off to a lay-by for dinner which he set out and largely cleared away by himself (Eugene worked hard for his money, and he is really a very funny guy; a great guide) and finally back to the museum/lookout after dark to see the orange-red glow from the main Kiluea crater. And, alas, that was as exciting as it got.

It must have taken around 2 hours to drive back to Kona – simply reversing our route. A round trip appears to have been possible, via Ocean View, though it was too dark to see anything, anyway.

The Keauhou Beach Resort hotel, which everybody just seems to call “the Outrigger”, had our bags in a fantastic room, and is in every way a superb institution. If you’re ever planning to visit Kona, stay here.

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Fig. 15: Rainbow Falls, Hilo, January 2012.

Fig. 16: Lava tube, near Kiluea, January 2012.

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Fig. 17: Kiluea caldera, January 2012.

Fig. 18: Kiluea caldera, January 2012.

Friday, 06 January 2012

This was the moment Joanne, bless her, chose to suddenly awaken and take charge of “her” trip. She baled up Amanda, the Expedia lady, on our way to breakfast, and sorted out some short-notice alternatives so the day wouldn’t be a bust after all.

The first of these was the ‘Atlantis’ (what else?) submersible trip. After the embarrassingly hokey “prepare to dive” nonsense, the trip itself was superb. We delighted in spotting and rather unsuccessfully trying to photograph the many different species of fish we could see outside, especially around the couple of small wrecks we passed.

Next Body Glove whale watching; mantas, dolphins, Denver; passengers invited to return for the next day’s trip since we didn’t see any whales.

But just wandering the village around the pier was probably even more enjoyable, and it would have been nice to have had an extra day to explore.

Shuttle bus (a wonderful facility for convenient and inexpensive travel around the immediate area) back to hotel; red sunset; another of Mel’s finest took us back to the airport, braving Hawai‘i Air and the shonky Diamond Head travel arrangements to return to the cruddy Pearl. We were clearly not expected (thankfully I had the vouchers readily to hand) but the young woman on the counter coped, albeit with no outward signs of friendliness.

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Fig. 19: View from our room at the "Outrigger", January 2012.

Fig. 20: Bex lining up at a porthole in the 'Atlantis' submersible, January 2012.

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Fig. 21: View of some ship wreckage and fish from the 'Atlantis' submersible.

Fig. 22: Dolphins, seen from the Body Glove boat, off Kona, January 2012.

Winding Up

Saturday, 07 January 2012

Our early pick-up from VIP was 25 minutes late, and the Honolulu airport was a complete bun-fight. I believe there have been more efficient and orderly South American revolutions. We had just about stripped to our underpants before we were finally allowed through security ... and, of course, we were leaving Hawai‘i, flying west to Australia, so it can hardly be put down to post-9/11 American hysteria. (For god’s sake, you people: you kill more of your own relatives every few years, in domestic shooting accidents, simply because of your pig-headed and infantile insistence on having guns. I’m not denying 9/11 was a terrible tragedy, but keep it in perspective.)

Sunday, 08 January 2012

It was a long haul through to Sydney, surrounded by squalling brats and the row in front of us at full recline. Ignorant bastards. At some stage we crossed the dateline, and passed imperceptibly into tomorrow.

Sydney airport was efficient and well-organised, certainly by comparison with Honolulu, except that we had to be re-scanned at the gate, even though we had never left the secure transit area. We were 25 minutes late departing, owing to an electrical storm which we waited out in the plane. This plane was much newer and shinier than the old clunker we’d flown across the Pacific, and the girls liked it more. But the seat back was too low for me, and I was less comfortable.

We arrived into Auckland a few minutes before midnight, booked to stay at the Airport Novotel. We had no idea where it was, but one glance out the from the arrivals hall was all we needed: no more than 50 metres across the car park, and a fabulous room when we got there. This is what every airport hotel should aspire to. A pleasure.

Monday, 09 January 2012

The flight from Auckland to Wellington is short: about 50 minutes. We were looked after, and given breakfast. Civilisation at last, and it was right here at home, all along.

The cab ride into town is short by American standards, and, as is usual in New Zealand, the cabbie took us by the most direct route and rounded down the fare. (Sure, this doesn’t always happen, but it happens most times if you stick to the big companies. The ratty little outfits exploiting minimum wage new immigrants are less reliable.) But here’s another interesting thing: even after that, the ride still cost at least twice as much as an equivalent trip in the States.

Reflections

What is it about providing tea/coffee/food in a museum that justifies charging outrageous prices? I mean I do know, of course: it is that precious commercial resource, the captive audience. We, the great museum-visiting travelling public have the power in our hands to destroy these bastards: simply don’t go. Eat, drink and be merry before the museum, or après. Never be ripped off again.

I was bemused by the seeming lack of Christmas fervour in NYC; Santa was MIA. Or maybe the problem was me? I remember lots of trees with lights, and those fucking bell-tolling Sally collectors … the trappings were there. But I do not remember any carollers nor anything much in the way of Christmas spirit catching my eye. Maybe the place is simply too busy (and congested) to make room? Or perhaps it was all around me, and I simply failed to notice.

Where NYC was crowded – packed to the gunwhales – Washington deserted by comparison, which struck me as odd. Do people leave Washington at Christmas? Perhaps they go to New York. There seemed to be many more street people in Washington, though possibly they were just more visible. I don’t imagine it is possible to loiter on the streets of central NYC without being trampled into the ground by the heaving masses.

Probably my most enduring memory of the trip was not Times Square or the dinosaur skeletons or the European masters or the volcanos, but breakfast at our hotel one morning. There were three or four tables near where we were sitting, which I could see easily. And the people sitting at them were not talking or even looking at each other, but had their noses buried in various little devices, poking away with their fingers and thumbs – believing themselves to be connected, I suppose, but in reality completely disconnected from the real world all about them. I felt sad for them. That’s not living. Poe or Borges would have made a horror story out of it.

There were gadgets in people’s ears; they walk around seemingly talking to themselves. People were on their phones in the shops, where even the simple act of buying groceries seemed to require consultation. Is nobody capable of living within their own heads any more? Do we really all need to be so constantly “in touch” with someone else? Is any of all this yammer worth hearing, or is it just busy noise, to save us from having to think?

During our time in America on this trip, the Republicans were in the throes of a very protracted and acrimonious candidate selection. The difficulty seemed to lie, mainly, in finding somebody who might be acceptable to mainstream Republicans, who are just regular folks of course, and the fanatical lunatic fringe represented by the Mad Tea Party fuckers; the kind of people who genuinely don’t realise that Fox News is a comedy channel. (I’m not biased: I’ve met people on the left who believe that Michael Moore is a serious journalist, and I hold them in equal contempt.) The Iowa GOP candidates mostly seemed to me to be a bunch of religious loonies. Santorum is particularly scary, and he’s got some pretty stiff competition. Ron Paul wants to do away with the Department of Education, for Christ’s sake! Well, I guess that speaks for itself. The only candidate who seemed to have a brain and to hold an opinion of his own, was Huntsman, who doesn’t have a hope of becoming nominated, unfortunately.

Knowing What We Know Now

Smaller places take a lot of getting to (e.g. the multiple hops to get to Philadelphia); this time I got the ratio of travel time to “being there” time wrong.

Visit Hilo.