Bali, Hi

December 23, 2013

Right now, I’m sitting under a huge canopy without walls that shelters the living area and kitchenette of Villa 3 at the Kunja Villas and Spa resort in Seminyak, Bali.

We started the day easy and then went for a walk in the neighborhood of the hotel after we checked out. The hotel kept our bags and lent us an umbrella.

One of the distinguishing features of Chinatown in Singapore is the shophouse. They’re low to the ground and line many of the streets. They have been refurbished and gentrified, but still have some character.

They are mostly two or three stories. The first floor is commercial space, the “shop” part. I guess traditionally the merchant’s family would live on the second and third floors.  Probably extended families.

The walls are tropical colors—maybe coral, tan, white, blue—with elaborate window frames and shutters usually in a darker color. They are fronted with colonnades to protect passersby from the sun or the rain.

We have enjoyed both kinds of weather in Singapore.

We went back to Gyoza King because Joanna wanted more of the fried tofu. This was probably one or so in the afternoon, but we had only eaten a yogurt drink so far, so it was breakfast for us. We ordered scrambled eggs with chives, besides the tofu. Both dishes were very tasty, but being Japanese, the flavors were exotic for us.

Breakfast or no, I had a Sapporo. I am coming off a three-week bout with my gout. I was dragging into the office on a cane and getting home around seven, so tired that I just went straight to bed several nights a week. Some days I didn’t make it into New York and worked from home instead.

That seriously cut into my drinking time. Larry told me he read a news brief in the Times about my enforced temperance. I understand that the stock prices of several breweries and wine merchants actually fell during the last Wall Street rally.

They say we should drink responsibly, and I agree. I am not back to capacity even now, but I am doing my best to help this sector of the economy prosper. Now, if that isn’t responsibility, what is?

We got a cab to the airport, arrived a little after three for a 5:30 flight. We went to the wrong desk. Even though the sign said KLM, the lady said she was with Jetstar and KLM was around the corner.

No problem.

We went to passport control. Joanna had lost the piece of paper she was supposed to hand in when she leaves the country. That, too, presented little trouble. She went to the immigration desk to be cleared. I was wondering if maybe this counted as really being deported from a country.

It was a long hike to a bar, but we found one tucked in a corner of the terminal. Harry’s bar. No kidding. I have spent so much on alcohol that they named a bar for me in Singapore. There are Harry’s bars in other cities, too, but I didn’t know my questionable influence had spread this far. I had a house brand lager. Not much flavor, but it had a nice bite from the carbonation.

I told Joanna it was light—meaning in flavor. An Australian next to me assured me that it was indeed 5 percent alcohol by volume.

We got chatting back and forth about forgettable stuff, and then he remarked on my accent. I found out later that he is from Brisbane. He pegged me very well as coming from “somewhere east of Ohio.” My accent is from the southern Delaware Valley, and is common in southern New Jersey and up the Pennsylvania bank.

When we arrived in Bali, we were to be met by a man holding a sign with Joanna’s name on it. Before we got to immigration, we saw men holding signs, but none with Joanna’s name on it.

We must have looked suitably puzzled. We didn’t want to miss the guy if he was in this part of the airport, but also weren’t sure if this is was the right place. Like sharks, guys wearing ID tags came up to offer help.

We gave up on our guy with the sign and headed for the “Visa on Arrival” line. One of the guys with an ID had attached himself to me by that time. “Who are you and what is your role?”

He offers to buy the visa for us so we don’t have to stand in the line. All we have to do is give him our passports. That’s easy. I am to hand my passport and Joanna’s to a stranger in an airport in outheast Asia.

No, no, no.

 I think the line took us all of five minutes.

We went straight through immigration next. The wait was a little longer here than for the visa, but nothing like the lines in Newark.

The customs form asked if I had anything sharp. Just in case somebody saw it on an x-ray, I declared my pocket knife, which was in my checked luggage. That apparently was not considered contraband, so I was admitted to the country.

When we got out to the meeting point in the terminal, there were guys everywhere holding signs, so we walked up and down reading them all. That’s how we found Frad from Kunja Villas, who drove us to the hotel.

The whole building is very open. We walked through a door. It was dark, and I expected to step into a foyer. Instead, it was a courtyard. If you’re as careless as I am, you can damn near step into the pool going in.

There is an apartment, more Western-conventional and air-conditioned, behind a second locked door. The bathroom floor consists of large slate slabs interspersed with loose river stone. There is no wall or window by the tub, just an open space covered by a bamboo curtain. You don’t need a lot of walls here, I guess. Just a roof. Also mosquito netting. Very nice.

I think Joanna’s son Gregory owns the place. For all I know, he owns the whole resort. I’m not asking. It’s too strange.

When we got here, the first thing Frad did after lugging in our bags was to serve us cool moist towels and beautiful tea containing cinnamon and a stick of lemongrass.

We had a problem with the bathroom plumbing. A man showed up to fix it this morning. I asked him to have a seat while I made sure Joanna would know he was on his way.

The man thought I was directing him to climb through that open wall instead of going through the door. I felt so bad. What’s worse, the language barrier prevented me from explaining or even apologizing.

We ordered the continental breakfast. It isn’t delivered to the door on a tray. A man brings a picnic basket. He makes the toast and brews the coffee, and then serves us.

Could I get used to this? I don’t think so. But it’s gong to be an interesting few days.

More later.

Why It Rains in Singapore

Dec. 22, 2013

Saturday we went to church, so Sunday we went to the forest.

The streets are damp, so it may have rained last night. I know it rains here, because there is a rainforest. Well, a little remaining bit of it, but it’s tall and dark.

It is kept in a nature reserve on Bukit Timah Hill. That’s a good five, maybe six, miles from the hotel, so we took a cab to get there.

It is a pretty steep hill and there are trails for mountain biking, hiking, and vertical jogging. I didn’t see any emergency medical stations, so I guess if something bad happens to you during strenuous exercise, they expect you to roll back down to the bottom of the hill.

The cab let us out at a parking lot. There is a paved road that looks deceptively climbable. Only authorized vehicles are permitted to drive on it. I assume they go up from time to time to pick up the dead.

The forest is beautiful, full of hanging vines, drooping palm leaves, trees with aerial roots, and signs that say don’t feed the monkeys. The birds, insects, and probably monkeys too make a racket. It’s almost like the 17-year locusts, but this is December so they must do this all the time, and they are good at it. I couldn’t hear my tinnitus.

Partway up, we left the main paved road to take the Southview Path, which is cut into the hillside. It has irregular steps built over tree roots and up steep inclines. Every once in a while, someone would pass by us, but for the most part, we had the trail to ourselves.

The only other times I’ve seen anything remotely like this it was a reconstruction inside a glass house in Atlanta or Washington.

According to a sign, only 1 to 5 percent of the sun’s light reaches the forest floor. This close to the Equator, that’s still a lot of light in my book, but it’s pretty shady. We were on a neat, man-made trail, and it was delightfully spooky.

It is also damp. You can smell the leaves decomposing on the forest floor. Some of the leaves don’t make it that far when they fall. There are small trees here that have adapted to catch falling leaves, which get caught in the branches, where they break down to feed the host.

The temperature, the manager of the hotel cafe said, is about 32 the year round in Singapore. That’s 32 Celsius, or about 90 Fahrenheit. I haven’t worn a tie since I checked into the hotel. On this climb, I took my jacket off and slung it over my shoulder to see if my shirt would dry.

No, not while I was climbing those dirt steps. Instead, the parts of the jacket touching my shoulders got wet.

There used to be tigers and leopards here, but they were killed off for sport by the 1930s. There are photos of them, and a specimen (or replica) of one in a diorama at the visitor center.

The climb up the paved road to the summit is 1.2 km.

We came out of the Southview Path and took a breather sitting on a fence rail.

Then we picked up and started to climb some more. What’s this? I see a pavilion ahead. As tired as I am and as sore as my feet are, that has to be the summit. Boy, am I glad we made it. Joanna’s doing fine, of course. It’s Harry who’s dragging ass, stumbling on the steps, leaning on a stick.

But we made it.

Hot damn.

No.

There is a sign by the shelter: Our starting point is 0.7 km downhill. What? not even a thousand meters? Well, we took a detour, which made me feel a little better.

The summit, though, is still about a half a klick up this 20 or 30 percent grade.

No thanks, I’ll put my sorry butt on this bench and dry off. It’s all downhill from here.

After a rest period, I picked up a stray plastic bag and put it into the monkey-proof trash bin to show that I am friend of Singapore. Then Joanna and I started downhill, gravity more or less on our side this time.

I say more or less, because although the force was with us, the grade was so steep that we had to walk flat-footed to keep gravity from pulling us down too energetically.

I saw people from time to time jogging downhill. Now, in my experience, running downhill is the fastest route to a fat lip. I’d fall flat on my face if I tried to do that. Of course, I have fallen down crossing a wet street on occasion, and I was sober at the time.

Anyhow, we made it down to the parking lot. Joanna flagged down a cab and we went to the hawker center on Maxwell Road, near the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple, and not far from the Orchid.

We had the local specialty, called chicken rice, which is just that, served with a savory sauce. The dish is supposed to have been created here by someone from Hainan Province in China.

Hawker centers are giant food courts. The government decided years ago that street vendors were unsightly and possibly hazardous to the public health, so they have been collected into pavilion-like structures that dot the city. You go in and order from here for there and take a table.

The chicken rice place was so popular that the line stretched around the corner. It was pretty good, but I’m not sure it was worth a half-hour wait.

We went to the hotel for a brief rest, where I amused myself by forgetting how to access my office e-mail. I emailed Jeff, who emailed the help desk for me. (I got into the system Monday morning Singapore time--but I am getting ahead of myself, as I often do after crossing too many time zones. I have traveled 13 hours into the future.)

Much later, we stepped out for dinner. We saw lots of Korean places open, but many restaurants were closed on Sunday night, including three French places. We decided to try an Italian place around the corner from the Orchid Hotel.

We had walked past the place a couple of times before, and this time made a note of it and went to the end of the street. OK, Italian it is, and we walked back.

The waiter, maybe the owner, welcomed us in. He said he had seen us in the afternoon walking up the street (on our way back from the hawker center), then again just now.

I may be the only man in Singapore wearing a pony tail. I reminded the guy of someone named Doctor Eno (or maybe Dino) who had been here a few years ago and owned a distinguished race horse. Apparently the Doctor had a pony tail too. Maybe to match his horse.

The Chianti was OK, a bit strong on the tannins, so it had an acidic edge. Joanna’s merlot was strong, but smoother. We had an arugula salad with pears, walnuts, and shavings of cheese, which is always a refreshing combination.

Pasta was those large round sleeves of macaroni, whose name I never remember. It was served in a cream sauce with sausage. We could taste the bits of fennel and rosemary. A little comfort food never hurt anybody.

Joanna got the photo of the day. I actually forgot to snap a shot of a “Do Not Feed the Monkeys” sign. The signs are all over the park. C’mon, how are you not going to give your blackened banana to a big-eared waif who looks like that?

It’s probably one of the cutest threats ever tossed in my direction, but it’s still a threat. The authorities must be serious about it. And if you don’t go along, they may hit you with a stick.  Love to all. But don't feed the monkeys.

Dec. 22

Glad you made it to a hawker center. If I'm not mistaken, the chicken rice at Maxwell Rd. is said to be one of the best. This is a constant debate among Singaporeans: Who makes the best chicken rice? The people there are obsessed with food, which is one reason I like Singapore.

Isn't it funny how people will line up at one stall, while at a nearby stall, serving the same dish, no one is waiting? The rule is to find the longest line as it's probably for the best food. There is little tolerance there for mediocre food.

Just so you know: the Indian food there is also great; many say the best anywhere outside India. If you don't have time during this visit, we'll get some when you return after Bali.

And yes, don't feed those little bastard monkeys. They seem so cute, but they're fucking monsters! I've seen them attack little children stupid enough to wave around cookies and such. And they will bite with little provocation.

I plan to visit the Bata Caves in Kuala Lumpur before I meet up with you. This is a Hindu temple, also loaded with little bastard monkey thieves.

I've encountered Islamic moneys in the Lower Atlas in Morocco and Buddhist monkeys here in Thailand. I expect the Hindu monkeys to be just as seemingly cute and ultimately obnoxious.

Larry

Buddha’s Relics

                         Joanna had to cover up with a shawl
                          to enter the temple.

Dec. 21, 2013

The view of Chinatown from the room looks roughly like a cross between Queens and Kowloon—tall, utilitarian structures to pack people in. The view from the elevator bank, is quite different. There are rows of low buildings with terracotta roofs. The streets are pleasantly narrow and there is a prominent structure with low eaves not far away.

It was a temple, the man at the desk said. So we went there. Turns out, it isn’t just any temple. It is the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple, maybe the top entry on my see-list for Singapore. About six blocks or so from the hotel. Who knew? Not me, certainly.

And it sits next to a market.

It doesn’t get better than that. Well, sure it does, but not in public, without chemical assistance, and with your clothes on.

The stroll from the hotel is down little streets with arcades over the sidewalks. There are commercial establishments, a gym that promises to unleash my inner beast, and several French and Korean restaurants.

We got to the temple neighborhood. It was upscale Asia: the street overhung with strange trees (I guess if you’re from here there not strange), the heat and humidity of the air balanced by a breeze, cars and a few bicycles zipping past. It’s only when we got to the steps of the temple and saw the sign that I realized my luck. Wow, the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple.

I had read about this in two guide books. It isn’t old, perhaps 10 years or so. I forget how the tooth got to Singapore. There is one other tooth shrine, in Burma.

The ground floor of the temple leads into a ceremonial chamber with monumental Buddhas and Bodhisatvas. To one side is the Hundred Buddha Wall, with figures of various sizes. Some larger ones in niches are surrounded by smaller bas reliefs, about the size of my hand.

Altars are dedicated to various Bodhisatvas, the enlightened teachers, including Kuan Yin. As always, I stopped to say a Hail Mary there.

The second floor is a museum of Buddhist culture. Stone, silver-, and gold-leaf figures represent various periods of art. There was far more information than I was able to absorb.

One piece, carved from dark stone, was almost 2,000 years old, and it was one of the newest acquisitions of the museum.  The relics of the Buddha were divided into eight portions after he was cremated, for distribution to eight kingdoms. Asoka, the Buddhist emperor of India, collected them all and redivided them into 84,000 portions.

The relics are venerated, much as saints’ relics are venerated in Catholic churches, as symbols bringing one psychologically closer to the spiritual.

There is a display of eight Buddhas, each with an empty bowl. Each figure’s hands are in a different position, and each position signifies something different, but exactly what they mean is among the many things that I didn’t absorb.

They are near a room where photography is forbidden. It holds relics of the Buddha. The reliquaries are glass in frames and hold tiny crystallized spheres. Each is identified with a different part of the body—hair, blood, bone, nose, flesh. This kind of thing is right up there with the Eucharist. I’m not sure what I believe, if anything, but I take Communion.

These are matters of tradition and the poetry of it all takes precedence over analysis.

Like saying “Hail, Mary” in front of the image of Kuan Yin.

Speaking of whom, I learned something more. Kuan Yin is the Mandarin name for Avalokitesvara (which I do not know how to pronounce). In India, Avalokitesvara is male. It was when the Buddhist traditions were brought to China that Kuan Yin became female. The Cantonese name sounds like “Gun Yum.”

We walked out the far side of the temple and strayed right into a street market. These things are so much fun. I’ve been to a couple of them in Amsterdam. But there is something about Asia that’s even better. Stands sold everything from fresh vegetables to “I love Singapore” key chains.

Joanna stopped to get cocoanut water, and I had sugar cane juice. Neither one tastes the way I expected.

Just in case that was too healthful, we stopped at a table by the curb and shared a 20-ounce bottle of Harbin beer. It is almost near-beer. The label lists it as 3.6 percent alcohol by volume. So all 20 ounces had about the same kick as a 12-ounce lager.

After that we decided to stroll back to the hotel. I knew the way and led us up a street and around a bend, and boy, my feet were getting sore. I had gotten us lost. I hailed a cab. “We’re lost. We need to go to the Orchid Hotel on Tras Street.”

The driver laughed a little and pointed. “It’s right there.”

I am so glad I hailed that cab. I had led Joanna past the hotel and was still headed in the same (and now wrong) direction.

I remembered how it works in New York. I offered to pay the driver for opening his door. Maybe there’s no charge for that here. He seemed confused. Joanna, mindful of the condition of my feet, said, “Since we’re in the cab, why don’t you just drive us over there?”

And so he did.

The base of the hotel building is lined with shops, including several Japanese restaurants. We went to Gyoza King. Gyoza are Japanese fried dumplings. We had them filled with pork, along with a plate of stir-fried tofu with minced pork gravy, and fried cabbage with bell peppers. That and a Sapporo made dinner and I was done in.

We stopped at a convenience store called Cheers for some staples—yogurt, beer, and chocolate. That’s where I found my favorite local beer so far. It’s called Baron’s, “brewed in the classic European tradition, and inspired by a Black Forest brewmaster’s timeless recipe.” (That’s right from the label.) At almost 9 percent ABV, it’s a perfect nightcap.

Good night.

Hello, Singapore

Dec. 21, 2013

Got here just fine. The planes were late at every stage, so connections were easy.

It was two hours and change to Chicago, 18 hours to Kong Kong, and another four to Singapore.

By the time we got to Hong Kong, I was so tired, I didn't even want a beer. there was still a little gout left in my feet, so I took a pain killer and don't remember much about that last leg of the trip. I think I was actually able to sleep a bit.

We got to the Orchid Hotel around three in the morning. Joanna was in much better shape than I was. Maybe she was able to get more sleep during the trip. Probably it's because she is tougher.

I had booked rooms from the 21st. We arrived on the 21st, but about 12 hours before check-in time. There was space available so we booked an extra night and slept till 10 in the morning.

We had to ask the waitress in the hotel restaurant this morning what day of the week it was. God, I love that—being so far away you can't be sure what day it is.

We had two versions of a dish called char kway teow, which had cockles, chicken bits, sliced fish cake, prawns, red chilis, noodles, and secrets in it. I had the Singapore version which was heavy on soy sauce, and delicious. Joanna had the Penang, which was white.

There's a temple not far from the hotel, so we will stroll in that direction this afternoon.

Today's photo is the view from my hotel room window.

More later.

Dec. 21

Welcome back to Asia, Grasshopper!

See you next Saturday!

Larry 

Avoir Paris

October 18

Considering all the things that have happened at the Bellevue—broken toilet seat, room change, wifi slowdowns that banished me to the lobby, a planned power outage—our last day in Montmartre went really well.

I was out of the hotel looking for coffee and something baked at maybe 7:30. It was the middle of the night out there. It was still dark, a little misty, and very few people were on the street anywhere. Even the earliest shops were just opening up.

Bread’s what we needed. We had bought fruit and yogurt the day before. I wound up walking half way to Pigalle before I found a shop selling bread. There was a cut loaf on the shelf, so I asked for the “demi baguette” and felt very worldly.

Back on the Rue d’Orsel, the streetside counter of the grocery store was just starting to set out some pastry. I ordered two coffees to go. They serve it in soft plastic cups without lids, but I managed to get both of them to my room without spilling.

We checked out of the hotel and left our bags, so we could do some wandering. We took a few back streets and wound up on Boulevard de Magenta again.

We stopped at a cafe around 10 or so where Joanna had hot chocolate and I had a glass of Bordeaux. We had seen a large building surmounted by statuary, but hadn’t gone there the day before because our route from the market took us in the other direction. This time we went to see. It’s a monumental railroad station called the Gare du Nord.

The statues represent cities connected to the station by rail. They include Berlin and London. Today there’s a tunnel, but when the station was built, sometime in the 1860s, I guess the rail trip included a Channel crossing by ferry.

Inside, the roof is that beautiful late 19th century ironwork, much like the St. Quentin market.

When we got to the market this time, it was open for business. It’s always fun to see the colors and shapes of things in markets, even at home. But in Europe or Asia, there are different things to see. Here there were whole mackerel and sea bass, tuna heads, piles of shellfish, including a pink-shelled scallop called St. Jacques. I wonder if it’s what they make coquilles St. Jacques from.

We passed a counter specializing in Portuguese food where Joanna recognized chopped pigs’ ears. The far side of the counter was a kitchen, and the lady was starting to serve lunch. The lady spoke Spanish and French, but no English. So I was able to tell her I don’t know how it’s called in French. I said “cochon” and pulled the top of my ear. The word I wanted, as I later learned, is “oreilles.”

The lady suggested vin blanc. OK. She brought us a half bottle of Casal Garcia vinho verde, a tasty Portuguese white. Why it’s called green I don’t know because I keep forgetting to look it up. I may have a bottle of Casal Garcia in the fridge at home right now. If you don’t know what to get somebody for a gift when you visit at Christmas, a bottle of red and a bottle of Casal Garcia will work: red and green wine just like Santa brings.

Pork is right up there with snails and chicken on my list of favorite meats, well ahead of beef or shrimp, for instance. So far I have eaten feet, neck, tendon, knuckle, and the usual chops, hams, ribs, etc. Sausage, of course, is one of my basic food groups.

This was my first time eating the ears. They have some tasty meat, lots of pleasant fat, and also cartilage, which gives them crunch. As Joanna told me, that’s the fun of eating pigs’ ears. They came with a mildly hot sauce on the side. Not my favorite part of the pig, but a lot of fun nonetheless.

When we left the market, we walked past the front and then turned left. We were not paying too much attention to the names of streets so I’m not sure how we wound up on Rue La Fayette. That was going to take us to the department stores, so I looked at the map.

We veered off onto Rue Lamartine, one of those narrow streets and eventually came to a crossroads called the Place de Something. I couldn’t find it on the map but I knew where we were, at the top of Rue Lamartine. It had been a while since the Casal Garcia and pigs’ ears, so we went into the cafe. There is always a cafe. A jolly short lady waited on us and also told me where the toilettes were.

This is hardly the first time I’ve seen this here, but you rarely find it in the States. You pass through a door into a unisex washroom, with sink, dryer, etc. There are two small closets, one with the silhouette of a guy in a suit, the other of a lady in a skirt. It’s private, but not that prissy American idea of private.

I remember the 1970s. When the Equal Rights Amendment was coming up for the plebiscite, opponents started a story that it would mean the end of separate men’s and women’s rooms in public places. That must had secured the shy vote, because the ERA failed to pass.

Joanna had a crepe with Nutella because, one, they didn’t have what she really wanted, which was chestnut sauce, like one she had in Avignon, and two, she wondered what the hell Nutella is. It’s a chocolate sauce, but not too sweet, so she liked it in small doses. Nutella may be in the A&P back home, but I’ve never seen anyone buy it.

I had Bordeaux and Joanna shared some of the crepe Nutella with me.

Outside the cafe was the back of an old church. We went around the front and discovered that it is Notre Dame de Lorette. It’s old, maybe 17th century. The interior is decorated with Baroque paintings, scenes from the life of the Virgin, and from the Gospels.

One of the side chapels is devoted to St. Therese of Lisieux, as in Sacre Coeur.

In the transept, on the right as you face the sanctuary, there is a dome whose four pillars are each devoted to a different virtue. One is Fortitudo, in which Jesus is called the Fortitude of Martyrs. The other three are Fides, Spes, and Charitas. These involved such themes as not fearing to die, and expecting the resurrection, and visiting prisoners. I remembered St. Paul: “Faith, hope, and charity: there abideth these three, but the greatest of these is charity.”

Appropriately enough, I guess, we took Rue des Martyrs back to Boulevard Rouchechouart and the hotel.

We cabbed to the Mercure Orly Aeroport Hotel. There’s a sign at the Bellevue that warns the cab ride usually costs 50 euro. You have to go across the entire old city from the Montmartre through the Left Bank to the southern suburbs. We were leaving at rush hour. The lady at the hotel desk had to call twice to get us a cab.

I expected to pay a premium, but no, the fare came to 50 euro 20.  So I was ahead of the game.

The hotel is fine, like every airport hotel I’ve visited. Not like every one. the hotel at Lantau in Hong Kong had all kinds of bars and restaurants. This had only one. It was OK, which is to say it was the worst restaurant meal we had in Paris. If I was somewhere else—say in Holland, or even England—the food would have been more than OK. But compared to what we have been finding in France, this was American bar food, and kind of bland.

The St. Jacques, juicy scallops served en brochette, wrapped in bacon, with a side of Napa cabbage were very good, but not oh-wow surprising or bursting with flavor. The duck breast had to be the blandest duck I’ve eaten anywhere. Good, but only good.

We had a nice St. Emilion by the glass, and then I ordered a half bottle of Burgundy. It was a white called Macon Villages. I was surprised. For some reason I expected a red, but hell, I was half in the bag. It was strong enough to hold up against the duck so I was happy.

The best part of the meal was the creme brulee, which Joanna and I shared for dessert. The rich vanilla, controlled sweetness, and of course, pudding texture were perfect. Had I known, I would have been tempted to order three courses of that for dinner, along with the Macon Villages.

My father used to say that God watches over fools and drunks. That’s why I have always felt that my life has been doubly blessed.

My luck was in full swing by the time we left the Mercure in the morning. The shuttle was dead on time and took us to Orly Ouest, which may be where all the international flights leave and arrive.

The check-in counters aren’t lined up by airline as they are at Newark Liberty.

The terminal has four halls and lettered sections inside the halls. The departure board tells you the hall and section for your flight. We needed Hall 3 and Section D. Ever since I nearly missed my flight to Bangkok because I went to the wrong terminal, I am eager to get to an unfamiliar airport as early as I can. We were days early for our flight, so there were maybe a dozen people in line ahead of us.

When we got our boarding passes, we were assigned seats in the 12th row of the plane. Must be a small airplane to have economy seats in the 12th row.

We were sitting at gate 31, which is actually Gates 31 A through F. Our plane was to board at 31 B. There were announcements all over the place, but I didn’t hear one for British Airways 8001, which, as often happens, was combined with flights of two other airlines—Iberia and American, I think.

In any event, we were last to board, which is great because there are no lines, no waiting while people stuff the overhead bins. We get to row 12 and we are in business class.

God watches over fools and drunks. I got another upgrade. There are no built-in TVs on the plane. When the seat belt lights went out, the crew handed out iPads. The games were in French—real French, not pidgin French. I wasn’t in the mood for a movie. Who wants to watch the Lone Ranger by the Walt Disney studios?

I had to ask the kid across the aisle how to turn the damned thing off.

About an hour into the flight, it got even better. The drinks cart came by. I started with a short bottle of a 2012 Medoc, Chateau Moulin de Hontemieux. Joanna had apple juice.

My kind of fruit juice keeps the creative juices flowing because it lowers the inhibitions and convinces me that I am witty. So hell, I’ll write anything.

Joanna ordered more wine with lunch and so did I. She gave hers to me. I am really enjoying this business class.  Be well, all.

Harry

P.S. Got to Newark on time, a little after one, and breezed through border control. It would have been even faster, but the couple ahead of us were clearly Moslems, so were being fingerprinted and questioned and photographed.

Made it home by 3 in the afternoon.