Sunday, 9. August 2009, 04:23:23
TAT Guest House
TAT, while away from most of the action, offers a home stay feel at a rock-bottom price. It's the perfect choice for those who want to settle into Phnom Penh for a while and spend some time exploring the city with a "home" to return to in the evening. Its rooftop lounge and the kindness of the family running the place are major selling points. Though the riverside, lakeside and other business districts are a moto drive away, it's just around the corner from O'Russei Market, the biggest and most popular market for Cambodians. Also nearby is Olympic Stadium, where you can catch the occasional football game or pop concert.
52 Street 125. T: 012 921 211 or 099 977 999.
www.geocities.com/tatcambodia
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Lazyfish Guesthouse & Restaurant
Lazyfish Guesthouse & Restaurant is the best lakefront option in the ghetto-like Boeung Kak lake backpacker district. It's Khmer-owned - which is sadly rare - and of all the guesthouses lining the disappearing lake, this is the cleanest and quietest. An extra $3 gets you one of the best rooms, which are wooden, spacious, overlook the water and have private bathroom and fan. The aesthetics of these rooms sets them apart from the other extremely basic digs lining the lake. The guesthouse's veranda is well-situated with a pleasant view and the standard bunch of hammocks.
15-16 Street 93. T: 012 703 368, 099 370 478, or 016 533 913. lazyfishlakeside@hotmail.com
Monday, 15. June 2009, 13:23:52
Battambang, Cambodian wine
Despite the derision of their neighbours, one family’s determination to set up a winery outside of Battambang city marks a first step for modern viticulture
Written by Stephanie Mee
BATTAMBANG PROVINCE
When Leng Chan Thol and her husband Chan Thay Chhoueng decided to grow grapes for wine production just outside Battambang city, people thought they were crazy.
"You would have to be very strong, courageous or foolhardy. Wine grapes are not a profitable Cambodian crop, and they are sure to fail,' were the types of things people whispered," said Leng Chan Thol.
Fortunately, the young entrepreneurs didn't let the idle chatter discourage them from pioneering Cambodia's first valiant attempt at viticulture.
The couple planted their first vines in 1999, and in 2004 the first bottles of Cambodia's only home-grown grape wine were ripe for drinking.
"Our families have always been farmers," said Leng Chan Thol from the small wooden tasting gazebo, set amid snaking grape vines and lush tropical foliage on the Chan Thay Chhoueng plantation, 16 kilometres south of Battambang.
"In the past we grew oranges on this land, but in the late '90s my husband saw ads on television about making wine, and we became interested in the process," she said.
" Each day we get anywhere from 10 to 100 tourists tasting our wine ..." 
"At first, it was not easy, and we faced many challenges with the grapes, like insects, birds, over-watering and disease," she said. "But we are farmers, so we just kept growing them, keeping an eye on them and learning from each challenge."
Leng Chan Thol explained that, although some grapes do grow naturally in Cambodia, they are not necessarily the best variety for wine production.
The grapes grown and harvested at Chan Thay Chhoueng are mainly Shiraz, cabernet sauvignon and merlot varietals imported from France, America, Australia and Japan.
Typically, these varietals take well to warm climates, and the 3 hectares of mineral rich and fertile soil at Chan Thay Chhoueng, combined with plentiful sunshine and adequate rainfall, work together to provide an abundant harvest for Leng Chan Thol and her family.
"November to March is the best growing season for the grapes, but sometimes we can harvest the grapes up to three times a year, unlike Europe or the Americas where you might only get one harvest a year," Leng Chan Thol said.
"Usually it takes about six months to a year after harvesting for the wine to be ready to drink."
After harvesting the grapes, Leng Chan Thol and her family crush them by hand in large plastic containers. They then transfer the wine to stainless steel vats where yeast is added to aid in the fermentation process, and the wine is left to ferment for six months to a year. All bottling, corking and labelling is done on-site.
The most popular product is the 2005 vintage Shiraz-merlot blend, which retails at US$15 a bottle. Typical of young Shiraz and merlot varietals grown in hot climates, the wine is a rich ruby-red colour, with aromas of blackberries, raspberries and chocolate.
Another big seller is the Phnom Banon brandy produced at the plantation and named after the nearby mountain and ancient temple site.
Caramel-gold in colour and 40 proof, the brandy packs a powerful punch but is not harsh, with a smooth, sweet aftertaste reminiscent of tropical whiskeys without the bite. Bottles retail at $12.
The Chan Thay Chhoueng plantation also sells a sweet, blush-coloured rose for $6 and a light, fruity, non-alcoholic grape juice for $1.50 per bottle.
For Leng Chan Thol and her family, the effort and risk has paid off.
Small buyers and wholesalers now come from all over Cambodia and abroad to buy their products, and in 2006 Prime Minister Hun Sen paid Chan Thay Chhoueng a visit, lauding Leng Chan Thol for her pioneering spirit.
"Each day we get anywhere from 10 to 100 tourists tasting our wine," she said.
"So now, all those people who thought I would fail, well, I think they are quite embarrassed about their lack of faith."
And Leng Chan Thol's ambition doesn't stop there. Her plans for the future include purchasing more land to plant different grape varietals and a small restaurant that serves dishes using fresh, organic produce grown on-site.
Chan Thay Chhoueng plantation is located at #72, Bot Sala Village, Banon District, 16 kilometres south of Battambang City. For more information call 012 665 238.
Saturday, 13. June 2009, 14:21:41
Cupid Vietnam
Thomas and Candy refused to let anything get in the way of their life together
When adventurous Sunway travel consultant Thomas McEvatt went to live in Vietnam, he couldn't have predicted that he'd find his very own Miss Saigon during his first month there. And he probably wouldn't have dreamt that he'd be married to her seven weeks later.
It was on May 25, 2007, that Thomas, 30, went to check out a new bar in Saigon with a friend, and it was there that he met his future wife.
"I walked in, and saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," he says. "She introduced herself to me as Candy, and we just hit it off straight away. A lot of Vietnamese girls are very shy, but Candy was outgoing and fun. I liked her cheekiness -- the way she'd pinch my arse going by and that kind of thing."
The relationship progressed at a very rapid rate, and within a month the pair decided to get married. They tied the knot on July 17, but first of all there was the matter of the nerve-wracking phone-call that Thomas had to make to his mother, Dolly, in Ballybrack, Dublin. Then again, Dolly had probably come to expect the unexpected from her son at this stage.
"She was great when I told her that we were getting married, and said all that mattered was that I was happy," he says.
"My brother and sisters and some people in the Sunway office thought that I was crazy and it was too fast, but I told them that they had to just go with me on this one."
The fun-loving Thomas joined Sunway in August 2004, and soon became its top seller in long haul. This was in addition to his self-appointed CEO role, or Chief Entertainment Officer, for the company.
He first visited Vietnam when Sunway decided to feature it as a destination, and loved it so much that he promptly booked another trip. While there, he met two American expats, and the easy lifestyle they were enjoying really appealed to him.
Although his family and friends expressed concerns, Thomas's mind was made up, and he handed in his notice and moved to Vietnam in May 2007. After several interviews, he was offered the position of general manager in a hotel in the beautiful town of Hoi An.
It was mere weeks after arrival that he met Candy, who was born in Saigon. Her real name is Phuoc, which Thomas jokes can sound offensive in an Irish tongue.
Candy has three sisters, and they were raised by an aunt and uncle, as their parents died, separately, when she was small. She worked as a hairdresser and in a bar, and also has a young son, Tin, from a previous relationship.
"This didn't bother me as I fell for my wife and everything about her," says Thomas. "Tin is five, and is a very smart kid. We hit it off straight away, due to my extensive viewing of American wrestling."
Although Candy's English still needs improvement, Thomas says that they are blissfully happy, and manage to communicate with one another very well.
"We don't talk about politics or anything like that, but we understand each other," he laughs. "When I first arrived in Vietnam, I invested in a children's picture dictionary, which was the best thing ever for getting me out of trouble."
Candy says that she thinks Thomas is amazing, and she likes both his family and Ireland very much.
"He's very special," she says. "My number one!"
Four months after they married, Thomas and Candy discovered that they were expecting a baby. Wanting to move back to Saigon, where maternity facilities were better, Thomas contacted Sunway and asked if there was any capacity in which he could work for the company.
He gave his notice at the hotel while Sunway investigated the possibilities for him, mere days before welcoming the then Tanaiste Brian Cowen and his family as hotel guests.
Once a few technical issues were sorted out, Thomas was back working for Sunway by June 2008. While he sells all Sunway long-haul destinations, he specialises in Vietnam, naturally enough. It hasn't been commercialised as much as other countries, he says, and its people have a friendliness that is genuine and a real willingness to help visitors.
"It has the best beaches I've ever seen, and is amazing value for money," he says. "Candy and I find it hard to spend a tenner between us when we go out for dinner."
Thomas works Irish hours, and is connected to the Sunway system, so anyone calling to book is as likely to be put through to him as any other member of the team. And judging by the rapturous reception he received when I met him with Candy in the office in Dun Laoghaire, he is still a very popular member of staff.
The system is working well, and despite being more than 12 hours away by plane, Thomas is still the company's top-seller for long haul.
"It's as if I'm merely next door, although I miss the craic in the Sunway office," he says. "I miss my family too, although I talk to my mam a few times every week. She came over in April for a holiday, and when I left her at the airport, I was crying."
Thomas and Candy's beautiful baby, Saoirse, was born on July 10 last year, and she is known by her Vietnamese pet name, Jerry. This is because of the obvious pronunciation difficulties, and also because Candy was familiar with the TV cartoon Tom and Jerry. As her husband was Thomas, she thought Jerry would be a great name for the baby.
"When Jerry was born, it was one of the happiest days of my life," says Thomas. "We called her Saoirse because I'd have pretty nationalist beliefs. I wound my poor Mam up by telling her that, as I have a lot of respect for Gerry Adams, I was calling the baby after him. Then I told her I was only joking, and it was really after Tom and Jerry!"
For information on Sunway Travel, please visit www.sunway.ie
- Andrea Smith
independent.ie
Sunday, 7. June 2009, 14:46:11
Silver Tay, William McGonagall, Dundee, Emperor of Brazil
BEAUTIFUL Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave
His home far away, incognito in his dress,
And view thee ere he passed along en route to Inverness.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
The longest of the present day
That has ever crossed o'er a tidal river stream,
Most gigantic to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
Which will cause great rejoicing on the opening day
And hundreds of people will come from far away,
Also the Queen, most gorgeous to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
And prosperity to Provost Cox, who has given
Thirty thousand pounds and upwards away
In helping to erect the Bridge of the Tay,
Most handsome to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
I hope that God will protect all passengers
By night and by day,
And that no accident will befall them while crossing
The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
For that would be most awful to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Grothe,
The famous engineers of the present day,
Who have succeeded in erecting the Railway
Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
Which stands unequalled to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Sunday, 8. February 2009, 07:11:15
except black women
"The rest? There is no rest. Only to my experience the mass of women are like this: most of them want a man, but don't want the sex, but they put up with it, as part of the bargain. The more old-fashioned sort just lie there like nothing and let you go ahead. They don't mind afterwards: then they like you. But the actual thing itself is nothing to them, a bit distasteful. Add most men like it that way. I hate it. But the sly sort of women who are like that pretend they're not. They pretend they're passionate and have thrills. But it's all cockaloopy. They make it up. Then there's the ones that love everything, every kind of feeling and cuddling and going off, every kind except the natural one. They always make you go off when you're not in the only place you should be, when you go off.---Then there's the hard sort, that are the devil to bring off at all, and bring themselves off, like my wife. They want to be the active party.---Then there's the sort that's just dead inside: but dead: and they know it. Then there's the sort that puts you out before you really 'come', and go on writhing their loins till they bring themselves off against your thighs. But they're mostly the Lesbian sort. It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously or unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian."
"And do you mind?" asked Connie.
"I could kill them. When I'm with a woman who's really Lesbian, I fairly howl in my soul, wanting to kill her."
"And what do you do?"
"Just go away as fast as I can."
"But do you think Lesbian women any worse than homosexual men?"
" I do! Because I've suffered more from them. In the abstract, I've no idea. When I get with a Lesbian woman, whether she knows she's one or not, I see red. No, no! But I wanted to have nothing to do with any woman any more. I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency."
He looked pale, and his brows were sombre.
"And were you sorry when I came along?" she asked.
"I was sorry and I was glad."
"And what are you now?"
"I'm sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination that's bound to come, sooner or later. That's when my blood sinks, and I'm low. But when my blood comes up, I'm glad. I'm even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex left: never a woman who'd really ``come'' naturally with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we're white men: and they're a bit like mud."
Saturday, 7. February 2009, 17:08:46
Lady Chatterley's Rendez-Vous
And she went with him to the hut. It was quite dark when he had shut the door, so he made a small light in the lantern, as before.
"Have you left your underthings off?" he asked her.
"Yes!"
"Ay, well, then I'll take my things off too."
He spread the blankets, putting one at the side for a coverlet. She took off her hat, and shook her hair. He sat down, taking off his shoes and gaiters, and undoing his cord breeches.
"Lie down then!" he said, when he stood in his shirt. She obeyed in silence, and he lay beside her, and pulled the blanket over them both.
"There!" he said.
And he lifted her dress right back, till he came even to her breasts. He kissed them softly, taking the nipples in his lips in tiny caresses.
"Eh, but tha'rt nice, tha'rt nice!" he said, suddenly rubbing his face with a snuggling movement against her warm belly.
And she put her arms round him under his shirt, but she was afraid, afraid of his thin, smooth, naked body, that seemed so powerful, afraid of the violent muscles. She shrank, afraid.
And when he said, with a sort of little sigh: "Eh, tha'rt nice!" something in her quivered, and something in her spirit stiffened in resistance: stiffened from the terribly physical intimacy, and from the peculiar haste of his possession. And this time the sharp ecstasy of her own passion did not overcome her; she lay with her ends inert on his striving body, and do what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to her, and the sort of anxiety of his penis to come to its little evacuating crisis seemed farcical. Yes, this was love, this ridiculous bouncing of the buttocks, and the wilting of the poor, insignificant, moist little penis. This was the divine love! After all, the moderns were right when they felt contempt for the performance; for it was a performance. It was quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humour, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance. Even a Maupassant found it a humiliating anti-climax. Men despised the intercourse act, and yet did it.
Cold and derisive her queer female mind stood apart, and though she lay perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her loins, and throw the man out, escape his ugly grip, and the butting over-riding of his absurd haunches. His body was a foolish, impudent, imperfect thing, a little disgusting in its unfinished clumsiness. For surely a complete evolution would eliminate this performance, this "function".
And yet when he had finished, soon over, and lay very very still, receding into silence, and a strange motionless distance, far, farther than the horizon of her awareness, her heart began to weep. She could feel him ebbing away, ebbing away, leaving her there like a stone on a shore. He was withdrawing, his spirit was leaving her. He knew.
And in real grief, tormented by her own double consciousness and reaction, she began to weep. He took no notice, or did not even know. The storm of weeping swelled and shook her, and shook him.
"Ay!" he said. "It was no good that time. You wasn't there."---So he knew! Her sobs became violent.
"But what's amiss?" he said. "It's once in a while that way."
"I. . .I can't love you," she sobbed, suddenly feeling her heart breaking.
"Canna ter? Well, dunna fret! There's no law says as tha's got to. Ta'e it for what it is."
He still lay with his hand on her breast. But she had drawn both her hands from him.
His words were small comfort. She sobbed aloud.
"Nay, nay!" he said. "Ta'e the thick wi' th' thin. This wor a bit o' thin for once."
She wept bitterly, sobbing. "But I want to love you, and I can't. It only seems horrid."
He laughed a little, half bitter, half amused.
"It isna horrid," he said, "even if tha thinks it is. An' tha canna ma'e it horrid. Dunna fret thysen about lovin' me. Tha'lt niver force thysen to `t. There's sure to be a bad nut in a basketful. Tha mun ta'e th' rough wi' th' smooth."
He took his hand away from her breast, not touching her. And now she was untouched she took an almost perverse satisfaction in it. She hated the dialect: the thee and the tha and the thysen. He could get up if he liked, and stand there, above her, buttoning down those absurd corduroy breeches, straight in front of her. After all, Michaelis had had the decency to turn away. This man was so assured in himself he didn't know what a clown other people found him, a half-bred fellow.
Yet, as he was drawing away, to rise silently and leave her, she clung to him in terror.
"Don't! Don't go! Don't leave me! Don't be cross with me! Hold me! Hold me fast!" she whispered in blind frenzy, not even knowing what she said, and clinging to him with uncanny force. It was from herself she wanted to be saved, from her own inward anger and resistance. Yet how powerful was that inward resistance that possessed her!
He took her in his arms again and drew her to him, and suddenly she became small in his arms, small and nestling. It was gone, the resistance was gone, and she began to melt in a marvellous peace. And as she melted small and wonderful in his arms, she became infinitely desirable to him, all his blood-vessels seemed to scald with intense yet tender desire, for her, for her softness, for the penetrating beauty of her in his arms, passing into his blood. And softly, with that marvellous swoon-like caress of his hand in pure soft desire, softly he stroked the silky slope of her loins, down, down between her soft warm buttocks, coming nearer and nearer to the very quick of her. And she felt him like a flame of desire, yet tender, and she felt herself melting in the flame. She let herself go. She felt his penis risen against her with silent amazing force and assertion and she let herself go to him She yielded with a quiver that was like death, she went all open to him. And oh, if he were not tender to her now, how cruel, for she was all open to him and helpless!
She quivered again at the potent inexorable entry inside her, so strange and terrible. It might come with the thrust of a sword in her softly-opened body, and that would be death. She clung in a sudden anguish of terror. But it came with a strange slow thrust of peace, the dark thrust of peace and a ponderous, primordial tenderness, such as made the world in the beginning. And her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared to be gone in peace, she held nothing. She dared to let go everything, all herself and be gone in the flood.
And it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves rising and heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly her whole darkness was in motion, and she was Ocean rolling its dark, dumb mass. Oh, and far down inside her the deeps parted and rolled asunder, in long, fair-travelling billows, and ever, at the quick of her, the depths parted and rolled asunder, from the centre of soft plunging, as the plunger went deeper and deeper, touching lower, and she was deeper and deeper and deeper disclosed, the heavier the billows of her rolled away to some shore, uncovering her, and closer and closer plunged the palpable unknown, and further and further rolled the waves of herself away from herself leaving her, till suddenly, in a soft, shuddering convulsion, the quick of all her plasm was touched, she knew herself touched, the consummation was upon her, and she was gone. She was gone, she was not, and she was born: a woman.
Ah, too lovely, too lovely! In the ebbing she realized all the loveliness. Now all her body clung with tender love to the unknown man, and blindly to the wilting penis, as it so tenderly, frailly, unknowingly withdrew, after the fierce thrust of its potency. As it drew out and left her body, the secret, sensitive thing, she gave an unconscious cry of pure loss, and she tried to put it back. It had been so perfect! And she loved it so!
And only now she became aware of the small, bud-like reticence and tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder and poignancy escaped her again, her woman's heart crying out over the tender frailty of that which had been the power.
"It was so lovely!" she moaned. "It was so lovely!" But he said nothing, only softly kissed her, lying still above her. And she moaned with a sort Of bliss, as a sacrifice, and a newborn thing.
And now in her heart the queer wonder of him was awakened. A man! The strange potency of manhood upon her! Her hands strayed over him, still a little afraid. Afraid of that strange, hostile, slightly repulsive thing that he had been to her, a man. And now she touched him, and it was the sons of god with the daughters of men. How beautiful he felt, how pure in tissue! How lovely, how lovely, strong, and yet pure and delicate, such stillness of the sensitive body! Such utter stillness of potency and delicate flesh. How beautiful! How beautiful! Her hands came timorously down his back, to the soft, smallish globes of the buttocks. Beauty! What beauty! a sudden little flame of new awareness went through her. How was it possible, this beauty here, where she had previously only been repelled? The unspeakable beauty to the touch of the warm, living buttocks! The life within life, the sheer warm, potent loveliness. And the strange weight of the balls between his legs! What a mystery! What a strange heavy weight of mystery, that could lie soft and heavy in one's hand! The roots, root of all that is lovely, the primeval root of all full beauty.
She clung to him, with a hiss of wonder that was almost awe, terror. He held her close, but he said nothing. He would never say anything. She crept nearer to him, nearer, only to be near to the sensual wonder of him. And out of his utter, incomprehensible stillness, she felt again the slow momentous, surging rise of the phallus again, the other power. And her heart melted out with a kind of awe.
And this time his being within her was all soft and iridescent, purely soft and iridescent, such as no consciousness could seize. Her whole self quivered unconscious and alive, like plasm. She could not know what it was. She could not remember what it had been. Only that it had been more lovely than anything ever could be. Only that. And afterwards she was utterly still, utterly unknowing, she was not aware for how long. And he was still with her, in an unfathomable silence along with her. And of this, they would never speak.
When awareness of the outside began to come back, she clung to his breast, murmuring `My love! My love!' And he held her silently. And she curled on his breast, perfect.
But his silence was fathomless. His hands held her like flowers, so still aid strange. "Where are you?" she whispered to him. "Where are you? Speak to me! Say something to me!"
He kissed her softly, murmuring: "Ay, my lass!"
But she did not know what he meant, she did not know where he was. In his silence he seemed lost to her.
"You love me, don't you?" she murmured.
"Ay, tha knows!" he said.
"But tell me!" she pleaded.
"Ay! Ay! 'asn't ter felt it?" he said dimly, but softly and surely. And she clung close to him, closer. He was so much more peaceful in love than she was, and she wanted him to reassure her.
"You do love me!" she whispered, assertive. And his hands stroked her softly, as if she were a flower, without the quiver of desire, but with delicate nearness. And still there haunted her a restless necessity to get a grip on love.
"Say you'll always love me!" she pleaded.
"Ay!" he said, abstractedly. And she felt her questions driving him away from her.
"Mustn't we get up?" he said at last.
"No!" she said.
But she could feel his consciousness straying, listening to the noises outside.
"It'll be nearly dark," he said. And she heard the pressure of circumstances in his voice. She kissed him, with a woman's grief at yielding up her hour.
He rose, and turned up the lantern, then began to pull on his clothes, quickly disappearing inside them. Then he stood there, above her, fastening his breeches and looking down at her with dark, wide-eyes, his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him. She would never have him. So she lay on the blanket with curved, soft naked haunches, and he had no idea what she was thinking, but to him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvellous thing he could go into, beyond everything.
Saturday, 7. February 2009, 16:07:33
Paris&traveller
But she was not happy in London. The people seemed so spectral and blank. They had no alive happiness, no matter how brisk and good-looking they were. It was all barren. And Connie had a woman's blind craving for happiness, to be assured of happiness.
In Paris at any rate she felt a bit of sensuality still. But what a weary, tired, worn-out sensuality. Worn-out for lack of tenderness. Oh! Paris was sad. One of the saddest towns: weary of its now-mechanical sensuality, weary of the tension of money, money, money, weary even of resentment and conceit, just weary to death, and still not sufficiently Americanized or Londonized to hide the weariness under a mechanical jig-jig-jig! Ah, these manly he-men, these flâneurs, the oglers, these eaters of good dinners! How weary they were! weary, worn-out for lack of a little tenderness, given and taken. The efficient, sometimes charming women knew a thing or two about the sensual realities: they had that pull over their jigging English sisters. But they knew even less of tenderness. Dry, with the endless dry tension of will, they too were wearing out. The human world was just getting worn out. Perhaps it would turn fiercely destructive. A sort of anarchy! Clifford and his conservative anarchy! Perhaps it wouldn't be conservative much longer. Perhaps it would develop into a very radical anarchy.
Connie found herself shrinking and afraid of the world. Sometimes she was happy for a little while in the Boulevards or in the Bois or the Luxembourg Gardens. But already Paris was full of Americans and English, strange Americans in the oddest uniforms, and the usual dreary English that are so hopeless abroad.
She was glad to drive on. It was suddenly hot weather, so Hilda was going through Switzerland and over the Brenner, then through the Dolomites down to Venice. Hilda loved all the managing and the driving and being mistress of the show. Connie was quite content to keep quiet.
And the trip was really quite nice. Only Connie kept saying to herself: Why don't I really care! Why am I never really thrilled? How awful, that I don't really care about the landscape any more! But I don't. It's rather awful. I'm like Saint Bernard, who could sail down the lake of Lucerne without ever noticing that there were even mountain and green water. I just don't care for landscape any more. Why should one stare at it? Why should one? I refuse to.
No, she found nothing vital in France or Switzerland or the Tyrol or Italy. She just was carted through it all. And it was all less real than Wragby. Less real than the awful Wragby! She felt she didn't care if she never saw France or Switzerland or Italy again. They'd keep. Wragby was more real.
As for people! people were all alike, with very little difference. They all wanted to get money out of you: or, if they were travellers, they wanted to get enjoyment, perforce, like squeezing blood out of a stone. Poor mountains! poor landscape! it all had to be squeezed and squeezed and squeezed again, to provide a thrill, to provide enjoyment. What did people mean, with their simply determined enjoying of themselves?
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satiracally cunning staffs of tourism office@HK intl. airport always recommend the guesthouse/hostels/B&Bs in chungking mansion to late arrival budget travellers/independent backpackers alike...
WIDGETIZE