Dreaming of the Osaka Sun

Or, Coldplay and Kansai

Part 1: And They Were All Yellow

Japan has always held a mean hold on my heart. Mythical in its pop culture influence, which has swayed this young gentleman since childhood, it is placed in my personal strata of Untouchable Coolness shared only by England and New York City. Though certain 20th century historical events tend to interfere with my complete, guilt-free devotion to all things Japanese, I still love Japan.

On my two previous outings to Nippon, both experiences were vastly different. In 2002, I visited the Southern island of Okinawa with my fellow exchange students studying abroad with me in Taiwan. A few friends from our group were from Okinawa, so we were lucky to have free housing, tour guides and drivers. Hardly a harrowing experience. In addition, the overwhelming (and unwanted) presence of all the Americans stationed at the US military base gave Okinawa a weird Bizzaro-Hawaii feeling, like parts of the island were stuck in 1950s small town America. So one minute, we're enjoying burgers at an authentic drive-in joint serviced by waitresses on roller skates, next minute we're downing sake and sashimi on a tatami mat. In fact, many young Okinawans don't even consider themselves real "Japanese" (history here and here). Though it was my first foray into the country, it didn't feel quite "Japanese" enough, like going to Hong Kong and expecting the mainland. It's just different.

In 2006, some friends and I made a pilgrimage to Tokyo to catch U2 on their Vertigo World Tour. Emerging for the first time onto the streets of downtown, I was immediately thrust into a scene from Lost In Translation: salarymen, cosplay freaks, punks, fashionistas, obasans and a whole load of neon. It was glorious sensory overload. Everything I had hoped to experience from the Japan-in-my-dreams was true and right in front of me. However, due to language barriers and slight cultural differences, I felt like a complete buffoon. Without the ability to intelligently communicate, I was reduced to hand signaling, lots of pointing, one or two butchered Japanese phrases and a permanent smile - aimed to be friendly but actually beseeching the locals to pity me - plastered on my face. This was worse than Okinawa (but far better than interacting with the French on their home turf). Here, we were on our own without a local friend to hold our hands. Yet despite the difficulties, it was still one of the most rewarding travel experiences I've ever had.

On this most recent trip, I was slightly more confident, having full knowledge of what I was up against and sure I'd have at least one hilarious cultural faux pas story to bring back to Shanghai. I still wasn't looking forward to all the sign language and broken "arigato"s, but if there was one surefire cure for the anxiety, it comes in the package of four lads from London playing big arena (soft) rock.

Ah, Coldplay, the band that captured my heart in 2001 and hasn't returned it since, whose albums have soundtracked all the ups and downs of my heretofore adult life. This would be the second time in 3 years that I'd fly overseas to see them (and my third show of theirs, overall), which is more effort than my favorite band - nine inch nails - ever received (up to this point, at least... Taipei '09!!!). But this Coldplay show was even more special than any display of fandom could describe.

If you recall a little incident from June 2008, wherein my partner in crime and I were prevented from seeing Coldplay at London's Brixton Academy, you may remember the extreme disappointment and hopelessness that we felt, standing outside the venue with nothing to do but curse fate and our bad luck. And shady scalping wankers. It may seem foolish on the surface, but we had been waiting for years for that opportunity, which once again slipped through our fingers. Let me explain.

In 2002, at the start of our friendship, Sandra and I discovered that we both had an unhealthy obsession for Coldplay. That year, we missed the Rush of Blood Tour and made an impromptu promise that we'd eventually see them together. After graduation, years passed without much contact. In 2006, weeks after I saw Coldplay in Singapore with my fellow Coldplay superfan from North Africa, I flew to Taiwan to visit relatives and we got reconnected. Upon finding out I had seen the band mere weeks before (and punching me playfully in the arm), we promised that next time Coldplay were in Asia, we had to go with one another. Three years, Muse in Taipei, Radiohead in London, and one failed attempt later, Coldplay announced the Asian leg of their Viva La Vida world tour. Emotional confetti was not the only thing exploding inside me when I received the news.

Booking through the friend of a friend in a complicated presale lottery, I scored a pair of "Standing" area tickets for the February 14 show in Osaka. Everything was perfect. I was elated. Not only would we see our band on such a special day, it would be amongst the sweaty throngs of Japanese youth on the floor of the arena with us. And the three months of waiting began.

Part 2: Where Do We Go, Nobody Knows

Although on all internet sites (even Coldplay.com), the concert was listed as being in Osaka, it was actually in Kobe. Not a bit misleading at all. However, I was all-too-happy to add another destination to the itinerary. On this trip, I finagled a few vacation days to expand my journey to a full 5 days, so I also added Kyoto to the mix. Thus, over one very long weekend, I would blow wads of money in the food and shopping mecca of Osaka; sample the world's best beef in Kobe; and drown in the ancient riches of the old capital city, Kyoto. The Kansai region of Japan boasts such an impressive amount of cultural firepower in a very concentrated area (Osaka, Kobe, Kyoto, Hiroshima, Himeji) that you could spend months here and still have items remaining on your checklist.

See what I told you? It's awesome.

On the first day, we met up at Kansai International Airport, having flown from Taipei and Shanghai separately. Customs and immigration were a breeze, the layout of the building was not confusing at all. The pure sense and order were so refreshing, considering just a few hours before I had been in chaotic China. In fact, the airport is one of the coolest I've ever been to. Though nothing can compete with Singapore's Changi Wonderland, you might as well forget about the rest of the world's airports. Does your favorite airport have a Starbucks AND a Uniqlo? I didn't think so.

At our designated meeting spot, I was momentarily panicked because she was nowhere in sight. Then, from the airport intercom, a barely audible announcement: "Mistah Niiii-ru Yang-san, yoru fwlend is-a waiting [incomprehensible]." I thought I heard my name, but in the broken English, I honestly thought it was just something in Japanese. It ran a few more times, but I was none the wiser. My heightened panic disappeared when she popped out of customs, detained because I failed to give her our hotel address beforehand, forcing her to concoct a hotel locale on the spot. Oops! Crisis averted, we now faced the daunting task of getting into town.

From the airport to downtown Osaka, the most convenient mode of transport is by the "limousine bus" service, which costs 1500 JPY one way, cheaper if you buy a round-trip ticket (2700 JPY). Subway and express train also offer their services, but the bus remains affordable and you can catch a glimpse of Osaka Bay as you make your way into the heart of the city. It wasn't very difficult for us to find the bus, though there are three Kansai airport employees still wondering about my mental condition who may beg to differ, after I inexplicably accosted them in broken Mandarin. They all look the same, eh? This was going to be a long trip...

Osaka Bay

Plopping down on the clean, fresh-smelling and entirely phlegm-free seats, I was excited. The television screen at the front of the bus had every important notice and announcement in clear English, which did wonders for my anxiety. So far, communicating with locals was easy, no matter how foolish I looked with my arms waving around and all the sumimasens and arigato gozaimasus. Everything seemed to make sense. So far, so good.

Pulling in to the New Hankyu Hotel in the heart of Umeda district, we were thrust into the thick of afternoon pedestrian traffic. With armies of people zipping around us, robotic in their precision and stride, it was briefly disconcerting. Then, diving headlong into the flow of bodies, we descended the nearest staircase and entered the maze of tunnels in search of the subway.

Osaka is famous for its underground. However, while their subway system is indeed convenient, that isn't the only thing below street level. Osaka's underground malls are some of the largest in the world, some spanning the length of multiple city blocks and interconnecting with subway stations and basement access to the towering skyscrapers that cover the metropolis. Combined with the covered pedestrian shopping streets above ground, you could potentially spend an entire day without an ounce of sunlight. Perfect for rainy days, as we would learn that night.

In the subterranean labyrinth below Umeda, lesser warriors might break down in the face of all the confusion. If you've been to Tokyo, you are aware of the mayhem. In Japan, subway and railway lines are all interconnected, creating a massive web of tracks that can take you all over the country. Each line is owned by a different entity, whether it's the city metro or one of the Japan Railway (JR) branches, which require separate tickets from separate kiosks from separate sections of an already sprawling station. Once you get the hang of it, it all makes sense. But for first-timers (or second- and third-timers...), it is extremely daunting. Following the signs as best we could - and Sandra taking her turn with inexplicable language flubs while asking directions in British-accented English (what is wrong with us?!) - we finally found the correct subway line. Now the only problem was how to buy a ticket.


Now, I'm aware that what follows might mark me as some simpleton who lacks common sense and wits. But I tell you, buying a train ticket in Japan is a pain in the ass. Almost as bad as buying a stupid Charlie Card in Boston, but not really (Charlie takes the cake for sheer idiocy). It took us a few tries to get it, harassing countless dumbfounded Japanese who tried their best to help us, so let me just save you some time:

1. Find your stop on the colorful map on the wall.
2. Disregard all of the Japanese scribble on the ticket-kiosk screen.
3. Dump sufficient funds into the little money-hole on the machine.
4. Press the red button flashing your desired fee amount.
5. Take ticket and any change you may have coming to you.
6. Exhale.

Even the Coldplay puppets know how to buy a subway ticket...

I have no idea why there is a bunch of writing on the screens that only serve to confuse a new user. Pressing "English" didn't do much; it just made me even more frustrated that I couldn't understand this machine in my native tongue. Just toss in that money and get your ticket, simple as that. Hopefully I remember this on my next trip, because I don't want to waste any more time figuring out something so obvious.

On the subway car, it was bliss. Granted, these are the same folks that employ people-pushers to cram passengers onto crowded trains during rush hour. But unlike the daily apocalypse that we experience on the Shanghai subway, everything here is so orderly. Train stops. Door opens. People slowly get off. People slowly get on. Door shuts. Train goes. Life continues. None of this pushing and shoving and little kids and old women getting trampled under hundreds of stinky, unwashed feet. No invasion of personal bubble space with foul halitosis and rugby-style scrumming. No tears of frustration, cries of anguish, passive-aggressive low blows to the idiot that just stepped on your new shoes in his frenzied attempt to catch that one empty seat. I was actually enjoying this foray into public transportation. I daresay it was relaxing. And I didn't even get molested by a salaryman!

The Women Only subway cars were created to keep them safe from molesting salarymen. Genius.

At Shinsaibashi station, we alighted and began the final leg of the journey to our hotel. On my handy printed map that I had pored over for hours prior to arrival, I deduced that our hotel was a mere 4 blocks south, 3 blocks east from the subway station. But with 6 different exits and unlabeled alleyways, it proved otherwise. Yippee.


Emerging from the bowels of Osaka, I thought I was in New York City. Tall and stately concrete buildings, grand and imposing in their classic style, with tree-lined sidewalks and manageable clumps of impeccably dressed pedestrians. The grid-layout of the streets made it even more inviting. I thought this would be a breeze. So, 4-blocks-south-3-blocks-east and we were....lost.

I couldn't figure out what went wrong, and in typical guy fashion, refused to ask for directions because A.) It's embarrassing; B.) How could I communicate with a local anyway?; C.) Hurts the pride, folks, hurts the pride. So, lest we waste all day watching Neil look around aimlessly for street signs that don't exist, Sandra popped into a nearby flower shop to see if the poor shop keep could decipher our map. Luckily, she had a handy printout of the area (note to self: flower shops have delivery service that requires knowledge of local environs. Genius!) and pointed us toward the right spot, which we had passed long, long ago.

Backtracking through the patchwork weave of one-way lanes, I noticed an unhealthy abundance of karaoke bars and signs with scantily-clad Japanese girls crawling over each other with squinty come-hither eyes. More than a few times, we were accosted by eager, yet polite, young people offering us special discounts on karaoke rooms and lady friends. Tempting indeed, but I was not to be distracted so early in the game. Barreling forth, we finally found our hotel. [To sate your curiosity, it was actually 2-blocks-south-2-blocks-east.]

Comfort Hotel
1-15-15, HIGASHI-SHINSAIBASHI,
CHUO-KU, OSAKA, OSAKA 542-0083, JAPAN

Part 3: They're Talking In A Language I Don't Speak

Dumping our luggage and making ourselves pretty for the sidewalk fashion show about to commence, we could finally see Osaka with undivided attention. Apologies to Tokyo, but the energy and surroundings of Osaka were more my cup of tea. Though I've already compared it to the Big Apple, Osaka is more like the Boston to Toyko's Manhattan: humble and hearty citizens, proud of their city and culture, and almost as maniacal for their Hanshin Tigers as Bostonians are for the Sox (they even believe in retarded curses!). By American standards, the streets were still packed, but it wasn't too obscene. It also wasn't as noisy and the streetside pace not as lightspeed as in Tokyo. In a strange way, it was rejuvenating.

Shinsaibashi Shopping Street

Unfortunately, due to one bastard boss, I would be flying solo for 3/5 of this trip, making this the only night available for team shopping. This was a crushing disappointment, but I had to focus. We had both left our respective jobs and flown all the way to Japan for Coldplay, slated to be the best concert ever. But before turning to soft putty in Chris Martin's hands, we had some serious retail therapy to attend to. Why hasn't Sophie Kinsella written a Shopaholic in Osaka book yet?

Objective 1: Uniqlo.
Objective 2: Cosmetics, sundries, toiletries.
Objective 3: Snack foods.

It was quite simple, actually. Genius that I am, I picked a hotel that was conveniently located about one block from Shinsaibashi pedestrian shopping lane. Numerous chemist shops (think Boots, CVS or Watson's, but filled with Japanese goodies) dotted the street, making it true one-stop shopping. Stepping foot into the massive four-floor Uniqlo (swoon!), I felt momentarily light-headed. Partially due to the increased selection, but primarily because I hadn't eaten all day.

Across the street at an affordable fast food joint, we tried our hand at ordering. To my happy surprise, this is criminally easy in Japan.

1. Acquire menu.
2. Find dish to your liking.
3. Point at it.
4. Pay.
5. Nod your head a bunch of times to denote "thanks."
6. Enjoy.

Tray in hand, I ordered a bowl of udon and a small plate of chicken curry. All for less than 5 USD. Free flow tea and piles of pickled radish were tiny comforts as I wolfed down my food, carbing up for maximum energy to help fuel the forthcoming shopping cardio workout.



Back in Uniqlo, I was momentarily tempted to create a makeshift fort in a dark corner of the store where I could live forever. The Phantom of the Uniqlo. That sleek black trenchcoat could be stretched open as my roof, a pile of ankle-cut socks as my walls, maybe some colorful jeans braided together for decoration. Oh, that denim. The new Spring line had just hit the shelves and I almost went into a diabetic coma from all the sweet, candy-colored hues of jeans, shirts and hoodies that were calling my name. With a steady mix of Rihanna, T.I., MGMT, Britney and Radiohead pumping through the speakers, I honestly couldn't have been happier. And the sales. Oh, the sales... I felt like that proverbial kid in the friggin' candy store, gah! Making quick judgment from what I saw, green and purple are in this year, as are Easter egg pastels. Jeans and khakis are also going to see plenty of cuff-rolling, with boat shoes coming back in full force. I knew it was coming, but never thought it'd be so soon: return of the 80s, baby. My brain went into mix-and-match overload at all the possibilities I had missed out on in my poorer, younger years growing up in the MTV generation. Start buying stock in Hypercolor. It's all coming back!

Paradise, Thy Name Is Uniqlo!

We emerged for our first breath of fresh outdoor air after over an hour of shopping. Though I found their sizes to be somewhat screwy (when you see me purchasing an XL-size shirt, you know there's something fishy going on), the selection was unbeatable. Sales were better. Selection of colors was better. Everything was optimized to make me totally happy from entrance to exit.

Captures the sentiment nicely...

Next on the list, the daily sundries. Japanese face wash, Japanese vitamins, Japanese mini-inventions that you never thought you needed but make your life so easy. Japanese candy and snacks, funny drinks in colorful bottles. Stationary, glorious stationary. It had started drizzling, so those ubiquitous clear plastic umbrellas were in piles outside the shops. Too bad I didn't have any check-in luggage, as I was half-tempted to snatch up an armful of these babies for stockpiling purposes.

Follow The Yellow Neon Road

While Sandra went on a cosmetics hunt with a wishlist of requests from half the female population of Taipei, I wandered around outside. Much like NYC, people watching in Japan is awesome. There are so many freaks and should-be models walking around that I was having trouble processing it all. Red-mohawk with 5-inch shit-kicker Doc Martens dude, little schoolgirls with heavy goth makeup and chunky radish calves, gaggles of white-eyeliner chicks with tanned skin and bleach-blonde hair, painfully cool hipsters in the latest fashion combinations and everpresent Chuck Taylors. Even the salarymen in their pressed bespoke suits, sleek black trenchcoats and impeccably shined leather shoes looked good without even trying. I know I may have made fleeting mention that Londoners were the pinnacle of cool fashion, but I retract that statement. So Summer '08. Everyone in Japan looks so good it hurts. Even the little kids dress better than me. And that is no lie.

Little Bitch Be Stylin'

Style Police Say These Dudes Are Not Stylish Enough

As I admired the local style, a familiar siren called out to me from across a herd of obnoxious Chinese tourists. No, not the Starbucks mermaid (I'll succumb to her later, be patient): new shoes. The latest styles. On sale. She sang to me and I could not resist. Though I was weighed down with approximately fifty pounds of shopping bags, I floated like a cloud to the footwear mecca across the walkway. Luckily my hands were filled, because the overwhelming selection of Converse that I had never seen before nearly threw me into a shoe-grabbing frenzy. Every brand imaginable, the latest lines. Prices be damned, I wouldn't be seeing these puppies ever again. Especially not in China. As my wide-eyes passed over each specimen, I spied a beautiful red speck on a faraway wall display. Again, drifting over like I was under a spell, I came face to face with a pair of Vans chukka boots in wine-red suede and leather with cream-colored laces and leather trim. I admit, I almost shat myself. Looking at the price tag, I had to take a big gulp and force down whatever shopper's guilt that was about to spew forth into my consciousness, preventing me from another conquest. But, when you know, you know: these shoes were going to be mine by the end of this trip.

Tearing myself away from my new loves, I hurried back to find Sandra, unaware that a substantial amount of time had passed while I was under my shoe-spell. Luckily she was just wrapping up. As we passed the sneaker store, I stopped in my tracks and simply pointed towards my would-be new shoes. Without a word of persuasion on my part, she saw them and nodded. "Nice." That was more than enough to assuage the guilt that was sure to arise from my coming expenditure. Target locked. I'll be back.

I'll Get These On The Next Trip...

After a few hours of straight shopping, we needed to refuel again. I had read from multiple sources that the Crysta Underground Mall was possibly the most impressive example of Osakan subterranean goodness, so we gave the Dotonbori area a miss for what should have been a surperior experience. I learned that it is impossible to always make the right decision. Note to potential Osaka travelers: go straight to Dotonbori and enjoy the mess of neon, street food, Pachinko arcades, karaoke bars, bustling crowds and affordable souvenir shops. Say hi to the kuidaore clown, if you can.

Dotonbori

Crysta Underground Mall is indeed impressive, spanning the length of a few city blocks and housing so many shops and restaurants that you lose track of them all as they blur into the horizon. The problem? It was practically empty. On a Friday night? Confused, we pressed forth for dinner since we had already come all this way and were literally about to faint from shopping exhaustion. Perhaps because the end result was so disappointing, dinner was a little lackluster. Filling and tasty, but surrounded by downtrodden Japanese folk that looked like they had just got out of work (and it was after 9pm), it was depressing. If it weren't for the chorus of noodle-slurping, it would have been dead silent throughout the mall. No matter, we were exhausted and had a hell of a day ahead.

Part 4: Such A Perfect Day

The day was finally upon us. Our battle plan:

1. Wake up early.
2. Catch the train from Osaka to Kobe.
3. Eat a quick Kobe beef lunch.
4. Queue for an ungodly amount of time.
5. Be first in line for the floor and close enough to get sweat on by Chris Martin.
6. Lose mind for approximately 1.5 hours.
7. Remember it forever.

It was foolproof! We already had our "Standing" area tickets, so we were that much closer to the aforementioned love shower- care of Mr. Paltrow. Now, we just needed public transport time schedules to magically align for us and we'd be right as rain.

Osaka-Kobe

From Osaka's Umeda station, we caught the Hankyu express line to Kobe for a mere 540 yen (about 5 USD). Passing through the suburban neighborhoods between the two cities, we were blinded by the bright sunlight bouncing off the low-lying rooftops of the tiny and compact homes that faced the train tracks. The forecast had called for a day of rain, so we were dressed somewhat inappropriately in long-sleeved jumpers. My heavy boots would be useful foot-protection in the throng of revelers on the arena floor, but my feet were screaming for some ventilation.

Mere seconds before I snapped this, he was looking at a page with a full-frontal shot of some lady with bare boobs and snatch. Filthy bugger!

Kobe, home to one of the world's most famous pieces of non-NBA meat, was dazzling in the midday sun. I don't know who was working the meteorological forecast station for weather.com the day I was packing for this trip, but there wasn't a drop of rain to be seen for miles. In fact, it was so hot that I stripped down to my t-shirt for the remainder of the day. It was beautiful, foreboding amazing things for the evening ahead. But first, lunch.

Kobe beef, which is actually just the Kobe-area variety of the larger Wagyu breed of cattle, is characterized by its awesome flavor, crazy juiciness, and tender consistency. In the past, the pieces of Wagyu that I've tried were good, but nothing to warrant the kind of euphoric praise that is heaped upon the Kobe. In Shanghai, T8 does a good Wagyu, but even that doesn't justify the price tag. I wanted to see if it was really worth all the fuss.

A knowledgeable trip adviser told me to drop by Steakland, one of the many Kobe beef joints in a confusing sea of restaurants surrounding Kobe's Sannomiya station. We made one enormous circle in our desperate attempt to find a place whose location, provided by my pal, was "Steakland. 5 minutes from Sannomiya." I know I should have asked "Thank you, thank you... little more specific?" for even a minor bit of help, but the thought of all that buttery flesh clouded my better senses. From an adorably wrinkly old bakery obasan to a pair of young, sexy Century 21 real estate agents, Sandra took the reins and interrogated enough locals in the general radius to finally get us in the right direction. Passing a porn shop owned by a toadish looking hag (see abundant sexiness below), we arrived on a street directly adjacent to the station. Had we taken this exit instead of the other, Steakland really would have been "5 minutes from Sannomiya" - it was right across the street.

Porn Obasan Wants YOU

STEAKLAND!

Sliding open the wooden doors, we entered the dimly-lit restaurant which was packed with customers, smoke and the fragrant aroma of cooking steak. We were seated right along the grill - teppanyaki style! - and placed our orders for the lunch special immediately. Within seconds, our chef hurried over, jangled off a string of Japanese which was met by our blank expressions, made a few quick bows, and started to work his magic.

Steakland's Orgasmic Set Menu From Paradise, ~3000 Yen:
-eight (8) pieces of thick, succulent Kobe beef
-stir fried bean sprouts and crunchy cabbage
-deep friend garlic chips
-miso soup
-Japanese green salad
-bowl of white rice
-plate of pickles
-coffee/juice/water

To anyone with teppanyaki experience, this should seem pretty standard. Without all the clown tricks and knife tossing that accompanies US teppanyaki joints, it took mere minutes to prepare everything. I admit, my hunger made me a little too excited to see this spread. But when that Kobe beef hit my plate and I took the first bite, I swear I saw stars.

Sensei Rocks The House

I can only describe it as heavenly. Like the first time you ever had amazing toro, authentic espresso or quality vanilla ice cream. The unforgettable instance where your eyes close, your mouth puckers and your chest swells as you inhale the atmospheric high (uncontrollable erotic shivers optional) because you're still having trouble comprehending just what is happening to your taste buds. In fact, like really good fatty tuna, this Kobe beef was so tender that I could actually "chew" it just by pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth. The marbleized flesh, dripping with buttery goodness, was flash seared on the outside and rare on the inside. Seasoned with just a dash of salt and pepper, the beef's natural essence was all the flavoring needed. I finally realized why people go crazy for this stuff. The party in my pants was proof enough.

Behold Your New God:

We slowly stumbled from Steakland in a daze that usually accompanies a particularly potent happy hour or a visit to your neighborhood supermodel brothel. The protein high was still clouding my brain and I was drunk on beef. I entertained notions of returning for more after the concert, but decided that this singular experience was best left untarnished by a potentially less-orgasmic second go-round. Now it was time to get serious. Time to start queuing.

Upon searching for the concert venue on Google, nothing substantial came up. You would assume that there would be something in English for the potential English-speaking concertgoers' benefit, but nothing. Stupid Neil should not make so many cultural assumptions, but it seemed pretty basic to me. Searching in Japanese, I took a guess at some links and finally found Kobe Kinen World Hall's homepage. Entirely in Japanese. Thank God for Chinese characters. On their site, the information was still insufficient. Directions, please? Despite it all, I managed to coddle together an idea of how to get there. The rest would have to rely on luck and friendly locals.

From Sannomiya, we took the Port Line (which terminates at the Kobe airport) a few stops south to the People's Square area. Unlike the typical People's Square areas in China, this was deserted. Save for one or two guards in pressed blue uniforms, it was quiet enough to hear the distant ship horns at Kobe port. From the metro station, we could clearly see the arena, a mere stroll from where we were standing. With about 5 hours to go until showtime, we were guaranteed to be at the head of the line and that much closer to Coldplay. But you didn't think it would be smooth sailing forever, did you? Let the headaches commence.

Kobe Kinen World Hall

Signs on the way to the arena - again, all in Japanese - directed patrons in section A and B to two different points for queuing. Odd, I wondered, what about those in the other sections, such as those of us in section C? *Cue ominous fright music* Thinking little of it, we walked to the gates of the arena and saw one equally crazy fan already waiting. Plopping down next to him, we got ready for the long and arduous wait.

Dedication.

An uncomfortable silence hung over our makeshift threesome, so we tried to talk to the guy. Luckily, he spoke some English. In fact, he told us he studied English at university. However, after a few sentences back and forth, I decided that someone needed to fire his professor because they were doing a terrible job. Nonetheless, we could communicate well enough and wiled the time away by chatting about music and concerts. As it turned out, he was also in attendance at the same U2 show I went to in 2006. Fancy that.

Before an hour passed, my anal-retentive worrying got the best of me and I had to solve the mystery of A- and B-section. Our friend had a section A ticket, so the two section C tickets in my hand were starting to feel a little suspect. With a furrowed brow and nervous feeling, I got up from the hot brick walkway and tried to find someone who could help. Nearby, I found a pair of distinctly un-Japanese looking girls who were also hanging around with confused expressions. I ran over to see if they knew anything. Turns out they were from Guam, and like us, were crazy enough to fly to Japan just for a Coldplay show. Their tickets, also "Standing" area, were in section I. Equally confused, we decided to join forces in our quest to get to the bottom of the ticket mystery, splitting up to cover as much ground as possible.

Walking around the deserted wasteland of brick and concrete, the first event staff that I found did not speak a word of English. This was expected. So I showed him my ticket and made the universal palms-up, shoulders-hunched "HRMM???" motion. He made a perplexed expression that did not give me much hope. Giving me the "hold on" finger, he ran off to check with a colleague. From where I was standing, his colleague gave him the same palms-up, shoulders-hunched motion, except this time it denoted "meh, I dunno." Things were not looking good.

Around the corner, I almost started to weep with joy. At the steps to the lower entrance, I saw a fat black lady smoking a cigarette. If Japanese was the only language she spoke, may God have poked my eyes out with a burning metal rod. When I reached her, breathless and with the stupidest of grins on my face, I asked her if she knew about the seating arrangements. Unfortunately, she didn't have a clue. But she could find someone who did. Someone who spoke English. Praise Jesus.

A few minutes later, a really large Japanese dude lumbered towards me with a seating chart printout. The Guam chicks had found me just in time to hear the news. We exchanged greetings and he asked to see our tickets. I handed them over and, upon seeing his expression, I tell you my balls nearly dropped out of my pants leg. "Tsk, tsk, hmmm, you are actually in this area," pointing to a section so faraway from where we were supposed to be that I let out an inadvertent whimper.

Section C was located in the middle of the arena, nearly halfway between the stage and the back wall. And it was all seats. I looked up at him and "You can't be serious." With an apologetically nervous laugh, he told me that "Standing" in Japan actually meant "Sitting in seats," whereas "Arena" tickets were the ones on the floor near the stage that we had expected. To be completely honest, I felt like someone just set a box of newborn puppies and kittens on fire right before my eyes.

Slowly walking back to Sandra, who had already stood up to receive whatever update I had, I frantically thought of how to break the news to her. Though I've seen Coldplay twice before, this would be her first time and I wanted it to be absolutely perfect for her. We had flown all the way to Japan on a perfectly timed weekend (see: Valentine's Day) to scream and swoon for our band from where God intends all bands to be seen: the pit. My face gave it all away. "What's wrong?"

After the debriefing, she looked a little shell-shocked. We had been disappointed before in London, but twice would have been too much to handle before leaping off the nearest bashi. Thankfully there were no firearms handy, otherwise one of us was going down for the count. On the bright side, we were still going to see Coldplay. But it didn't feel the same. In a mad flurry of brainstorming, we settled on a scheme of options:

A.) Go for broke and buy another pair of section A tickets from the box office.
B.) If A failed, try to buy section A tickets from scalpers, whether we could get anything for our crappy C section tickets or not.
C.) If A or B failed, just be happy that we even had tickets.

There was still over an hour before the box office opened, so our only hope was to just wait anxiously whilst stewing in our own impatient juices.

One hour before doors opened, the upper deck box office was ready to sell whatever was left. I bounded up the stairs and past a group of people being led by arena staff to will call. No one was getting in front of me, manners be damned. At the box office and out of breath, I asked if there were any A tickets. "Solly, no. But-a we still havu B-sekshun!" @!&!$&*% Option A out of the question, I slowly backed away and gathered my bearings for the headache that would accompany Option B. Face in hand, I heard a pitter-patter coming up behind me. Panting, Sandra had run to stop me from buying anything else. Pointing to the ranks that I noticed were slowly forming around me, she told me that even those in section A were being grouped into separate lines, entering in a staggered order. So it was clear: no matter how long you queued, there was a procedure in place that made it completely useless. No wonder there was nobody in line hours before. Unlike in the US, where it's first come, first served, order in Japan was so strict that even "general admission" had rules.

With that realization, option B was tossed out the window and we accepted our fates and option C. We said our goodbyes to our Japanese friend (who was in the first section of the section A phalanx, lucky man) and went to grab a bite to eat. With designated seats, we could enter just minutes before showtime.

The mood was grim. We tried to think on the bright side and, for the most part, it worked. We had made every attempt to get where we wanted to be (short of selling our bodies), but it was not meant to be. Even if we had snatched up section A tickets, they wouldn't have been in the front area of section A, as those were clearly sold out long ago. Slurping down instant noodles on a bench inside a nearby Lawson's convenience store, we patiently waited.

Inside the arena, smoke machines had pumped out enough mist to make the lobby as foggy as a college dormitory on a weekend evening. Weaving our way through the crowd, we entered the arena. Section C was not as bad as it looked on paper, but we were still quite far away. Chris Martin would be about the size of my thumbnail from where we sat. I hadn't been in a seated section at a non-China concert in a very long time, so I forgot how nice it was to actually sit while we waited for the band to come out. The arena was filling quickly and it was obvious that it was a sell-out. There would be a second show the following night, so I assume there was high demand.

Ample Crowd

Gazing around without much to do, I remembered seeing clips of the current tour on YouTube. At one point in the show, the band typically performed an acoustic set from the far-reaching back ends of the arenas. I thought it would be pretty cool if they did it here as well, but couldn't see any obvious places from which they might set-up their instruments.

Then, right in front of us, I spotted the most glorious vision: a square stage, small and unassuming, was hidden right in plain sight, mere yards before our seats. My mouth dropped and I think I may have whooped with joy. At that point, I would have bet my left hand that Coldplay would be performing their unplugged session from that tiny block. What incredible luck.

SCORE!

Before Coldplay took the stage, we were forced to bear one of the more excrutiating opening acts that I've ever seen in my life, an electronic duo that accompanied their Bjork-lite instrumental crap with tripped out animation on giant projector screens. Once they finished punishing us, the house lights came back on and the glorious thud of Jay-Z's "Give It To Me" pumped from the speakers. Then, the familiar tune Strauss' Blue Danube twinkled from the PA. Like hearing the first chords of "The Ecstasy of Gold" at a Metallica show, all the fans in the room knew that we were seconds away from the main event. And thus, the house lights dropped to the deafening cries of a packed arena.

In the darkness and frenzied chaos, I peered over to the Japanese chap sitting next to me. I intended to ask permission whether it was OK for me to stand, fearing I might have blocked his view. In the simplest of queries, I pointed to myself and asked, "I stand-o, OK?" which I think he took as a command, because he immediately grabbed his girlfriend's arm and, yanking her up with a nervous expression, ordered her to also "stand-o, stand-o!" All the better. Pretty soon, our entire section was on its feet ("Standing", ha!, now I get it...shoot me), just in time for the opening jangle of the uplifting "Life in Technicolor."

The show was amazing. With four albums under their belts now, Coldplay have a deep pool of songs they can pick and choose from. Their latest, Viva La Vida, got the most love, while first album, Parachutes, only contributed one hit. They are clearly comfortable in their position as a dominant arena rock band now, as evidenced by the superb stage layout designed for maximum interactivity. Huge orbs hanging from the stage and towards the rear of the arena projected real-time video of the band members, strange satellites that brought us closer to the guys. Two catwalks extended into the area reserved for those lucky "Arena" bastards, while those of us in the back had the luxury of hi-def projection screens that flanked the stage. The simple technical effects were also executed perfectly, hitting that emotional mark between ineffable joy and manic bliss: a blizzard of paper butterflies fluttering from the rafters during "Lovers In Japan"; blinding lasers blasting forth during "Clocks"; and their trademark giant, confetti-filled balloons bouncing en masse into the audience during "Yellow."

Helium Bliss

Surprises were tossed in to keep us on our toes, like a techno-fied rendition of "God Put A Smile Upon Your Face" blending seamlessly into "Talk." The pulsing dance beats then subsided to allow Chris Martin some solo piano time for "The Hardest Part" and the gorgeous little instrumental "Postcards From Far Away." This medley was my favorite bit of the show, made even more overwhelming by the one-two follow-up of "Viva La Vida" and "Lost!" It felt like church up in that bitch.

Best Medley Ever

After the pounding percussion of "Lost!," the band hopped off the stage and made their way into the mess of fans on the floor. The spotlights illuminated a strip of walkway that just so happened to pass right in front of our spot and to that little mini stage in front of us. This was it. Bolting down to lean over the edge of the ledge, we could clearly see the boys running toward us. As they passed, Chris Martin looked up in our direction, made an effortless leap, and slapped Sandra a high-five to the most ear piercing scream I've ever heard erupt from someone so petite. As the band began their acoustic takes on "Green Eyes" and "Death Will Never Conquer," her ecstatic yelps were still ringing in my ears.

Chris Martin = Showboating Ham

Bless you, mini stage, bless you...

Mouth agape, I really couldn't believe how things had worked out. From seats we tried so desperately to escape from, all events led perfectly to the sweaty slap from Chris Martin, as if - in perhaps the craziest bit of fate I've experienced - we were supposed to be in that exact spot. I took momentary pause to consider that God really works in mysterious ways. We wanted a perfect concert and it's exactly what we got.

Coldplay, Live in Kobe, February 14, 2009:

1. Life in Technicolor i
2. Violet Hill
3. Clocks
4. In My Place
5. Speed of Sound
6. Yellow
7. Chinese Sleep Chant
8. 42
9. Fix You
10. Strawberry Swing
11. God Put A Smile Upon Your Face
12. Talk
13. Hardest Part
14. Postcards From Far Away
15. Viva La Vida
16. Lost!
17. Green Eyes
18. Death Will Never Conquer
19. Viva La Vida (Thin White Duke Remix) Interlude
20. Politik
21. Lovers In Japan
22. Death and All His Friends
23. The Escapist
24. The Scientist
25. Life in Technicolor ii

Yang Zi Jie On Yang Zi Jiang (Or, Neil's Trip Up The Yangtze)

Part 4: Chungking Express

After spending a final night on the cruise ship, which was docked at port, we disembarked onto the shores of Chongqing. The flashing neon, giant skyscrapers and illuminated hillside buildings we had seen from the top deck the previous night gave way to a misty winter morning. This was my very final leg of the trip, the last three days of exploration before returning to Shanghai. The previous day, during my free travel advice session, the American couple revealed that they would spend a day in Chongqing before flying to Hangzhou. Since I had no better company, I asked if they wanted to join me. They told me that they had already booked a tour guide, but that I was more than welcome to join them instead. And they wouldn't take no for an answer. Arm duly twisted, Neil lucks out again.

The tour guide met us on the dock, surprised that these two old Americans mysteriously produced an unannounced 27-year old son during their four days on the Yangtze. We told her what we wanted to see and she hurredly started making arrangements. Still suspicious of my true origins, she pressed for some answers. After finally telling her that we met on the boat and I wanted to join them for the day, she insisted that I pay a little extra for the transportation and services. In no mood to argue with the troll, I agreed to a very small sum. With no time to haggle, it was reasonable enough. Sometimes it's just easier to go with the flow in China.

Unfortunately, our first choice for sightseeing - the Stilwell Museum, which details the history of the KMT and US General Stilwell, the commander of the American forces during fighting in the 1940s - was closed from December to March, putting a huge damper on the American history buffs present. With no time to sulk, we hit site number two, Ciqikou Ancient Town.

Gettin' Crazy With Sepia Tones!

Set along a hillside like almost everything else in this mountainous city, Ciqikou Ancient Town was the center of porcelain ("china") production in the Ming. Nothing authentic remains, save for a few old, dilapidated buildings. These days, it's a tourist trap, strikingly similar to the water towns around Shanghai. After wandering past a couple shacks selling the local foodstuffs, souvenirs and such, the offerings repeat ad nauseum until you just want to find the nearest exit and continue your day in a more meaningful manner.

Duck In A Bag!

Luckily this sentiment was shared by the two old folks, so we rushed through the town and got back in the van. The guide notified us that, according to the itinerary, it was time to see pandas at the zoo. A collective eye-roll from the American peanut gallery, myself included, at the prospect of wasting time with the little black and white Ewoks. However, without much else to do, we gave in and sped off along the elevated highways snaking around the perimeter of the city's mountains, straight into the heart of town.

Positioned right in the center of Chongqing, the zoo was a pleasant surprise. It is literally right along the street in a bustling traffic zone, like People's Square or Central Park, without much effort required to just pop in for a quick peek at the national treasures on display. In a surprising display of self-aware efficiency, the zoo wastes no time: the panda pits are mere steps from the entrance.

*Collective cry of "Wah, so cute!" from the ladies in the house*

Along with a handful of red ("lesser") pandas - those cuties that look like fluffy, red raccoons - there are seven giant pandas at Chongqing Zoo. Each one has its own open-air, walled enclosure, which was quite a relief to see, compared to the malnourished and depressed cousins I've seen at other Chinese zoos. Although the local visitors are still as retarded as their counterparts across the country, tossing human food (cookies, candy, crisps) at the pandas, I was happy to see that at least the zoo keepers have enough sense to put the animals in large, free areas. There really is nothing more depressing than seeing a shit-brown panda with shaggy, ragged fur pacing back and forth in a tiny, glass cage.

Lesser Red Panda

We arrived at the right moment: feeding time. I was shocked to learn that each of these adorable beasts consumes 20 kilograms of "arrow" bamboo at every meal. That's 44 pounds, or about 175 quarter-pound cheeseburgers from McDonald's (fries not included). The first guy, named something silly like Pi-Pi or Ti-Ti or Robert, had just started to dig in to his massive pile of shoots, leaning back against his comfy wooden throne like Jabba the Hutt. They truly are one of the cutest things to have ever evolved from the natural world, and seeing one up close was a treat.

Holy Crap, That's A Lotta Bamboo!

The panda was "first" discovered by a Frenchman in the 1800s. On an expedition through the Western mountains of China, he happened upon a farmer's house in the forest. As this legend holds, the farmer had a black and white animal hide on his wall, which the Frenchie bought and brought back home. Thus, the modern era of pandamonium began. Though there are only a handful of pandas left in the wild, the government seems to be trying its hardest to preserve the natural symbol of China. When the Sichuan earthquake struck in 2008, the loss of a handful of pandas resulted in a similar outpouring of mourning as for those human lives lost. In addition to preservation, breeding programs are also vital. However, whether pandas just have no libido or prefer other activities to mating, they just aren't doing the nasty. So Chinese breeders came up with the genius idea to show pandas the now infamous "panda porn," visual Viagra for panda males suffering from lack of mojo. Mating season typically falls in March and April, so scientists better get this season's porno ready for uninspired males. Surely panda marital aids are not far behind.

Getting Frisky With The Timber

With a few hours before the Americans had to head east, we enjoyed a lunch of the most famous Chongqing culinary goodness: hot pot. Though I was under the impression that this dish originated in the northern Mongolian parts of the country, who am I to argue? The Sichuan people arguably do it best, in all its numbingly spicy glory. For those unfortunate enough to have never dined in this fashion, a brief primer.

Hot pot - a fairly accurate translation of the Chinese "huo guo", or "fire pot" - involves a big cauldron of bubbling soup at the center of the dining table in which diners toss their raw food, cooking it on the spot and eating it as soon as it's plucked from the boiling water. Simple and healthy. Depending on which part of Asia you're in (or from), hotpot dining varies. Here in central China, the focus is on the heat, which can be so intense your entire mouth loses all sensation.

To judge a Chongqing/Sichuan hotpot, you'll need to be aware of the proper reactions your body will undergo. The key is how numb ("ma") and spicy ("la") the soup base renders your poor taste buds. This mala-ness shouldn't completely destroy your mouth, but should leave you just tingly enough to appreciate the fragrance of the hot chili and Sichuan peppercorns in the soup base. If the prospect of oral torture isn't your bag, most places have pots that are either split down the middle, in a yin-yang pattern, or that are multi-tiered, in the Mongolian style, spicy broth in one section, clear broth in another. Should you be the smart guy to suggest the latter, be prepared to be branded a cowardly pussy by your masochist friends.

Luckily for me, the Americans were brave enough to dive headfirst into the numbingly hot broth. I had been looking forward to this for quite some time, so I admit I was a little nervous they'd chicken out with the bland broth option. When we were seated, I began my tutorial.

1. Make your dipping sauce.
Now, as I mentioned before, this step differs depending on what kind of Chinese person you're eating with. Southeast Asians will dump an ungodly amount of various chili- or tomato-based goop into the bowl, ratching up the spice content to insane levels. Taiwanese combine "sha-cha" sauce, a kind of Chinese barbecue paste made with oil, chili, dried fish bits and garlic, and, in some cases, a raw egg. In Mainland China, I've seen peanut sauce, mashed garlic, scallions, random pink stuff, the list goes on. In my household, we toss whatever is available into the mix. Usually soy sauce, sesame oil, sha-cha sauce and maybe a dash of vinegar. Now I'm getting hungry...

The Americans opted for soy sauce and a little vinegar, while I stuck with the soy and sesame oil. There weren't many other options and that bubbling red broth was calling out to me.


2. Order your food.
It's all raw, of course. This was a little novel for the Americans, but I assured them that they had complete control over how thoroughly cooked their food would be. Anything unsatisfactory would be entirely their own fault. I ordered thinly sliced shavings of beef, lamb and pork. Some pig intestines for myself and a plate of duck intestines ordered at the behest of the staff, who said it was a local favorite. Leafy greens, medallions of potato and squash, glutinous rice cake, vermicelli noodles, frozen tofu and tofu skin. They left the ordering to me, thank God, so little time was wasted futzing with reasons why frozen tofu was better than silky tofu, the difference between fatty pork and regular pork, or why there were so many innards to choose from. I'm salivating at this point...

3. Cook that food!
As I was famished, the waiting time for this stuff to cook was excrutiating. However, watching my dining mates fumble around with chopsticks and self-cooking chunks of raw food provided a lot of distracting entertainment. They managed quite well and the satisfied "mmmm"s and "oooooo"s were validation enough. The mala broth was pretty damn good: not so powerful that I lost all sensation, yet just potent enough to give my tongue that familiar tingle. The spice was fragrant and rich, most enjoyable when doused with free-flowing cheap beer. And yes, those duck intestines were in fact delicious. Like chewy noodles.

After we had feasted, the sweat stains on our shirts and the bright, red cheeks were apt indication that the hotpot had done the trick. I wouldn't say it was the greatest hotpot I'd ever had, since all hotpots have their own merits. But it was an important rite of passage to enjoy one of my favorite Chinese meals in the spot where it has now become most famous.

Lunch finished and less than an hour remaining for me to enjoy genuine human contact, we rushed from the restaurant to the nearby Great Hall of the People (or People's Great Hall or People's Assembly Hall or Chongqing People's Hall...). Upon arrival, I realized this was a bit of a misnomer. As the Great Hall of the People is actually a government building, not all of us lowly plebs are allowed inside the hallowed halls. Nonetheless, the sight of this building atop a hill is still impressive. The roof vaguely resembles Beijing's Temple of Heaven or that big ass hotel on the way from Taoyuan to Taipei, but the building itself is sprawling and wide, columns and pillars lined in rows like a forest of stone.

Before the main staircase to the hall, Chongqing's People's Park spreads out in lovely fashion. Lined with the city's official tree, the banyan, the square was cluttered with locals enjoying the beautiful sunny weather and - surprise surprise - blue sky. Kites aflutter, balloons floating, kids laughing, old people chasing their newspapers blown away by the wind and random gawkers wondering why that silly foreign boy keeps jumping in front of the Great Hall of the People. It was a lovely day.

Americans In The Chonx

On that note, it must be said that if there is one downside to solo travel, it's finding a suitable photographer capable enough to take a good jumping picture. I swear, you would think taking a jump shot was rocket science. On this day, the local tour guide was my only option, as the Americans were too old to be expected to handle the complexity involved. After I asked her, she happily obliged. I'm sure this was not the strangest request she'd received by a foreign traveler. Looking at my camera, she exclaimed "Wow, Canon! I have one of these too!" Breathing a sigh of relief, I was sure she'd know what to do. Wrong. After 3 attempts and a growing crowd of dumbfounded onlookers, the scrutiny was overwhelming and I just told her nevermind. I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but inside I was seething. Another missed jump opportunity (see below). I really need to perfect the self-timed tripod method...

FAIL.

Evading the crowd of gawkers, we continued through the square to the Chongqing Three Gorges Museum just opposite the Great Hall. This complex houses a massive museum dedicated to the Chongqing area and the Three Gorges. From the outside, it looks like any other random structure built in the modern era: ugly. However once inside, it rivals the Shanghai Museum for sheer beauty and class. Bright natural light flooding in from the windows, shimmering on the creamy white marble, visitors subdued enough to create a moderate murmur without being overwhelmingly loud as most local museums tend to be. Since they had to be hasty, we rushed through each floor, absorbing the summarized version of what they had to offer.

Three Gorges Dam history. Three Gorges wildlife and geography. Three Gorges anthropological sites. Tribal artifacts collected from the area. History of these tribes. History of the area from caveman times to the modern era. World War II history. Chinese Civil War and revolutionary history. Even a morbid life-sized model of underground bomb shelters used during Japanese air raids in which hundreds of locals died from suffocation and overcrowding. And this is on the first few floors alone. Unfortunately we didn't have time to fully absorb it all - though that would have been difficult, since 99% of the displays are in Chinese only - but what I saw was enough. This is one of the most impressive museums in the country and very much worth a visit.

Part 5: The Siren's Song

Time came to part with the Americans and I admit I was a little sad. Though 5 days on a cruise with complete strangers doesn't warrant the kind of parting sorrow that accompanies a typical scene of lovers parting in an airport or parents sending their kids off to college, I would miss the conversation and familiarity of fellow liberal Americans. We bid adieu - though I would have a chance some days later to enjoy a meal with them in Shanghai - and the final, solo leg of my trip had begun.

As fate would have it, my hotel was just around the corner from the Great Hall of the People. While checking in, I took advantage of the free internet in the lobby. I had just one goal in mind: I needed a coffee. And how. Being the unfathomable genius that I am, I immediately Googled all Starbucks locations in Chongqing. I picked the one closest to the central sightseeing area of Liberation Monument and amassed all of the focused animal energy that I could muster for my quest. I was feening like a junkie for a crack rock.

Dumping my heavy backpack and a quick turd, I was ready. Like Frodo departing the Shire, I strapped on all that was needed: my journal - to catch up on a few days of writing; a book - to enjoy while sitting in a giant fluffy armchair; and my iPod - to drown out the clucking of the locals. The desire for a soothing cup of coffee burned so deep in my heart that I could have cared less about sightseeing. It would not release me from its addictive grasp. Although I do concede that Starbucks is slightly more enjoyable than a trip to Mount Doom.

Looking at my trusty Lonely Planet map (*sigh*), I deduced that it would be an easy straight shot from the hotel to Liberation Monument. From where I stood to my caffeinated destination, I figured less than an hour would be necessary. The reality was much closer to the harrowing journey undertaken by the Fellowship.

Walking up the road on this uncharacteristically sunny day in China, I could enjoy the city in my own little world. The first thing that struck me: this place is a little similar to Hong Kong. The sidewalks undulate like waves, creating a nice change of scenery from the flat topography of eastern China. The sidewalks and buildings are also charmingly old, allowed to gracefully age from the time when the city's position was integral for the entire country. Street signs, perhaps the best I've seen in China, are written in Chinese characters, pinyin AND English, making it almost impossible to get lost for lack of reading skills. The people, unassuming and quite oblivious to my presence, hardly looked at me, despite the fact that I was the only white-skinned person I saw in 3 days here (strange enough, saw more black people than white). There is also a haphazard and organic placement of the trees and shrubbery that further contribute to the city's personality. It just felt real, less deliberate and artificial than Shanghai and Beijing. There's even a Jiu Long (the Mandarin pronunciation of "Kowloon") section of town.

My thoughts must have distrated me, because before I knew it, I had reached the river. Somewhere along the short stretch, I missed my turn. On the map, the proportions didn't seem that tiny, but there you go. Lonely Planet got docked a few points in my mind. Backtracking, I finally found a road sign that pointed in the general direction of Liberation Monument, so I assumed it was not far off. Trudging uphill, downhill, behind a newspaper stall, across a street, through a bustling alleyway, over a puddle of questionable liquid, past a school, a hospital, a YMCA, a playground and a few temples. I noticed an adorable abundance of pet dogs on the streets of Chongqing, all wearing little sweaters. I must have passed at least 20 in my first hour alone.

Yes, that first hour. As it turns out, Liberation Monument was nowhere near as close as I assumed. By the time the winding road had come to a clear and definite curve in another direction, I was pretty much lost. This zigzag did not resemble the straight line that Lonely Planet had deceived me with. I knew I was at least headed in the right direction, thus I didn't worry too much about taking an overly circuitous route. But the addict's desire was getting stronger and I really needed my hit.

Fortunately, I had come upon a random distraction: the old Chongqing city wall. Hidden quietly along a very short stretch of road in the middle of downtown, this modest length of wall loomed right above the street, archways providing openings for cars to pass through the ancient stone. From street level, it looked to be a nice, peaceful retreat to enjoy a higher city vista with the tweeting birds. Climbing up a steep, rounding staircase, I felt that familiar giddiness that I enjoy so much, assuming my role as a lone explorer traveling through another undiscovered (to me) Chinese city. I love the juxtaposition of such an ageless thing trapped in time amongst such modern surroundings.

Chongqing City Wall

At the top of the staircase, I was surprised to see the entire turret packed with locals on little colorful, plastic chairs. This was the spot to be, apparently. Hanging out, playing cards, chatting the afternoon away. Perhaps my invite to this little party was lost in the mail. Happening upon this low-key block party quite abruptly, I was understandably thrust into the spotlight. With all those eyes honed in on me, I hurriedly scuffled off to a less populated spot of the wall. From that vantage point, the Chongqing skyline still towered high above us, but we still had superior height on the streets below. The hilly streets were even more pronounced and the city-dwelling trees more apparent. For all its simplicity and age, it really is an attractive city. However, before too much time was wasted here, I regained focus on the task at hand and quickly descended back to the street below.

Wandering forth at a quickeningly frustrated pace, I arrived at a fork in the road. Oh, how fate tests us. Down one road, getting lost for hours and killing myself for lack of coffee goodness. Down the other road, certain hope that I would finally have my fix. Using my superior internal GPS capabilities, I chose the "other road" and hoped I had chosen wisely. Searching in vain for any sign at all, whether symbolic or literal, I noticed the crowds getting denser and the advertisements getting brighter and significantly more neon. I had a good feeling about this. Until I came upon an intersection that would try its best to thwart me with not three, but five different roads to choose.

I tried one, but it didn't feel right. So I made a quick U-turn and tried the second. And like a kid chasing a wayward balloon, I absentmindedly followed the flow of the street, right here, left there, up this street, along with that crowd, until I found myself in a crowded area that was home to a random memorial commemorating one of the many Japanese aerial attacks on Chongqing in the '40s. Similar to Nanjing, but with experiences nowhere near as horrific, the sentiment toward the Japanese in this town can be politely described as "bitter." Glancing at the monument, I heard a noisy din in the distance that tugged me back to reality.

In the middle of a packed pedestrian intersection, there was a disheveled and filthy woman with no feet lying on a wheeled plank, dragging herself through the legs of the crowd. In her blistered hand was a loudspeaker replaying the same recording, looped over and over again at max volume:

"OOOOOOOOH, please generous and honorable masters, *sob-sob-whimper* help me, help me please, *sob-sob-anguished cry* Life is misery, please, I am so poor and lowly, "sob-sob-cough-choke-guttural cry* PleeeeeeEEEAAAAase!"

After about 3 or 4 seconds of feeling sorry for this woman, I started to get highly annoyed. I was not the only one. Though metropolitan Chinese are used to this kind of begging, this woman had taken it to new levels. Her bullhorn was so loud it was drowning out the car honking and, with those dramatic sobs tossed in for effect, it was beyond moving. People were wincing from the racket and crinkling their faces in annoyance. Rather than dropping a few coins into her hand, I wanted to push her little cart into oncoming traffic, allowing a passing bus to do us all a messy favor. Save my soul, but anything to stop that incessant gargle of begging.

I tried my best to distance myself from my new friend before I was arrested for murder, so I ducked into the nearest crowd and was dragged along with the flow. And wouldn't you know, the wave took me right to Liberation Monument. I had wandered in a giant circle, but I had finally reached my goal.

Liberation Monument

Liberation Monument (Jiefang Bei) was originally built to commemorate Sun Yatsen's birthday. However, after being liberated from the evil Japanese imperialist invaders, the modest obelisk was rechristened. To cement the symbolic importance of the site, three things were buried beneath it. In this time capsule, the geniuses of the time placed a contemporary Chinese dictionary, a map of China from that period and a newspaper with the headline declaring victory and liberation. Atop the monument is a classic clock made by Rolex. I secretly wondered if it was counterfeit or not. Nowadays, it is the center of a busy shopping district, much like Nanjing Pedestrian Road in Shanghai. While admiring the stately tower, I spied from the corner of my eye a most glorious sight: a smiling mermaid trapped within her little green bubble, singing her siren's song to this thirsty sailor.

I tell you, I almost started crying. Granted, my journey was not that harrowing, but damn it, I had spent over 2 hours trying to find a place that should have technically only taken 30 minutes to find, as I would discover later. I inadvertently exclaimed a "yippee!" or "wooo!" at the discovery and thanked Christ with a quick sign of the cross, much to the shock of the people around me. Almost tripping over my boots in a clumsy rush, I ran towards my emerald goddess, sucked in by the wafting aroma of her bitter, brown brew.

She's A Beauty

Savoring my victorious cup and toasty scone from a windowside sofa overlooking Liberation Monument square, I felt complete for the first time in days. The familiar scent of brewing coffee, the buzz of local chatter and pretentious background music, and the comfort of a good armchair were the first welcome indicators that I was truly back in civilization. Alternately reading my book about zombies and writing in my journal, a few young Chongqingers came and went from the chair across from me, giving me an up close view on the local fashion. Verdict: not so bad. But I was pretty sure they were gay, so the elevated fashion sense gave them an unfair advantage over the other people in the shop. Indeed, it was apparent that there was some thought process in effect when they were rustling through their closets that morning. I sighed a happy sigh; it was so relaxing.

Hours passed and the scone had already been digested. I hesitantly packed my things and emerged into the twilight air that had settled on the city. The neon lights had already exploded onto the streets, illuminating everything in a rainbow haze. I decided it would be prudent to take the bus back to the hotel, lest I risk getting lost again on my journey home. The first one I came upon just so happened to be passing my area, so I paid my 2 RMB and jumped on.

The route was almost exactly the same one I had covered on the way over, only in reverse. From a speeding bus, I was astonished to see how quickly it passed before my eyes. In less than twenty minutes, I was back at the hotel. For a moment, I scolded myself for being stupid and not taking the bus over in the first place. But I wouldn't have seen those random sights along the way and I think that coffee wouldn't have tasted as sweet had it not been acquired after much hardship. I bought dinner at a random supermarket next door - a few cups of yogurt, fresh fruit and water - that was aimed at purging my system of the previous few days of gorging (no pun intended, ho ho) and settled in for an early night of rest. The following day, I'd be paying another visit to a famous Chinese grotto. Despite the caffeine and the stinging of the fresh blisters on my feet, I immediately passed out.

Part 6: The Dazu Grottoes

Hunched over the toilet in that awkward position that all men are familiar with, I tried to aim for the bowl without snapping my morning wood in half. I entertained the idea of just peeing in the bathtub, but decided it was wrong to desecrate the hotel like that. To make matters worse for my already contorted stance, I felt a strange sensation, like I was swaying back and forth. Fearing the worst, I thought it could be an earthquake. Then I realized it was just residual physical memory from the ship: during those days on the cruise, as we rocked with the waves of the river, I had to compensate for the motion by learning to sway with the rhythm of the Yangtze. I suppose my body forgot I was now on solid ground. Chuckling at this interesting little phenomenon, I wrapped things up before I became stuck in that hunchbacked position and got ready for the long day ahead: a trip to the Dazu Grottoes.

The grottoes in Dazu county are actually a series of sites scattered within neighboring hillsides, not just one solitary group. Combining Confucian, Taoist and Buddhist imagery, the carvings were some of the most colorful and detailed I have ever seen. While nowhere near the scale as the dizzying statues at Longmen in Henan Province or Yungang in Shanxi Province, nor as isolated and mysterious as the most famous cave grottoes at Mogao in Dunhuang, the Dazu grottoes strike a unique balance that combines a few examples of impressive grandeur with plenty of breathtaking detail.

That morning, a local tour bus picked me up from the hotel. I was the only foreigner onboard. As soon as I stepped in, one of the tricky local mothers in the front seat gasped out loud and started to elbow her poor daughter. Not even a minute into the trip, I was already a target. As I sat down in the only free row - wouldn't you know, right next to this eager mom - I heard her scream-whisper to her daughter, "Go, practice your English! Why do you bother learning in the first place? For situations like this!" I thought it best to feign ignorance in the easiest way possible: the white guy doesn't speak Chinese. Staring straight ahead, I could feel the penetrating glare of that woman on the side of my head, wondering when she'd relent. I had dodged one wily (grand)mom already; I was ready to do battle with a second.

The road to Dazu seemed endless. On the map, it's a mere skip from Chongqing city, still considered part of the municipality. Thus I thought it would be fairly close by. Not quite. With such sketchy geographic logic, no wonder Chongqing takes the prize for being "biggest" city in China at 35 million souls: it's comprised of suburbs as far-reaching as Wushan, which you'll remember was a few days back down the river! My inner Shanghainese seethed at the injustice at losing out "biggest city" bragging rights to this cheating den of hobunk mountain folk.

Before we could even see the grottoes, we had to stop for lunch. Looking at my watch, three hours had elapsed since we left the downtown area. I couldn't believe it. In this span of time, you could go from Shanghai to Hangzhou and back on the bullet train. Too hungry to be perturbed for too long, I quickly ran into the restaurant, one of a billion typical establishments that exist solely to feed tour groups with basic representations of local cuisine.

The food wasn't bad. Lots of hot pepper, plenty of spice. My favorite dish was the fen-zhen rou, a soft steamed fatty pork covered in little bits of bean and flour. It wasn't the first time enjoying this dish, but it felt more authentic to enjoy it in its place of origin. As I wolfed down the strips of pork, the family sitting across from me started to chatter. "Just talk to him, you speak English," the mother said to her son. "Don't be shy." They seemed harmless enough, so I spoke up and told them I could speak Chinese. Once they realized they didn't have to speak to me in slow-motion, retard Mandarin ("NIIII HAAAAO MAAAA?"), we exchanged particulars. They were from Beijing, apparent from their godawful accent and incessant use of "xiao huo zi" (almost literally "little dude", but more like "young man") when addressing me. Their son, one of the most flaming Chinese boys I'd ever seen, worked in Beijing and was quite friendly. It's always nice to meet amiable locals, so lunch passed by quicker than expected. As long as this mom didn't try to push her son onto my lap, I'd be alright. I don't take free lapdances until after the second date. Back aboard the bus, I noticed that the other mom had made her daughter switch seats, placing the young innocent right next to me. Parted by just the center aisle, yet separated by so much more.

Careening over the hillsides and into a significantly developed tourist area, we finally arrived. Hiking through the sprawling parking lot and past a horde of tourist shops blocking our way, we boarded tram carts and were carted towards the grottoes. The place was packed and I just wanted to detach from the dense crowd as quickly as possible. Expressing my desires with the tour guide, she told me to be back at the bus in a couple hours. Off I went towards sweet freedom.

The most striking aspect of the Dazu grottoes is the locale. Draped around a tiny valley, the grottoes are carved directly into the hillside, surrounded by a forest of lush green trees and underbrush. Compared to Longmen and Yungang, which are both out in the open, dry and exposed to harsh sunlight, Dazu felt almost secret, like we had accidently stumbled upon a long-lost civilization of Buddhas frozen in stone.

Looking Over To The Other Side Of The Grotto

The carvings themself were the most colorful I'd ever seen in China. Bright blues, robust reds, smoky browns and radiant yellows. Up close, the amount of detail put into these relatively tiny carvings were equally stunning. Some face carvings were so smooth, you'd think those wily monks had their own ancient stash of SK-II.

Rainbow Carvings

The scenes depicted in stone illustrated various stories from Buddhist and Taoist legend, with an awesome variety of deities and characters not seen in other primarily Buddha-centric grottoes. Their expressions were also a welcome change from the standard serenity plastered over Buddha's mug: jubilant laughter, evil sneers, playful smiles and horrific grins were in abundance, like ancient comics etched into rock. I was having a blast staring into the face of each figure, flabbergasted at their perfection and personality.

Chubbs!

My favorite face: look at that detail!

Laughter and Smiles

As always, my serenity must be disrupted at some point by a local tourist. While trying to make sense of a series of scripture, a woman behind me complained that she couldn't read the carved script because it was done in traditional characters. I summoned my reserve of patience, stifling a "no shit, you dumbass."Rolling my eyes and sighing out loud, I wondered at which point in her life she would learn that this was what Chinese characters are supposed to look like. Maybe if the grottoes were carved after the 1950s she would have been able to make sense of the chickenscratch and, instead of hundreds of Buddhas, we'd be appreciating a horde of Maos. Idiot.

Purple Puff: I love it! Such a disaster~

This creature takes the crown: looks like she's wearing a hairy purple jellyfish on her skull

Making my way around the valley, I was itching for a jump shot, but through a mixture of shyness and frustration, I couldn't bother asking a perfect stranger to take a picture of a mentally unstable laowai hopping about. Instead, I sat along the walkway and absorbed the largest carving at the end of the grotto, a massive scene depicting paradise, punishments in the netherworld, a fleet of Buddhas and a whole mess of other things that I didn't have the concentration to focus on. There was just too much detail crammed onto this relatively modest space. Once I had enough, I waved goodbye to all the gods and trekked back to the bus.

Better Off Jumping

Once the rest of the group arrived, we boarded our vessel to return to Chongqing city. Without fail, the first voice I heard as I stepped into the bus was that old mama. "Go sit next to the laowai pengyou ("foreigner friend")! Talk to him, he looks your age!" I wouldn't crack, no matter how cute the daughter was (note: she was not). I continued to play coy and popped my earphones in to drown out the mother's continued babble.

It had been a while since being on a typical local tour. I'd sworn them off many years ago, only joining if it was absolutely necessary. So it didn't surprise me when we pulled into a suspicious looking lot and were told to unload. Usually on Chinese tours, you'll be forced to visit one of these roadside stores that specialize in some manner of crap that you'll never need, whether it's overpriced jewelry, domestic pots and pans or the famous local craftware that is too bulky to get on the plane. Think American TV infomercials, "for only 19.95!!!" My most infuriating experience was in Beijing in 2002, where we were forced to visit a pearl market for about 3 hours, while we had only been given 2 hours to see the Great Wall. The bastards. This time, it wasn't so bad. The presentation was funny: a surprisingly entertaining dude who was trying his best to sell us revolutionary knives at ridiculously low prices. "Watch this knife cut paper! Watch me cut through this metal pipe! Watch as I destroy this tomato without even lifting a finger!" I thought that no fool would be gullible enough to take the bait, but I should know never to underestimate a local tourist.

Eventually, the suckers who bought one, two or even five (5!!!) sets of knives boarded the bus and we began the long trip home. I passed out quickly, sure that the determined mother would no doubt try to convince her daughter to just mount me already and wrench the passport from my man purse.

Back in the city, the bus driver was kind enough to drop me off right near Liberation Monument. You know I only had one thing on my mind. And so I returned to the warm fins of the Starbucks mermaid for my penultimate meal in Chongqing. Why not? I just wanted to enjoy myself and bask in the surroundings just one more time. Afterwards, I had to decide what was for dinner. Sichuan cuisine be damned, I craved familiarity. I settled on what would become a new tradition for the last night on all future solo travels: McDonald's. *avoids shoe thrown at my head* Takeout bag in hand, I boarded my old friend, the bus, and returned to my hotel. I scarfed down that delicious burger and washed the fries down with my ice cold Coke while watching Red Cliff. Disgusted with myself yet thoroughly satisfied by that greasy meal, I relaxed for the remainder of the evening in total squalor, enjoying one final night of not picking up after myself or caring about whether I spilled crumbs on the floor. The Rolling Stones have got nothing on me.

Drawing the blinds to the sight of another grey China morning, I couldn't believe the trip was coming to a close. From the river-veined coast to the flat and lifeless interior, creeping upriver through gorges and cliffs and hiking around an ancient city covered with apartment buildings and skyscrapers clinging to the hillsides for dear life, it was as substantial a journey as one could have in such a short time span. Before departing Shanghai, eight days seemed daunting. Though now that it was over, I felt it had gone by quite quickly. I crammed my things into my pack and suited up for the final leg: the adventure to the airport.

Every city in China has its own special airport memory buried deep in my heart. Surprisingly, they are mostly positive. Having grown up with something as disheveled and disorderly as Boston's Logan Airport, let's face it: anything is better. Overall, getting in and out of Chongqing is pretty convenient. From my hotel, as luck would once again bless me, it was only a five minute walk down the street to the city airport shuttle station. Much cheaper than a taxi that could have potentially swindled me out of a few RMB, the airport bus only cost 20 RMB, about $3 US. Within an hour, I was dropped off at the airport with plenty of time to spare. If there's anything that gets me off more than punctuality, it's being outrageously early.

I had an hour before check-in started, so I grabbed lunch at Dicos, a surprisingly ubiquitous fast food chain in second-tier Chinese cities. Like a Chinese version of ghetto American rest stop joint, Roy Rogers, they serve basic, nutritious goodies that all junk food junkies crave: burgers, fried chicken, French fries, and soda. I don't remember ever actually trying the food here, so I was excited to be doing something new and novel.

While waiting in line for my turn to order, the local Chongqingers around me were gabbing on and on about what to order, giving me a good opportunity to absorb just how different their accents are. Sichuan folk speaking Mandarin sound a bit like foreigners learning Chinese: their tones are all over the place, as if they don't matter. You recognize that they are speaking Mandarin, but with the tones so violently off-kilter, most conversation requires a double-take. A husky child next to me, quite obviously a frequent Dicos diner, pushed his way to the front, blurting out a string of Sichuan-Mandarin that I just barely caught:

"JIEjie, you'mei'you SHUtiao?"

Now, my Mandarin is hardly perfect, but this sounded as dismal as first-year Mandarin class at UMass. If he had an unkempt beard, filthy hair and a pair of Birks on, I'd swear he was a long-lost classmate. Asking the Dicos chick ("jie jie", big sister) whether they had any fries, standard Mandarin would have been more like "Jie3jie2, you2mei3you2 shu3tiao2." [For those of you with no idea what I'm talking about, please skip ahead to the next paragraph and let me continue my rant about the subtle linguistic differences; I find it fascinating.] So anyway, as I stood there, it took a second to process, but once I did, I let out a loud "HAH!" at the silliness of it all. This national language - supposed to be "standardized" amongst all members of our harmonious society - not only exists in Chongqing in this truly butchered state, but is also the standard. The only people that speak "proper" Mandarin are the chuckleheads on CCTV. Whenever I am confronted with this reality, I find it oddly heartwarming: no matter how hard the government tries, they'll never be able to kill all of the local accents or dialects in the attempt to homogenize the language. When I speak more properly than a born-and-bred Chinese national, you know there's something stinky afoot. Back to the Dicos queue...

Still reeling from my McOrgy the previous evening, I opted for the healthy route: a fried chicken sandwich and soggy fries, all digested in a soup of lukewarm cola. It successfully filled me up, but the risk of some sort of anal explosion that night loomed over my head for the next few hours.

With some time left until check-in, I remained at Dicos, observing the folks around me and giving my shoulders a much needed rest from my backpack. High above me on a huge wall advertisement, I noticed multiple rings the size of hula hoops in an assortment of rainbow colors. Squinting at the accompanying printed propaganda slogans, I realized they were condoms. This was a billboard for AIDS awareness. Loving the fact that I was in Dicos surrounded by kids and old people, with an audience of giant condoms watching us eat, I quietly applauded the local government for the effort. Whether it actually helps or not is unknown, though current stats name AIDS as the #1 killer in China at the moment (Lord pray the Pope doesn't make a trip to the motherland anytime soon...). It was the first time I had seen an ad of this nature in such a public place, so hopefully it's the start of a widespread campaign aimed at educating the masses about the dangers of unprotected sex. Just when I think I'm starting to understand China, I'm surprised yet again.

As soon as I could, I checked in, cleared customs and began the long wait for my plane. There was a coffee shop at my gate, so I enjoyed a quick cup of Illy and finished World War Z, a book about the global war effort against a plague that has turned almost everyone into a ravenous, brain-craving zombie. Highly entertaining reading, but even more appropriate because, according to the "historical account" in the book, the plague begins along the Yangtze - in Fengdu ghost city, no less - spreading to the rest of the world due to insufficient health regulations and quarantine checks in China. Ha! I was pretty certain that I didn't contract anything on my travels up the river and airport security hadn't carted me off to confinement just yet. Still, I couldn't trust those around me. I cautiously looked around to make sure there were no suspicious looking passengers who might infect me with their evil undead germs. A fat guy playing his PSP was sweating, but that seemed natural for his size. The abundance of vacant eyes and dead stares was also an inaccurate indicator, as this is the standard state of many locals' faces. Everything was fairly quiet, so I decided that my brains were safe for now. Sure of my security, I boarded the plane and returned home to Shanghai.

Until Next Time~