Two days in Dubai

Forty-eight hours was totally inadequate to do justice to what Dubai has to offer. I have to admit that I arrived in Dubai somewhat underprepared, no research, a smattering of casual reading. In my ignorance I anticipated some towering hotels, lavish architecture and Arabian culture. Though I was uncertain what the latter would entail. Men in dish-dash or tawb and keffiyeh, women in abaya with hijab or niqab? Certainly not much flesh on display. Mosques with minarets and noisy muezzins calling the faithfully to prayer? Crowded, exotic, markets and pestering stall-holders?

My first impression was "It's the Gold Coast!". Massive hotels lining the beach front, monotonous buildings mixed with pastiche slashes of mock architecture. My second impression was "Blimey, its hot and humid". There were several hours between these two not particularly brilliant insights. The first made somewhat dozily after a restless overnight flight from London, the second on waking mid-afternoon and deciding that a bit of fresh air was needed. As it turns out a late start to the day is a good idea as Dubai comes to life in the evening after the heat breaks and Ramadan fasting is broken. Fortunately hotels cater for relaxed dining habits and we get a late lunch.

The thermometer says its 40C, the weather app says it feels like 57C and its right! A dip in the sea seems like a good idea. Wrong!! The Gulf waters are 37C, not exactly refreshing; and the pool is much the same. Strange how the 40C hot pools of Iceland were so enticing, yet in Dubai they're merely pleasant. We retreat to the air conditioned bliss of the Dubai Mall, the largest Mall in the world, and a test of my nerve....

At 829.8m the Burj Khalifa is the tallest man-made structure in the world. The outdoor observation deck on floor 124 and 452m is the second highest in the world and only slightly tempting to someone not so keen on heights. Being Ramadan a stiff drink is definitely out of the question, so it's a stiff upper lip for one minute in the lift. On the deck it's not so bad, safely contained inside four meter glass walls wrapped in cloud the night view is somewhat limited.

The big red bus tour of "old" Dubai tempts us to explore more of the city. But, being Friday it's a quiet day so we stroll hot empty streets and silent souks. The Dubai Museum is open for an informative two hours and leaves us wanting a trip to the desert archeological sites. So that's it, back to the hotel beach 'till dinner, which turns out to be a fun affair. The daily Ramadan fast is broken after sunset with "iftar", offered by many hotels and restaurants as a scrumptious family buffet.

Forty-eight hours in Dubai was enough to say "let's go again". Thankfully Dubai didn't live down to my shallow expectations. Whether it's for a leisure break of towering hotels with sun-blessed beaches and scantily clad girls, malls and fun parks, or an Arabian cultural experience we'll be back.

Fences (4.0/5)

Fences (4.0/5.0)
Company
Duchess Theatre, Londom
20 July 2013

Director: Paulette Randall, Writer: August Wilson
Cast: Lenny Henry [Troy Maxson], Tanya Moodie [Rose Maxson], Colin McFarlane [Jim Bono], Peter Bankole [Lyons Maxson], Ashley Zhangazha [Cory Maxson]

Troy Maxson is an affable yet troubled man shaped by a violent Father, prison and racial discrimination, struggling in his relationships with family, friends, and death. Henry is in full and exemplary command of the emotional highs and lows, his scenes with wife Rose and old-friend Jim particularly powerful. Set in 1950's America Wilson's subject is topical post-Trayvon Martin, which may not be appreciated by a British cast and audience though this production will be.

Eight days in Iceland

Eight days in Iceland

With our New York friends Naomi and Neil we arrive in Iceland on a warm and sunny day - and it's midnight.

Our talkative taxi driver apologies for his poor English. Which is ridiculous, his English is perfect whilst our Icelandic is limited to "Björk" and "Snuggle-puss". The latter has us in fits of giggles, it is our best interpretation of "Snæfellsnes". With "Björk" our only serviceable word we may spend a lot of time in record stores. Or, bars - Icelandair serves a very nice liquor made from birch conveniently called "Björk".

Despite the hour we decide to hit the town - or at least take a walk along the main street. For the first time we experience the surreal sensation of the midnight sun. The cafes have all become bars and the evening is clearly just beginning for young Reykjavikians. The complete absence of police is at first disconcerting, until you fully absorb the friendly, trouble-free, atmosphere. I sincerely hope that the influx of tourists does not spoil the Icelanders sense of responsible fun on a Saturday night.

Eleven hundred years separate the two most significant dates in Icelandic history. In 874 Ingólfr Arnarson and his Nordic mates became Iceland's first permanent settlers. Everything went along pretty nicely until the great financial crash of 2008. In the intervening years Icelanders established one of the first democratic parliaments in the world (930), discovered North America (990), converted to Christianity by general agreement (999), documented their language, history and customs in the Landnámabók and Íslendingabók, (~1100) and generally avoided everyone and everything until the British turned up in 1940 followed by the Yanks in 1941. All this and more we discover in the excellent Þjóðminjasafn Íslands (National Museum of Iceland) and the imposing Lutheran church, Hallgrímskirkja. And, then digest in a selection of excellent cafes and bakeries - our favourite is the Laundrette with its quirky sense of humour.

A word about the light and the food. It's not quite the day of the midnight sun, but it's near enough as to make no difference. Sunset at 11.56pm, sunrise at 3.00am; dusk and dawn one and the same. On a clear day the blue hue is invigorating at 10pm. How Icelanders cope with the dark mid-winter does not bear thinking about. Perhaps they console themselves with Iceland's well kept repertoire of secret culinary delights.

Every town we visit has a bakery turning out fresh hot bread and irresistible pastries. On the meat and veg front the chips are phenomenal, cut from real potatoes with the skins on for real people, none of your fries nonsense here. For the bold there's whale, puffin, cormorant, wolffish, Haröfiskur (tough, wind-dried haddock spread with butter) and Sviôasulta (jellied sheep's head). For the timid there are smoked meats and fish, and filling soups and stews of lamb or fish, followed a sweet Skyr conglomerate of yogurt and sugar. And, for the foolhardy there's Hákarl, dried shark, so vile that it has to be cured for six months just to be remotely edible and chased down with Brennivin, a local beverage distilled from potatoes and caraway. I try everything once, except dried shark that Brennivin seems too smooth to placate. The local beers offer a full and thirst quenching range from summer ales to winter porters, with spirits and liqueurs to follow.

For really fresh food (and to view the islands and wildlife) we take a fjord cruise. The helpful booking agent asks if we know where to find the boat. Neil discovers Icelandic humour is not so dry when his reply of "On the water" provokes much merriment. Meanwhile out on the water our captain trawls for shellfish and we dine on the freshest food ever, straight from the net.

"How to become Icelandic in 60 Minutes" is a quirky little piece playing mainly to tourists at Harpa. Given the challenge of translating Iceland's dry humour into English it's an entertaining show for a multi-national audience. Armed with this quick guide to Icelanders we head for Snuggle-puss to test a few national stereotypes. We've had a relaxing and rewarding three days in the delightful and compact city of Reykjavik.

The road to Snæfellsnes skirts a rugged, barren, landscape. To one side an ocean of lava fields, a vast and violent sea frozen at the very moment that waves break under the invisible hand of an unforgiving wind. On the other side the cold grey Atlantic Ocean. All cast in the shapeless light of a cloud burdened sky. A perfect setting for a fertile imagination and a long winter's night with rumbling volcanoes and quaking ground to give sway to tales of monsters, evil deeds and acts of heroism. It's the Icelandic Sagas, wittily presented at The Settlement in humorous dioramas.

Icelandic Nobel Laureate Halldör Laxness has movingly described Snæfellsnes as "Where the glacier meets the sky, the land ceases to be earthly, and the earth becomes one with the heavens ... beauty alone reigns there, beyond all demands". And he's right; under clear blue skies Snæfellsjökull glacier sits like a crown atop a volcanic cone skirted by lava fields that reach to the seas. Under dark skies Snæfellsjökull vanishes into fifty shades of grey that hold the secrets of many an Icelandic saga. The best views belong to the top - an exciting self-drive snowmobile journey away. With screaming girls holding on tight Neil and I make a beeline for the summit and are rewarded with a stunning panorama of Snæfellsnes Peninsula spread-out below us. We thank our guide enthusiastically who responds with a typically understated Icelandic "ok"; score one to Harpa.

Our accommodation on the Snæfellsnes peninsula is in Stykkishólmur, the sort of town with dark secrets in Scandinavian crime series. Not that it lacks charm, an excellent bakery, two good restaurants and a real gem in Vatnasafn, the Library of Water. This domestic scale building set on a hill with views across Breidafjödur fjord houses water from twenty-four Iceland glaciers in floor to ceiling cylinders. (One of which has since melted away leaving just this poignant memorial, a cubic metre of water). The receptionist gives us a quick tour in broken English concluding with a burst of opera. Wow! The acoustics are extraordinary each note literally hangs in the air. How a small room perhaps 12x8x3m can sound so invigorating has puzzled me for days. I can only conclude that each note is held in a slowing fading vibration of water-based harmonics. In the evening we return for a bit of electric-folk from local band "Ylia". They're good, though surely an acoustic set would be mind-blowing in this magical setting.

From Snæfellsnes we head south past Reykjavik to Þingvellir National Park. Here, North America and Europe drift apart by up to 2cm a year; though given recent snooping stories that might be about to accelerate. In nature millions of years of drifting apart has created a series of rifts, partially submerged, bounded by lava fields and granite walls. It's all rather sedate and pretty, unlike a thousand years ago when this was the site of Alþingi, the first Icelandic parliament; A lively occasion by all accounts with hundreds of people traipsing across the land to debate laws, trade and party for two weeks a year.

Nature provides its own entertainment in nearby Geysir and Gulfoss. Geysir lives up to its name, bubbling furiously until exploding in a spray of hot water and smelly gases. Gulfoss roars like a monster escaped from a Saga soaking anyone who gets to close in a cold spray as millions of litres of water cascade over the 32m high falls and into a narrow gorge. More steam and gas pours from the geothermal power plant at Hellisheidi where nature's might is harnessed to provide electricity and hot water - all concisely explained in the interactive visitor centre.

Thrilled by these spectacular sights of nature we go seeking monsters of our own down Raufarhólshellir. Burrowing below the frozen sea of lava this dark tunnel could so easily be home to trolls and dragons. Poorly equipped we go in 'till it's truly black. Our little torches barely touching the walls several meters apart give us little chance of exploring the lava tube's kilometre length.

With hot water bubbling freely from the earth Iceland teems with pools and spas. In Stykkishólmur we braved an early morning chill to try the public pool and hot baths. Down in Hveragerdi we rugged-up to brave rain and chill winds whilst plunging our feet into hot mud. And, on our way back to the airport we luxuriated at the Blue Lagoon Spa, which is indeed blue. Hidden between moon-like lava fields and the steaming steel of the Stvartsengi geothermal plant like something out of a bohemian sci-fi film. Naomi goes for a facial, three of us plunge into the massive hot pool for a soak and a floating massage. Let's hope the curative effects of alga and mineral salts outlast the coming flight.


Big enough to get lost on.
Small enough to find myself.
That's how to use this island.
I come here to place myself
In the world. Iceland is a verb
and its action is to centre.
Roni Horn (Curator, Library of Water)

One Man, Two Guvnors (2.5/5)

One Man, Two Govnors (2.5/5)
Company
Theatre Royal Haymarket
10th July 2013

Director: Fred Smith, Writer: Richard Bean
Cast: Rufus Hound [Francis Henshall], Edward Bennett [Stanley Stubbers], Rosie Wyatt [Rachel/Roscoe Crabbe]

This acclaimed production didn't really do it for me, maybe it needs the original cast. An unsubtle mix of pantomime, improvisation and farce unevenly led by Rufus Hound as the man with two governors, a comedian and TV host when a comedy actor is needed. The premise promises much mirth and confusion that is delivered in parts though the timing is off and the best bits are the musical interludes.

Two days in New York

When it comes to a haircut I don't ask for much. A no.4, no poncing around; even the hot face towel as favoured in Queensland pushes the boundary. Consequentially, a haircut in a new city, let alone a foreign country, is set to be an interesting experience. A personal recommendation leads me to the local barber shop (good start, no unisex salon) on East 87th Street. With a shaky arm a geriatric hairdresser directs me to a chair. And I was going to let this guy loose on me with sharp implements? I was somewhat comforted when the gentleman put on a pair of glasses. If only I'd kept my glasses on, I'd have spotted that "no.4" USA is closer "2.5" Australian. I emerge shorn but otherwise uncut - a close shave.

New York, like Vancouver the week before last, is a favourite much visited city last seen in 2010. Following-on from the French-Canadian calm sophistication of Quebec New York still comes as a bit of a shock. It's hot and humid, hustle and bustle, museums, shows and shops. We take a tactical decision to visit a couple of favourites at leisure: the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Tenement Museum.

During last year's travels to Cambridge (England) we happened upon a lecture by Michael Arad who designed the 9/11 Memorial. Arad corrected my impression of a monument more squabbled over than revered, and so this becomes our first destination. The two deep, dark waterfalls, cascading into the rectangular depths are a powerful evocation of both the loss of life and loss of place. In years to come as the adjacent construction sites quieten down and the oppressive security eases this will in all probability become a place of remembrance and reflection on a par with the cemeteries in Europe that are a legacy of two previous world wars.

Europe's many wars drove hundreds of thousands of people to America. The Tenement Museum is an extraordinary living record of New York's migrant history. By a strok of good fortune this small block was discovered with a set of original tenement apartments spanning the mid-1880's to the 1930's. Museum staff have meticulously researched the migrant families that made this place their home. Their stories are brought to life through themed tours. Kathleen, our guide, tells of hardship and endeavour, of real people who have passed through these small, dank, apartments - it's quite sobering.

Tenement Museum manages to present a dozen histories in its claustrophobic apartments. Conversely The Met is just so big that it cannot possibly be tackled in a single visit. One has to envy New Yorkers who can return to both these museums time and time again.

Even amongst its general galleries The Met adds context to its exhibits so they become so much more than just a place to muse on a vast collection of antiquities. Take for example "The Boxer", an Ancient Greek statute of a boxer that through notes and illustrations is carefully dissected to draw attention to every bruise and cut carefully portrayed by the sculpture, details that would otherwise be missed by the visitor. If only such careful consideration had been given to the feature exhibition "Punk: from chaos to couture". After a promising start comparing British anti-establishment punk and US anti-established music punk, the exhibition loses itself. For British punk rebellion was key, hence it seems misguided to use size 0 mannequins as clothes-horses for early Westwood and McLaren originals when they were the antithesis of the perfect fashion-model figure. To then assert that punk fashion overtook couture is just nonsense when the obvious truth is that the couture houses have taken from punk to create clothing as elite as anything the original punks were rebelling against. Nonetheless the couture "punk" fashions of today, on figure perfect mannequins, are fascinating to look at - just don't read too much into the accompanying history.

And so to a couple of shows. "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike" did well at the Tony's and it's easy to see why (see my separate review elsewhere in PaulMatters). Summer nights at the Lincoln Centre are swing nights on the plaza - a band, tuition and fun, this week it's Salsa. We give it a vaguely successful go and have lots of fun.

On the way to the airport I chat to our taxi driver. He's from Bangladesh and waxes lyrically about Ponting, Warner, Hayden and other great Australian cricket stars. He looks somewhat crestfallen when I tell him they've all retired - that's what eight years cut-off in New York does for you.

Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike (3.5/5)

Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike (3.5/5)
John Golden Theatre, New York
Thursday 27 June 2013

Director: Nicholas Martin, Writer: Christopher Durang
Cast: David Hyde Pierce [Vanya], Kristine Nielsen [Sonia], Sigourney Weaver [Masha], [Spike] Billy Magnussen, Shalita Grant [Cassandra], Liesel Allen Yeager [Nina]

Durang cleverly uses Chekhov characters to create an absurd, squabbling, family of neurotic siblings. Egged on by their soothsayer housekeeper (Cassandra), Masha's toyboy (Spike) and the doting Nina, the three exchange insults as they face the prospect of old-age, unfulfilled dreams and in Masha's case a fading movie career. Hyde Pierce and Nielsen are terrific, Weaver struggles with few good lines. Classical comedy drama almost at its best.

Seven days in Quebec

I knew immediately that Quebec was French, the taxi driver drove like a mad-man.

The historic upper and lower quarters of Quebec City exude history and charm, the people are much the same. Overlay Vancouver's easy pace with French je ne sais quoi and that's the essence of the City and Province of Quebec.

The Quebecois cling passionately to their heritage. Every other exhibit and plaque recounts how the French discovered Quebec, lost it to the British/English and got the city back. Conveniently ignoring the fact that the Brits got it back once again then distracted by revolting Americans to the south made a strategic decision not to make the French settlers adopt English customs - probably
to the everlasting regret of the rest of Canada, though to the fascinated delighted of us tourists. Had this truly been France then preening tour guides would have continually reminded us how "we beat you English", on such occasions it is fortunate that nowadays we can describe ourselves as "Australian".

With commanding views of the Saint Lawrence River from its battlements it is easy to understand Quebec's strategic importance on the North American trade routes from the Atlantic to the cities of the Great Lakes. Whilst the fortified city walls hark back to pioneering days the skyline is dominated by the magnificent Château Frontenac Hotel, a legacy of the great days of the transcontinental railway. The château's pleasing juxtaposition of French Château and Scottish Baronial architecture has become synonymous with Canada's prosperity and hospitality.

Quebec is one of those cities rare in North America that can be enjoyed on foot strolling through a maze of streets seemingly laid out at random, circumventing the uniquely intact city wall or rambling across the old battlefield, now parkland, of the Plains of Abraham. The old city teems with typically French motifs: boutiques and delicatessens, cafes with tempting aromas of fresh coffee and pastries, artisan stalls and bohemian street artists. It's definitely attuned with the tourist market, yet even the nicknack shops have a degree of taste. With a few exceptions, considerable effort has obviously and successfully been made to preserve the style and allure of this World Heritage listed city. So successful that we indulge generously in local fashions and food, hoping the former still fit after too much of the latter.

A good example is our hotel. The excellent boutique Hotel du Vieux-Quebec is an eighteenth and nineteenth century building tastefully fitted out for the twenty-first century. Breakfast charmingly arrives in picnic baskets filled with fresh croissants, pastries and fruit, which we compliment with fresh coffee from the Nespresso machine thoughtfully provided in each room (must get one!). Down the hill, or for a bit of fun down the funiculaire, the Musée de la Civilisation is housed in a careful amalgamation of old and new buildings, and brings similar beauty-care to its exhibits. Consequently, the history of Quebec seems spun towards the achievements of French-Canadians with little reference to Native Americans or the British. Across town another careful compliment of the old (the prison) and new houses the Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec, which is much far more fun than its lengthy name suggests. Between the permanent and temporary exhibits Quebec art from the seventeenth century to today gives a good account of itself. Highlights include the curious and participatory world of Alfred Pellan's studio and the powerful abstract colours of the Musée's Jean-Paul Riopelle collection. Not to forget the mystery of the prison cells and David Moore's contemplative wood carving that rises through its watchtower.

After four days of Quebec culture we leave to explore the Provence as the city prepares for its biggest annual cultural event the Summer Music Festival. Though I definitely will not miss tired old Guns & Roses it would have been nice to have seen Robert Lepage's installation - that will teach me to research a little harder and earlier.

Up-country navigation was somewhat difficult as a number of roads shown on our map didn't seem to exist. Eventually we got around to reading the legend and discovered that we'd picked-up a winter map with snowmobile tracks. Winter must be pretty interesting around here if you need dedicated snowmobile routes criss-crossing the main road network. Even with a proper road map our route-finding struggles along in an unsuccessful search for an historic timber covered bridge possibly at Saint-Placide-de-Charlevoix, though we're not quite sure. Somewhere in a Canadian forest on a narrow dirt track I get stopped by the Mounties for driving on the wrong side of the road. They don't know where we're going either!

Our three day country jaunt barely scratches the surface of the spectacular scenic and culinary delights of Charlevoix and the Île d'Orléans. We follow the St Lawrence downstream to the Charlevoix region, taking the ferry across the Saguenay Fjord accompanied by a pod of Beluga whales. Later at Les Escoumins we observe a fin whale, which excites the French marine biologist at Saguenay–St. Lawrence Marine Park Visitor Centre.

In Charlevoix we make several delightful and intriguing discoveries. The Centre D'interpretation Archeo Topo makes a genuine attempt to portray life for the early settlers. The Papeterie Saint-Gilles with its extraordinary range of hand-made paper and the adjacent Musée Maritime de Charlevoix that recalls the similar level of artisan skill that goes into the making of a wooden boat. And, a truly rural bakery with outdoor oven, lean-to store and exquisite pastries; my attempt to compliment the lady baker in pidgeon-French is initially mis-understood as a chat-up line.

Which brings me conveniently to food and the Île d'Orléans, an island that thrives a good food and even better hospitality. We receive a warm, multi-lingual welcome from Philippe Rae, owner and Chef of our overnight stop the "Le Canard Huppé" Inn, where fine regional cuisine is served at a leisurely place. If only we had the time to stay a few days and work our way through Philippe's menu and selection of local beverages. With an enlarged burdened of full bellies and over-full suitcases it's time to leave Quebec for New York.