J00sterJournal

Deck the Halls with Roasting Ducks

2012-01-02T05:14:00.003+13:00

Christmas is not exactly something one would associate with the pulsating city-state of Hong Kong. Steaming dim sum and roast duck, yes. But Christmas lights and mistletoe? Surely that's New York's domain? Well, it turns out NY has some competition on its hands, and we're not just talking IPO volumes here. In the best traditions of an island that embraces anything that will make a buck, or even better a renmenbi, HK goes all in for Christmas in such a commercialized, over-the-top way that even the Walmart festive aisle would cower with inadequacy.

The Michelin guide has long been accused of being a bit snooty when it comes to dishing out their coveted stars; if you don't make ironing out imperceptible wrinkles in the tablecloth right in front of the diner a grandiose paegent (yes, you 11 Madison Park) then you might as well shoot for Zagat instead. But with the expansion of the guide to HK, things had to change. Out here the best food is served on formica, slapped down with a grunt by a grizzled old lady the moment it leaves the wok. And so it is that some obscure, hole-in-the-wall dim sum joint deep in tangled alleys of Kowloon suddenly has a line around the block, and a minimum three hour wait.

Fortunately, with a touch of practicality that would put many a starred restaurant in NY to shame, they give you a time so you don't have to spend your whole day camped on the pavement watching the endless cycle of dejection or elation as each new number is called.

It takes more than tall buildings and a glittering skyline to earn World City status, although those sure do help.

Here comes the reason Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci et al. set up shop in HK.

HK is changing so fast, the skyline is noticeably different every visit. But the oldies still hold their own. We're talking the Lego-esque Lippo Center here, not Mei's mother.

There's something more than a little incongruous about a Michelin star taped up along with the hastily scrawled Chinglish menus.

And the surrounds are a long way from Rue Rivioli or Madison Avenue.

Worth the wait? To be honest, probably not. It's excellent, some dishes superb even, but all it all it's not noticeably better than the countless other dim sum outlets that can be found on any given Kowloon block. That's no slight on HK dim sum - without a shadow of doubt it can hold its own with the very finest cuisines in the world - it's just that one gets the feeling that this one was somewhat randomly picked once the powers that be at Michelin decided it was time to diversify beyond starched tablecloths.

What did we say about over-the-top? Why string up Christmas lights when you can build an entire Christmas palace, complete with a rotating holiday carriage?

How do you say "show me the money" in Cantonese? The brilliance of pushing Christmas is that by the time the decorations come down, it's time to hang the lanterns for Chinese New Year. Capitalism never looked so good.

This is what they call peering into the future.

At 20 cents a ride, the legendary Star Ferry is hands down the best value for your tourist dollar anywhere in the world.

Is there any doubt this is the iAsia century? Even their Apple stores are bigger.

Rock has the dubious honor of hitting the sack early in two Cities that Never Sleep.

There may be no snow, but don't let that stop you, all those piles of mainland renminbi will make some very nice drifts in no time.

Who needs Christmas lights when you've got the mighty Bank of China tower twinkling behind you.

Just in case it suddenly hits you at 1am that you don't have enough handbags...

The legendary Lan Kwai Fong comes alive as the office towers disgorge masses of Suits looking for something a bit stronger than watching yet another Canto-pop talent quest on tv in their exorbitantly priced shoeboxes.

Forget those stupid livability indexes, for a true measure of a city's worth one only needs to check the vital arteries - if they're still pumping after midnight you know you've arrived. If they're not, you know you're in the Midwest. Probably Des Moines.

It's hard to tell if this is a big chair, or a normal sized chair with Mei sitting in it.

Times Square, this way. Bootleg DVDs aren't the only rip-offs you'll find on the HK streets.

It's something of a high school reunion in HK this weekend. Apparently it's not all life and death exams and endless memorization in the Chinese school system. Or more likely Mei was just slacking off.

Each shopping mall tries to outdo the competition with ludicrously extravagant holiday displays. A case in point is this bizarre "Xmas Featherland" installation that would look more at home in the Guggenheim.

One Peking Place is HK's answer to Time Warner Center. Each floor boasts a restaurant, and at the top is a bar that can legitimately claim one of the best views in the world, looking straight back to the sparkling skyline of HK island.

Mei's friend Rain must be cool; like Rock she has a noun for a name.

Great view. Oh and the skyline is pretty decent too.

It's no contest, the Shanghainese restaurant on the 10th floor of One Peking claims the coveted Best Meal of the Trip title before the third dish has even arrived.

The dim sum comes on these cute little hangers. Try doing that with butter chicken.

India Part 7: Simply Marbleous!

2012-01-02T04:50:00.001+13:00

The long road from Jaipur to Agra is even longer when the snacks there were supposed to last the whole trip run out on the first day. Plus, playing Count the Tata isn't all that fun when you need to switch to scientific notation after just a few kilometers of bumper to bumper truck-jams. Luckily the mighty Akbar the Great decided to plonk down a temple cum palace cum tomb complex just off the main highway. Rest stops don't come much better than this. Although rest stop toilets certainly do.

The Fatehpur Sikri palace and adjacent mosque are awe-inspiring for their epic scale. The main gate towers 54 meters over a long set of steps that lead to the vast courtyard where the actual worship takes place.

"The search for the grail is the search for the divine in all of us", Marcus Brody. Uhm, I think you have the wrong movie there chief, save that one for Team J00ster's 2012 Petra odyssey.

Mei decides to go for a more stylish option for her requisite head covering.

Back before you could show off your wealth by owning an IPL team and importing a host of offshore superstars, the only way to beat the Singh's down the road was to have a bigger palace.

The spacious grounds host a variety of carefully manicured gardens, made all the more refreshing through their contrast with the dusty surrounds. And the absence of itinerate cows.

Mei is just glad she's not the one who has to clean this place. If you can't keep a shoebox NY apartment clean, your odds here aren't so great.

Finally, just when the prospect of another manically-piloted, horn-blaring Tata is about to push Mei, not to mention the driver, over the edge, an oasis appears on the horizon. And this is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill oasis with a couple palm trees and a tepid puddle of muddy water. No, the five star ITC Mughal comes complete with cable tv showing something other than B-grade Bollywood reruns, a massage-enabled la-z-boy, and even... wait for it... a hot water tap where hot water actually comes out when you turn it on. Hitch up the camels folks, we've arrived.

A window in the bathroom looks good in Architectural Digest, but do you really want to watch Rock... uhm... lightening the load for tonight's curry feast? Nope, didn't think so. You didn't really even want to read about it, did you?

Mei raids the tea chest. This place is so upmarket, the tea is imported from Britain. Which makes about as much sense as the hordes of Chinese that come to buy iPads on 5th Avenue when they're made down the road in Guangzhou.

With a hotel this posh, it takes a monumental effort to be up in time for sunrise. But after 10 days of anticipation, nothing could hold the eager J00sters back...

...except of course for a closed ticket office. It seems when they say the doors open at sunrise, they don't exactly mean the crack of dawn.

But all the hassles of a long wait melt away as the Taj Mahal is bathed in the pink light of a new day.

Mei doesn't see the point of having such salubrious digs once you're dead; she'd quite like a Central Park West penthouse right now, thank you very much.

The nice thing about coming early is one can engage in annoying tourist antics without having to fight through all those tourists and their annoying antics.

Fortunately the government found a bit of time between counting bribes to set up a clean-air zone around the Taj Mahal. Which means the glorious white marble should stay like that for future generations.

Apparently the falling water level of the river behind the Taj is causing some instability in the foundations. So Mei's landing can't really have helped things.

Pictures don't really do justice to the epic scale of the mausoleum. Apparently the wife whom the tomb commemorates died giving birth to her 14th child with the king, so one could argue she probably deserved such large-scale recognition.

Even Mei is willing to grudgingly admit that for once getting up early was worth it.

Circumnavigating this thing is harder than it looks.

Mei reckons the best thing about the sun coming up is now she can pull out her shades.

The Yamuna River is still shrouded in a mysterious blanket of morning mist and the faint call to morning prayer drifts through the crisp morning air. Kings come and go, empires rise and fall, but the creamy white marble stands unblinking as the centuries slip inexorably by.

They just don't make doors like they used too.

The locals add a nice touch of color, and are a lot more photogenic than yet another off white GAP t-shirt and fanny pack combo.

Marbleous!

The sun is fully up now, and in a couple more hours Mei will be too.

And with that fitting finale, we wrap up 10 incredible days in India. From here it's a long, painful drive back to Delhi, then a long, painful flight to Wuhan, then a long, painful train ride to Hong Kong, and then an even longer, even more painful flight back to the Big Apple. And since reading these posts have been long and painful enough for the readers who made it this far, we'll leave it at that.

India Part 6: Amber Alert!

2011-12-31T12:16:00.000+13:00

Eight painstaking hours from Udaipur to Jaipur is punctuated by the occasional chuckle-worthy sight. If this isn't farm-to-table dining I don't know what is.

In India, anything with a motor and four wheels is a treasured commodity. This fellow is still waiting for the return of the glory days of the British Empire. I tell you old sport, back in my day Ta-ta was the sound of our drums as our boys marched forth to add another colony to His Majesty's realm.

The Hawa Mahal, or Palace of the Winds, pretty much sums up why they call this the Pink City.

Let's see if we can keep the hustlers away long enough to get a photo in. Madam, have a lookee, best prices I make. Madam, we have many sizes, have a look, yes? Sure they're the best prices... if you're the merchant.

Now here's a shop that's guaranteed to offer a good deal. With Rock's bargaining skills, the customer will always come out ahead. That's a promise.

The main reason to come to Jaipur, other than to visit the aforementioned establishment, is the mighty Amber Fort that towers over the city's outskirts.

The best way up the mountain is on the back of a mighty but surprisingly docile pachyderm.

Thu's elephant must be thinking he hit the jackpot. After a hot morning's work lugging load after load of tourists who look like they just waddled out of their local IHOP's All-You-Can-Eat-Tuesday, he scores the lightest cargo of the day. And that's including 5kg of camera gear.

Come on guys, when they gave you your Elephant License they must have taught you that downhill pachyderms have right of way at one-way arches?

You don't realize how high these beasts stand until you get on one. For Thu, it might as well be the top of the Empire State Building.

No danger of losing the hat up here. Apparently elephants can run up to 25 kmh, but today they seem quite content to plod along in an orderly line. For once, even Mei isn't complaining about the lack of progress.

Luckily the fort's architect designed the place with the big guys in mind.

But don't worry, little guys are also welcome.

The first thing that strikes one about the Amber Fort is its monumental scale. The entry courtyard it so big it could easily accommodate an entire army and their elephants. Which on reflection is the whole idea. Of course, whether it is big enough to fit the innumerable touts flogging their "lookee, real gold" elephant statues is another question.

Like the other forts in India, this one wasn't purely for raining deathly armaments down on the hapless enemies below. Between battles there was plenty of time to enjoy the finer things in life. Let's face it, the best way to get the chicks is to have a ginormous fortified palace on a prime piece of mountain-top real estate. Nice to see that with all of civilization's supposed advances, some things never change.

They don't sell walls like this at Ikea.

In Rajasthan at this time of year, water is about as rare as someone who offers you a service without expecting a bit of palm greasing.

StarCam (tm).

According to our rival tabloid, TwoPhatKiwis, this room was designed so that a women could maintain her modesty while still being able to see out. Kind of like an early version of a tinted Hummer.

In the battle of the Bond girls, one always ends up dead, and the other ends up in bed. Unfortunately, when you're chasing a family-friendly PG rating, a threesome never seems to be an option.

Speaking of Bond girls. Just watch out for the miniature rocket launcher she keeps in her purse.

Spacious digs. You could fit a whole Manhattan block in here wit room to spare.

Perfect size for a crossbow.

The serpentine walls that radiate out to the surrounding hills offer yet another line of defense. Seems a bit overkill really, the fort itself would be hard enough to take as it is. But when you've already got infinite gold, precious stones, chicks, and elephants, there's really not much else to spend all that loot you plundered on.

That wall looks suspiciously like the backdrop for a firing squad. Perhaps it's time to stand somewhere else.

There's so many rooms in this fort it's not clear what they were all for. After all, back when this thing was built you probably didn't need a TV room.

Out your best archer up here, and you never need to worry about your enemy getting within spitting distance of your front door.

It's also a good spot to entertain your lady visitors. There's nothing quite as romantic as watching your vast army subjugate another rival city-state from the comfort of your back porch.

Sure beats the few wilting herbs on a windowsill that make up most Manhattan gardens. Then again, it's a lot easier to keep the weeds out when you have a whole dungeon full of slaves to do the dirty work.

Finally a person-sized door. Uhm, when we say person, we of course refer to a normal sized person. Mei still can't reach the top.

Amber Fort would be a fitting finale... if the next and final stop wasn't the mythical Taj Mahal.

This is some sort of lake palace. By this point it's pretty much a case of drive-by sightseeing as Team J00ster wearily checks another box on the endless list of must-sees.

In Jaipur you have a car lane, a bus lane, and an elephant lane. Not that anyone actually bothers to follow the road markings.

Sure haggling for 10 minutes over 10 cents is not the act of a rational economic agent, but there's principal at stake dammit.

Jaipur feels like one big market. No wonder the prospect of Walmart coming in is such a hot potato issue. How dare those foreigners launch a second colonization under the ludicrous assumption that people might actually want to shop without the incessant battle with touts, fakery, and deception that make the markets such an enjoyable experience.

After the incredible City Palace in Udaipur, Jaipur's version that bears the same name is a bit of a letdown. Of course, after a week on the road the bar has been set pretty high; if one doesn't get there on the back of a lumbering elephant or if it doesn't overlook a stunning Venetian water-palace, it's barely worth seeing right?

Butter chicken or lamb korma tonight? Oh come on, enough of the pretense, you're not fooling anything. Just get the butter chicken already.

India Part 5: Who let the cows out?

2011-12-30T12:40:00.000+13:00

When you don't even need to get out of bed to photograph a sunrise like this, you know you've scored a winning hotel.

Of course, the fact you're up at this hour in the first place means jet lag is still lurking in those interminable hours between midnight and dawn.

Sun's up folks, time to hit the city. Today's agenda involves curry, a lake cruise, curry, a City Palace tour, curry, and perhaps a midnight snack of curry to polish things off.

The funny thing about those sacred cows that everyone professes to love so much: they never seem to show up in the rich folks' compounds. It's almost like they're easier to deify when you're not up to your ankle in a juicy cow patty.

The Ladies of the Lake. Nothing like a bit of alliteration to get the heart fluttering.

A life vest is all well and good, but the reality is a hazmat suit would be a better option before taking a dip in these waters. The lake looks pretty, but that's because e. coli is a bit hard to spot, even with 10 megapixels behind the lens.

Was that sari cleaner before or after it went in? Looks suspiciously like Rock's dishwashing technique.

We could have saved ourselves the early alarm and just jumped out our window into the boat.

Hey it's last night's dinner spot. Is anyone else a bit peckish? I wonder if they have a boat drive thru around the corner?

Land ho! A herd of marble elephants is waiting to welcome the mariners to this exclusive island hotel/restaurant. After dodging stray creatures - and more importantly their byproducts - on every street, a marbleized herd is looking quite appealing.

Better Mosques and Gardens is back with this exclusive photoshoot of Bollywood beauties luxuriating in the luscious surrounds of an island hideaway.

I'm seeing a lot of luscious surrounds and not a lot of Bollywood beauties. Was anyone else really looking forward to a titillating ankle flash?

That's more like it. Now all we need is catchy, all-cast song and dance number. It seems gyrating in a bikini is ok, as long as there's... uhm... a bouncy musical accompaniment.

Bring back the babes! Bring back the babes!

Now we're talking. Then again, anyone can look good pre-cow patty.

Want to see one of those infamous Indian weddings but don't have a third cousin with an invite, or failing that a herd of scrawny cows you're looking to offload? Never fear, just gatecrash.

Hey if they didn't want hangers on they wouldn't commandeer a whole street for their elaborate procession to the bride's house, complete with horse-mounted groom and a Wedding Wagon (tm) creaking under a tower of surround sound speakers, the better for booming out the latest Bollywood numbers.

The rituals also seem to involve the carrying of brightly colored pots on the heads of the female guests. Like most things in India, the guys seem to have got the better end of the deal. Riding an enormous boom box down the road whilst blasting out the latest hits at decibel levels last recorded at a U2 concert, or carrying the family heirlooms in a pot on your head. Yep, it's good to be a guy.

I'm sure the dress code was Red Sari.

Sure intricately embroidered saris are nice and all, but sometimes a bit of skin doesn't hurt.

Young padawan, much laziness I see in you, yes.

The interior of the City Palace is everything the hot, thirsty masses dream about as they look up longingly at those insurmountable walls whilst eking out a meager existence in the shadow of unobtainable wealth.

No wonder the powers that be don't seem all that flustered by piles of festering trash on every street corner; from up here the town below looks sparkling clean.

Rock shows worrying signs of the third most common disease after malaria and typhoid: the dreaded Touristitis. Common symptoms include deep sighs at the prospect of trudging around yet another temple/fort/palace, glazed eyes when confronted with another epic vista, and lack of appetite when facing a another bowl of curry.

Regrettably, the only known cure for the debilitating disease is a Big Mac Combo. We're a long way from a golden arches that serves anything other than McLentils.

The Indian culture defies easy categorization. On one hand, artisans of incredible skill are willing to devote their whole lives to crafting exquisite works of art; but the effort of actually putting one's trash into a bin is too much to ask.

Mei's dream is to come back as an Indian princess...

...unfortunately the big dude is thinking more along the lines of a millipede.

How about we compromise and settle on a peacock?

Sure it's a nice courtyard, but does it have wifi?

Leave the kid jumping into a pile of poo scene for bleeding heart Hollywood liberals, here is Bollywood we know what people really want is a dance number!

Apparently India is one of only a handful of countries where Pepsi outsells Coke (Pakistan being another; probably the only thing the two warring states actually agree on). But after Team J00ster's visit, one suspects Wikipedia needs to update their facts.

In a country with as many eating options as India, there's no good reason to go to the same place twice. Actually there is. The cake and ice cream selection at Edelweiss - a quaint German cafe squeezed between endless purveyors of curry - is a powerful magnet for those hankering for less spicy fare. Or those thumbing through Lonely Planet.

If its prime lakefront real estate isn't enough to sell you on the Lake Pichola Hotel, you should check out the rooftop restaurant.

Save the stunning views back over the lake to the City Palace for later, the curries are coming!

The rooftop cabanas are the perfect place to unwind with a few hands of Scum. Unfortunately, the distracting view was the root cause of Rock's epic losing streak. Yes, really.

India Part 4: More monkey brains anyone?

2011-12-28T14:06:00.002+13:00

The Taj Mahal may be India's crown jewel, but the incredible Jain temple at Ranakpur deserves to be mentioned in the same breath, if not the same blog post. The pristine white marble of the main temple shrugs off the tangled vines of the encroaching jungle and sparkles in the dying rays of the autumn sun. Magic.

No shoes allowed folks. Nope, not even designer sandals, sorry.

Apparently the temple consists of over 1,444 intricately carved marble columns. Bear with us while Thu tries to photograph them all.

On that note, what's the point of "over 1,444". What's wrong with over 1,400 or just under 1,500? Someone must have got to 1,444 and lost interest in counting the rest. A familiar feeling for readers of this blog no doubt.

In a place like this, a battered fedora is required apparel.

Not to mention a whip.

Heck, throw in a rousing John Williams march too while you're at it.

If you're going to try the monkey brains, this is the place to do it. Did anyone bring ketchup?

Don't scoff at the monkey brains you dog-eater you!

The elephant may be sacred, but even a sacred elephant weighs ten tons. Perhaps choosing a different meditation spot would be advisable.

The setting sun casts eerie shadows over the hidden depths of the temple. What ancient spirits lurk within these timeless walls? If you're thinking about waiting to find out, keep in mind there's unlikely to be a convenient mine cart waiting around the corner to whisk you expediently to the main credits.

Mei will probably lose interest once it comes time to fast. After all, there's a whole suitcase of snacks waiting in the car.

The temple just doesn't get the publicity it deserves. But now that it has appeared on the esteemed J00ster Journal, that will no doubt change overnight.

See, I told you monkey was on the menu.

This is the smaller of the two temples in the complex. Or it was, until Mei stood in front and made it look massive.

The attention to detail is nothing short of incredible.

Is anyone else embarrassed that it takes the MTA over 60 years to build one subway line down 2nd Ave, when ancient artisans can handcraft something like this with their bare hands? And they didn't have Home Depot on every corner either.

The lake at Ranakpur is a tranquil spot to watch the sun go down. Or it would have been, had our driver not boasted that we're in leopard territory.

Time to hit the road again. But after watching this dude go round and round under the merciless sun, two hours in an air conditioned car doesn't seem all that bad.

The middle of nowhere seems to be quite a coveted title in Rajasthan.

Next stop, the beautiful City of Lakes, Udaipur. Ok, this is more like a pond, but we have to start somewhere.

Often called the Venice of the East - and not just because it attracts a similar swarm of tourists to its namesake - Udaipur enjoys a spectacular setting perched on the edge of the picturesque Lake Pichola.

Room with a view. The aptly named Lake Pichola Hotel will never be accused of false advertising; it's rooms don't just look out over the water, they literally overhang it. It's like being on a boat, except Rock isn't seasick.

In addition to bringing in lots of tourist Rupees, a lake is also useful for keeping your sari clean.

Remarkably, the lake is relatively trash free, a state of affairs that is sadly rather rare in India.

Even the cows like to enjoy a nice view.

Which way to the City Palace? In Udaipur, almost all roads lead to the massive palace complex that dominates the city skyline. All roads that is, except of course the one Mei has selected.

Each city in Rajasthan was once a city-state, and the ruling families still own all the best property in town. The City Palace is a case in point. Fortunately, the monarchs see it fit to throw open the doors to the public, which is either the generous act of a benevolent ruler or a good way to bring in a few extra Rupees since being a king just doesn't pay like it used to

Where's your sense of decorum ladies, this is a palace is it not?

With a hat like that, it's only a matter of time before someone starts shooting poisoned arrows at you.

Still waiting for the first real elephant sighting. But for someone like Mei, who likes her animals on a plate, this version will do nicely.

In India, it's not the 99% versus the 1%, it's more like the 99.999% versus the 0.001%. No prizes for guessing which bracket the owner of the City Palace penthouse fits in.

It seems the 99.999% isn't going to make it past the doorway, judging by this dude's expression.

The palace offers a plethora of windows, suitable for mocking the mere peons down below.

The entrance to one of the two hotels nestled in the City Palace complex. If you stay there you can live like a maharajah for a day. If you drink at the bar there you can live like one for a couple hours. If all you can afford is a quick photo whilst being hustled on by, you can live like Rock and slink back down the hill to the peasant quarters.

Sunset over Lake Pichola.

Needless to say, sunset over Lake Pichola looks a lot better from up there.

Having left the City Palace behind, Team J00ster finds a sunset spot more appropriate for their caste.

Seems it would be quicker to swim back to the hotel. Assuming of course you trust your typhoid shots.

Forget Tebow Time. Out here the start of 4th quarter can mean only one thing: Curry Time.

Outdoor dining at its best. The patio is perfectly orientated to yield stunning views back across the shimmering lake to the City Palace complex.

Even a view like this can't tear Rock away from his butter chicken.

After dinner, it's back to City Palace one last time to see if the rich folk might have let their guard down as night sets in. Nope, poor people and cows are still turned away at the door.

India Part 3: O'er the Ramparts We Watched

2011-12-22T15:37:00.000+13:00

Vehicular progress in India is always a question of how many cows lie between you and you destination.

Since running over a cow will damage your car, wallet, and - if you're Hindu - your chances of coming back in life 2.0 as something other than a gnat, it pays to make periodic caffeine stops. Fortunately, there are lots of roadside chai tea stalls.

Why is it that the more dubious the kitchen looks, the better the food? Less cleaning, more cooking seems to be the philosophy. That's Mei's philosophy too. Without the more cooking park.

The bustling city of Jodhpur is a world apart from the hippie enclave of Pushkar. The focal point is the mighty Mehrangarh Fort that towers over the famous blue-washed walls of the houses below.

Next time maybe you want to pick one that doesn't have horns?

The streets of Jodhpur feel like one big market. It seems everyone is trying to sell you something, or take you to someone who would like to try to sell you something.

Half of India seems to meet in the main square every day for a spirited haggling match.

The only thing not for sale are the numerous cows that have free reign to wander the stalls. Unfortunately, the novelty quickly wears off when one realizes that fruit carts and the... err... leftovers from a herd of happy go lucky cows don't really mix all that well. Unless you're a fly.

Which way to the Louis Vuitton sari store?

When in India it's always best to just close your eyes and enjoy it. What you don't see can't hurt you, right?

No one obeys the parking regulations in India, so why should the cows?

No shopping bags needed here.

You can't make butter chicken without tomatoes. Although one would hope you can make it without the accompanying flies.

The veges look remarkably fresh, must be all that readily available cow manure. Why all you have to do is scrape it straight off your shoes into the garden.

Mei is not sure how to shop without a mouse. You mean you actually have to move your head?

Don't they have Fresh Direct out here?

If you can make it to the end of the street without being (a) run over by a tuk-tuk, (b) gored by a sacred cow, or (c) dive bombed by a squadron of malarial mosquitoes, then congratulations, you can turn the corner and do it all again on the next block.

Battered green and yellow tuk-tuks are as ubiquitous as yellow cabs in Manhattan. In fact, this is where most the NY cabbies probably learned their trade. If you can navigate these streets, 6th Ave is gonna be a walk in the park.

So this is what 1.2 billion people looks like.

The key to not getting lost: keep the clock tower in sight at all times. And don't follow Mei...

Jodhpur is famous for its spices. Anyone for a special edition masala fire mix?

Best table in the house. Sweeping views of the clock tower square on one side, and the mighty Mehrangarh Fort on the other.

It doesn't get any better than this. Until the food arrives that is.

Unanimously voted best dish of the trip: a succulent lamb curry lavished in creamy white sauce. Of course, even a McTandoori would taste good with a backdrop like this.

All quiet in the market. With the electricity about as reliable as the hot water tap, things pretty much operate on the sun's schedule.

Perhaps the fort has its own generator.

Speaking of forts, as day breaks its time for the final assault on the imposing fortress Mehrangarh.

The formidable array of primary defenses includes a well paved road and a ticket booth.

They don't call it the Blue City for nothing. Perhaps you get a tax break for painting your house blue. No that can't be it; no one pays taxes in India.

These warriors from a distant land sure do have a weird idea of armor.

The towering ramparts of Mehrangarh. What priceless treasures lie buried beneath these ancient walls? What whispered horrors linger in these forgotten dungeons? Uhm, number 8 on the audio guide will probably tell you. Archaeology just isn't what it used to be.

You can't see the cow patties from up here.

After breaching the perimeter, the inner keep looms large. Will it take more than a fistful of Rupees to break through the next line of defense? Not likely, nothing greases the wheels around here like a Rupee or two... hundred.

Nice digs.But does the hot water work?

If you're really a princess, how come you don't have one of those handheld chair thingees to take you up the hill in style?

Probably because this dude is too cheap to buy one. At least until Toyota gets into the sedan chair market.

Will someone get all these tourists out of my house.

Where do they make the curries around here?

Looks like there was time for a bit of fun between subjugating rival city-states.

Yeah it's cool and artsy and all, but as far as windows go it seems to lack a key ingredient. Like transparency.

The penthouse has a view to die for. Which one suspects more than a few invaders learned first hand.

The problem with living is an impregnable fortress is the cable guy has a hard time getting in too. Which means a lot of sitting around in windows.

No wonder the fort is still standing after 500 years. It's not exactly the kind of place were you can just wander right in. Oh wait, we just did.

500 years? It will be lucky to survive five days with Rock captaining the defenses.

On a less militant note, time for some more Taj Mahal appetizers.

Mei does her best to get Bollywood's attention. Hate to break it to you, but you probably should have picked a different blog if you wanted someone to actually, like, read it.

And with that, it's on to the jungle temples of Ranakpur.

India Part 2: The Push to Pushkar

2011-12-21T15:34:00.002+13:00

There's not a lot you can say about eight hours on a long, dusty road to somewhere only a little south of Nowhere. But rest assured Rock will do his best to serve up the usual cheap stocking stuffers that keep this pile of bytes reluctantly grinding along.

Traffic comes in all shapes and sizes out here in Rajasthan. This is the only vehicle more reliable than the hearty Toyota. And about as ubiquitous too.

A Tata Motors truck carries a load of Tata Steel along a logistics path carefully mapped out by Tata Consultancy while the driver chatters away merrily about Tendulkar's push for a ton of tons on his Tata Communications mobile whilst sipping his freshly brewed Tata Tea. The only thing he won't be doing is overnighting at the plush Taj Hotel, owned by, surprise surprise, Tata. In Econ 101 they call it concurrent horizontal and vertical integration; in J00ster 101 they call it world domination.

If you're going to spend endless hours traversing desolate desert roads, you might as well do it in style. It may not have four legs and go two weeks without a fill up, but on the plus side it does have a/c.

Looks kind of hot out there.

Holy cow, it is hot out there. Plus this is cobra territory.

Finally a shimmering oasis appears through the distant haze where scorched earth melts into burnished sky. Also know as the horizon for the poetically challenged. Anyway, it turns out the oasis is the pilgrim drawcard of Pushkar, an intoxicating but oxymoronic blend of wild west frontier town and religious sanctuary.

Another block, another temple. These pilgrims sure do have stamina; visiting every one is like buying a pack of M&Ms at every Duane Reade in New York. Albeit with a slightly more spiritual outcome.

Sunset over the sacred lake. Unfortunately, the place is almost overrun with Western hippies, even more so now that their Occupy sites have been shut down. Except here they're the 1%, so draw up some new placards dudes.

How can you make a sacred lake more sacred? By putting a sacred cow in front of course.

Regardless of your religion or first world skepticism, there is something peaceful about this place. Maybe because all the hippies have moseyed off to get their daily weed lassis.

The best way to beat the crowd is to follow a cow and watch the masses part before you. Unfortunately, following a cow also involves a delicate game of hopscotch...

Is it finally time for some bargaining practice? 4000 rupees, are you crazy? I can get a better blue at home, and it would come with a Kate Spade logo attached!

Modes of transportation through the narrow streets are pretty limited. Especially since riding cows is frowned upon in these parts.

The Pushkar market is a kaleidoscopic blend of garishly colored saris, bubbling vats of curry, and mounds of exotic spices. Makes Amazon.com look a tad bit boring.

It would be easy to get lost in here. Unless you're Mei, in which case you're already lost.

Remember Temple of Doom? I bet this fellow does.

As the sun sets, the bargaining is only just getting started. Except for Rock, who already got suckered.

Things get cold quickly out here in the desert. Time to find a warm haveli to refuel. The Seventh Heaven Haveli fits the bill nicely, serving up steaming curries and creamy lassis out of a rooftop eatery.

Rise and shine folks. Yes, that includes those blog readers who have drifted off waiting for something worth reading to come along.

Magnificent desolation. Out here you really feel you're in a world where even Google maps can't reach. Until you fire it up on your Blackberry and find that it can. Sigh. Is there anywhere left uncharted in this world?

Team J00ster's overnight accommodation looks cool from the outside. It's cool on the inside too... like when you turn on the hot water tap for example...

One beast to rule them all. No live elephant sightings yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Waiting to hit the road to Jodhpur. Or rather, hit the endless string of potholes that masquerades as the road to Jodhpur.

India Part 1: Curry in a Hurry

2011-12-18T11:48:00.000+13:00

Any country that requires one to get so many shots that the doctor recommends you diversify the needles across both arms to lessen the pain has got to be cool, right? Some intrepid explorers spend a lifetime searching for the mysterious source of mighty rivers or the peak of lofty mountains; Team J00ster is geared up to spend ten days searching for the elusive source of butter chicken. The journey starts in the pulsating capital city of Delhi, a chaotic blend of traffic jams and temples that seems to precariously straddle that missing category between third world and first world.

The Red Fort. Just in case you can't see the color through the early morning haze that we will charitably call a morning mist rather than a lung choking miasma of sulfuric smog.

The imperious 17th century walls float mysteriously in the 21st century smog. Actually, according to Avtar, our driver, this is indeed just a morning mist. Sure it is, just like this is indeed a no commission restaurant.

The newest to Team J00ster is photographer extraordinaire Thu. Rest assured none of her work will be featuring on this sordid broadsheet. Better get a move on girl, those domestic tourists aren't far behind.

Who needs a sari when you've got headgear this good?

Short and Shorter.

The vast grounds of the Red Fort are more palatial than defensive, with numerous ornately crafted halls and audience chambers.

Which way to the garlic naan?

Short and Shorter II: The Midgets Strike Back. Now playing at theaters everywhere.

Only nine days and 18 hours to go for the Taj Mahal; in the meantime this will have to satisfy those marble cravings.

Just in case you thought the art of stewing succulent chunks of barbecued chicken in a creamy tomato sauce was India's greatest cultural contribution.

No wonder the British Army made the fort their headquarters, the pavilion makes a fine place to kick back with a Dilmah tea and a stack of telegrams with all the gossip from back home.

With a hat like that, please fire up Raiders theme before you read the rest of this post.

Think big. Just like Rock when he's ordering curries.

From the old to the new. The Lotus Temple, in addition to being a rip off of the Sydney Opera House, is apparently the world headquarters of the Bahai faith.

The sandstone tower at Qutb Minar is the tallest minaret in India, according to Wikipedia which has replaced Lonely Planet as Rock's go to source for filler factoids.

Dr. Jones I presume?

Under Thu's patient but ultimately futile tutelage, Rock tries his hand at something slightly more creative then the generic you-stand-there-in-front-of-that-monument snap. And fails miserable.

Speaking of generic...

My tower is taller than yours works in any language.

Sunset in Delhi can only mean one thing: it's nearly curry time.

Every surface of the complex is exquisitely illustrated with intricate carvings. If only they put the same effort into picking up the trash that piles up on the side of every road.

Mei does her best to get a payload of butter chicken into orbit.

Nothing like a few columns to disguise an elaborately constructed poison arrow trap. Or to filter out another army of local tourists.

Nice of these old civilizations to have the foresight to build an air traffic control tower conveniently in the flight path of Indira Gandhi International Airport.

Mei proves that archaeology doesn't have to be all dusty coffins and the ancient remnants of dropped dinner plates; DNKY limited edition whip anyone?

Looks like the kind of place where an unfortunate explorer and a full moon could meet, with unpleasant consequences.

Forget the quest for the Holy Grail, here's an opportunity for a photo shoot.

Who's hungry? Other than the flies that is. Might have to hold out for a McTandoori instead.

It turns out India Gate is the name of this Arc de Triomphe rip off, not shorthand for the latest government bribery scandal.

Short and Shorter III: The Return of the Platform Shoe.

Sweet lassis. Oh and the drinks where pretty good too.

As dusk sets over the market you have the opportunity to be ripped off by moonlight, which is much more exotic.

No flies here folks. Monsoon Restaurant in the posh Le Meridien hotel is the perfect place for Lonely Planet hugging cowards to take their first tentative steps in real Indian cuisine.

The atrium of the Le Meridien. Where's Obi-Wan when you need someone to clamor out onto a precarious ledge to distract the post Mumbai massacre guards so you can get the perfect photo?

Don't believe everything they say about Indian toilets. This one doesn't look too bad at all. Poor fools, if only they knew what the future holds...

Enjoy the lap of luxury while you can ladies. They don't know it yet, but the idea of turning a knob to procure hot water is going to become very novel very soon.

Jolly good, old sport!

2011-11-07T14:36:00.000+13:00

Before we get back to London, a few snaps from a whirlwind work trip through what is, for the time being at least, the EU. First stop, Brussels, the supposed capital of a completely dysfunctional collection of bickering neighbors.

Nifty square, the product of that legendary Benelux work ethic. No wonder the good folks of Brussels are rather loathe to bail out their profligate neighbors down on the Mediterranean. Why should they get the beach and the bailout?

The streets around the old square glow invitingly with the promise of beer and chocolate, in no particular order.

And with that, it's on to the next stop, namely the quiet canals of Amsterdam. Since the days when stockbroking and Amsterdam's coffee shops went hand in hand have gone the way of the Boom Boom Room, Rock's scenic tour is not quite as, uhm, scenic as it might otherwise have been...

Back in Olde London Towne for a weekend of exploring the Second Greatest City on Earth. First stop is of course the requisite London Eye experience, brought to you by some no-name electricity company since evidently British Airways can no longer afford the naming rights plus the latest extravagant union demands.

Best seat in the house.

The House of Parliament still stands, despite Guy Fawkes' best efforts. Back then if you were a terrorist you got a holiday named after you. Seems sentiment has shifted a little since then.

The whole rotation actually takes quite a while. Which leaves plenty of time for posing and taking pictures of the aforementioned Parliament House.

If you look hard enough you can see Cameron and Co. laughing at those hapless Europeans across the channel. The Pound Sterling never looked so good.

In the shadow of greatness. After all, Mei is in one of the capsules.

The Shard is coming along nicely. Apparently it will be the tallest building in the European Union when complete. A claim that will need to be rather quickly revised should that august institution go the same way as Papandreou's credibility.

Beating up the French is always a good reason to name a subway station. Then again, if everyone followed that philosophy there probably wouldn't be enough subway stations to go around.

Borough Market has become the must-see foodie destination in the British Isles. There's something about an old collection of railway bridges that brings out the flavor in that organic, fair trade, farm-to-table chai latte you're about to sip.

Proper Fish & Chips apparently. As opposed to improper fish and chips, which is probably what Europeans eat.

Looks quite proper to me: crispy golden brown batter, a generous scoop of crunchy chips, and a bottle of tomato sauce to wash it all down.

Shane Warne is a shoe in for the Pieministership, especially now that he has shacked up with Liz Hurley.

The sights and sounds of Borough Market are not nearly as interesting as the tastes.

Who would have thought organic could look this good?

Three quid?! Come on, don't think of it as just a tea, think of it as a path to empowerment for an entire village.

Curry in a hurry. You better be hungry when you hit this market.

Warning, warning, incoming hipsters!

The line for the legendary Monmouth Coffee stretches around the corner. Is it worth it?

Still waiting for the answer half an hour later.

It's good, but is it worth a half hour wait? Probably not, but hey, that's part of the experience. If there's nothing to complain about there's nothing to blog about.

Did they really need to pick a Bernie Madoff impersonator to front their well meaning but easily misinterpreted ad campaign? How long before someone pencils in the Goldman Sachs logo?

Canary Wharf, last bastion of the 1%. And likely to remain a bastion too, since none of the protesters are daft enough to venture out onto a windswept slab of concrete in the middle of the Thames.

Greenwich, best known as the G in GMT.

Unfortunately, with the Cutty Sark under repair, there's not a whole lot to see, so time to fire up the Oyster cards en route to the next stop.

Camden Town, a once a gritty industrial suburb that has been transformed into a hip network of markets and converted condos perched on picturesque canals.

See, you can tell it's cool by the way the O looks like an on button.

Royal Albert Hall. Looks suspiciously like Carnegie Hall, except round.

Imperial College London. Everything sounds cooler with the word Imperial in it. Like Imperial Star Destroyer for example.

The Natural History Museum. When the outside of the museum is a work of art in itself, you know Manhattan's Museum Mile has some stiff competition.

Harrods gears up for the holiday season. Nothing like Russian oil money and Chinese property money to get sales off to a brisk start.

Mei's long lost cousin Fei Fei Zhu.

Another expensive store that Rock won't be setting foot in. Now Mei, that's a different story...

No way, it's Tatlin's Monument to the Third International! For a Futurist aficionado like Rock, this is a rare treat indeed. Almost as good as the cannoli from the pâtisserie up the road.

It wouldn't be a World City without a Chinatown.

The streets around Covent Garden come to life after dark. Unlike Rock.

Nice wheels. Sure beats the manual, shoebox-on-wheels Vauxhall that Rock had to pilot around the English countryside.

The big dude himself.

The streets around Whitehall remind one that London's prosperity has come at a mighty cost. And not the subprime type either.

Is that an All Black jersey I spy? With the mighty All Blacks hanging on against an unrelenting French assault in the dying minutes of the Rugby World Cup, there's more than a few black jerseys floating around London on this fine autumn morning.

They just don't build stuff like they used to. They don't really write like they used to either. Especially in this newfangled blogosphere.

The stunning St. Pancras Station, once the home of glory days of British steam, has been transformed into the sleek departure point for the Eurostar train that breezes you to London in the time you'd usually spend getting a full cavity exam at airport security.

Bring on 2012!

Cartwright Gardens, even the name conjures up images of high teas and dainty white gloves. If it was any more British it would have a knighthood.

Her Majesty, Mei Zhu

2011-11-07T09:40:00.000+13:00

Watch out Kate Middleton, there's a new Highness in town. If Mei knew Price William came attached to these digs, she might reconsider her " lame, he's bald" assessment. Anyway, receding royal hairlines notwithstanding, there's no better place to kick off a whirlwind tour of England than with a morning jaunt around the grounds of the impressive Windor Castle, located conveniently within a few miles of Heathrow.

It seems even the toys are taller than Mei in these parts.

How do you recognize when someone is a nobody in the UK? Why their phone hasn't been hacked, of course.

Where's the drawbridge? Oh I get it, these days all you need to keep the Scottish out is that 20 quid ticket turnstile back at the entrance.

Having breached the outer walls without so much as a scratch, now seems an opportune time to launch the final assault on the keep. No time for a drawn out siege when the parking meeting is counting down.

Another poorly defended door. No room in the latest austerity budget for vats of boiling oil.

Hmmm... is anyone else getting the feeling this is more of a lavish country estate than an impregnable fortress? Of course, calling it the former is hardly a good way to get the British taxpayer to fork over for the upkeep.

Remarkably, it's autumn in England and the sun is still up. It's also not raining. Maybe this side of the Atlantic isn't so bad after all.

"We will unite the white rose and the red: —Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long have frown'd upon their enmity!" - Henry, Earl of Richmond, scene V, Richard III. Thank goodness for Google, now even those who have forgotten their high school Shakespeare can come up with a quotable quote.

The spacious grounds come complete with their own cathedral, not to mention three different gift shops. Mercifully all the William and Kate fine china has already been shipped out to the Tesco bargain bins.

A reminder that times have changed a little since these ancient walls went up. Walls that once shook to the trampling of a thousand armored feet now shake to the tune of four Rolls Royce RB211-524H turbofans, as yet another Speedbird Heavy lines up for short finals to Heathrow.

What did you expect, bows and arrows? Sorry folks, the bad guys these days don't do us the honor of lining up in shiny armor emblazoned with garishly colored coats of arms.

It's hard to get over the fact that it's not grey and miserable. And that everyone is not inside watching Coronation Street. The latter much to Mei's disappointment.

Next stop, Stonehenge. Actually, it's not really a stop because Team J00ster pretty much just drove by. Sure there's something mysterious about a bunch of stones sitting in an intriguing pattern in the middle of a field, but come on folks, it's not the Potala Palace or Machu Picchu.

Mei: "Lame, so much smaller than expected". Rock: "You say that a lot about rocks".

So after a quick photo, it's on to bigger and better things, with bigger being the operative word. The World Heritage listed town of Bath certainly fits the bill.

These balloonists have the right idea: apparently the best way to see the unique rows of Georgian houses is from above.

Mei's attempt to follow their example falls a little short. Still, the Royal Crescent in the background is pretty impressive, even if the athletic feat in the foreground isn't.

Compared to London or New York, these townhouses are a real steal.

The main square is dominated by the lavish Bath Abbey and the ancient Roman Baths, both of which are worth a closer look, even for those whose idea of history is the Recently Visited website list on the iPad.

Out an about in the old town. Remarkable, it's still not raining. Talk about false advertising.

The Pulteney Bridge continues the classic English tradition of cramming as much as you possibly can onto a narrow bridge.

Nice to see something other than the ubiquitous red hop-on-hop-off tourist buses. Even if the clientele are in fact exactly the same,

The cozy interior of Jamie's Italian. As in Jamie Oliver. Unfortunately the food, whilst probably better than the typical British drivel that he saves his juiciest swearwords for, is a bit underwhelming.

Day two in Bath dawns... wait for it... bright and sunny. This really is throwing off all the British stereotypes. Which sucks, because as everyone knows, this blog pretty much trades exclusively in cheap stereotypes. Speaking of which, here is the Bath Cricket Club. It doesn't get much more British than that.

The main canal was once a bustling commercial artery. Actually it still is, only now the cargo is tourists instead of hogs. So in fact nothing has changed.

Bucolic English countryside at its best. Which is a good thing, because at its worse it's pretty downright depressing.

Back in the olde town. You can tell how old it is because all the shops have an extra "e" in the old.

Given it's a Sunday, the abbey won't be opening until after the morning service. Which gives plenty of time to check out the famous Roman Baths.

In case the name didn't give it away, these should give you a clue as to who built these baths. Nothing like a relaxing soak in steaming mineral waters after bashing and subjugating some local tribesmen.

Rock, in all his wisdom, insisted on packing bathing suits, just in case someone decided that letting hordes of tourists take a dip in a century-old architectural treasure was a good idea.

So much for diving in, you're not even allowed to touch the water.

In addition to baths, it seems the town is also famous for fudge. Which, unlike the baths, you can actually partake in.

Inside the Abbey. The difference between an abbey and a cathedral is a little elusive to the untrained eye.

The scriptures always carry more punch when delivered from the back of a fearsome bird of prey. Beware ye sinners!

Last shots of Bath. Next up it's a week of work, before J00ster returns for an encore on the following weekend. In the meantime, you could go and read something a bit more highbrow, like say the NY Post.

Geaux Tigers!

2011-10-30T10:51:00.000+13:00

When there's that first hint of a chill in the air, when there's just a touch of orange and yellow creeping into Central Park's verdant canopy, when the jolly jack o'lanterns are holding vigil outside the Upper East Side brownstones, then you know it's time for one thing: bring on some college football! Endless NCAA violations and vitriolic debates on the machinations of the BCS can wait until the tinsel is being stowed for another year, because in autumn it's about bone crunching sacks and the desperation Hail Mary, all accompanied by the greatest soundtrack in sports: the college marching band.

Game of the Year for 2011 is an epic SEC match up between two powerhouses of the strongest conference in the land - the Florida Gators and the LSU Tigers. And the venue for this battle: none other than the legendary Death Valley, the Tiger's fortress of concrete and steel and yellow and purple that towers over the tiny town of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. But first, a bit of pre-gaming in one of America's great party towns, the rocking city of New Orleans.

Let's kick things off with something a bit more civilized than the show-me-your-titties bawdiness of Bourbon Street. The Garden District is all about genteel Southern charm, the kind of place you dress in your Sunday best and drop a cheery howdy ya'll to the neighbor, assuming of course they're not an Alabama alum.

They don't make houses like they used to. Back in the day a man's wealth was measured in the size of his columns. Errr... right.

I hate to break it to you, but the servant's quarters are twice as big as your NY shoe box.

When down South there's only one way to get the day started: it's po' boy time!

The Grocery is apparently an institution in the neighborhood, home of the best po' boys this side of the bayou.

More Southern charm. That second floor balcony will make a nice boat dock when the next hurricane rolls in off the gulf.

These folks, on the other hand, had best store their life raft on the roof.

Back in the day the Southern porch was the perfect place to sit and watch the sunset; these days it's the perfect iPad perch.

New Orleans wears her French heritage as proudly as the Saints wear their Superbowl rings.

If I'm not mistaken, that looks like a fairly likely place to score a fried oyster po' boy, or if one gets lucky, maybe even a Southern belle.

Generally color schemes down here are limited to two palettes: Tigers yellow and purple, or Saints black and gold. But there's always one who thinks tailgating is something you do on I-80.

The old street cars that clatter their way around town prove that the American public will embrace public transport; of course it helps that the general populace is so smashed out of their minds that they couldn't stagger back to their cars even if they wanted to.

Welcome to Bourbon Street folks. The only question is how many blocks one will make it before total inebriation sets it. For Rock, they probably need to start counting in half-blocks.

Mei on the other hand already plans on doing at least three laps.

How about a bit of soul music to go with that soul food? The bars may be blasting out Usher and Rihanna at full blast, but that doesn't mean the city has completely lost its soul.

Every day is Mardi Gras around here. If this is just a normal afternoon's debauchery, it's almost impossible to comprehend what the Superbowl parade must have looked like.

There's really not much to add here.

Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light... That's pretty much the goal: to still be standing as dawn breaks over the detritus of another massive night in the Big Easy.

Is it still DUI if your vehicle has four legs?

Aren't you supposed to be at the Saint's cheerleaders practice down at the Superdome?

It may be one big party, but dark memories of screaming winds and torrential rain linger around every corner. Katrina was over half a decade ago, but the scars remain.

Which way to the VIP entrance?

Even the horses are more laid back here compared to their uptight NYPD brothers.

So French you needs a baguette under the arm just to be worthy of crossing the square. Or better yet, take that baguette, stuff it with some roast beef and gravy, and bingo you've got a po' boy!

So which Parish is Wuhan in?

Travel under the power of steam sounds romantic, until an errant spark lands in your hair.

It's like Disney World, only real.

Now be a good girl and pick me some strawberries.

Gotta love a town that gets to throw a party for independence day and Bastille day.

Beware, after midnight this fine pumpkin will be transform back into a coach... hang on, is something a little backwards here?

Who would have thought artisanal produce would go hand in hand with six burgers and a Bud light off the tailgate of a pickup truck.

Po' boys come in all shapes and sizes...

Rock's attempt at artisanal photography. About as successful as a McOrganic burger.

Who dat nation!

If it's still standing, then the booze is still flowing. This old house may have seen better pre-hurricane days, but why tear it down if you can still get a keg through the door.

You meet all types on Bourbon Street.

G'day mate. Is there no escape? How'd they get here, isn't their national airline supposed to be grounded?

Cochon, Southern soul food with a touch of French flair.

Clearly that Southern soul food with a hint of French flair wasn't quite enough to fuel a big night on the town, hence dinner number two at the infamous Acme Oyster House. The line is equally infamous.

The sun is setting over Bourbon Street. That can only mean one thing: Rock's bedtime.

Better party tonight Gator fans, because tomorrow it's all doom and gloom at the hands of the invincible Tigers.

Bourbon Street is fun and all, but it's also a little, shall we say, juvenile. Time to find the real New Orleans.

That's more like it. A secluded local bar nestled on the edge of the French quarter. No neon green glow in the dark daiquiris here folks.

Bring back the Bourbon!

These Gators are a persistent lot. Unlike their team on the football field...

It's game time! Not hard to work out which way to the stadium, just follow the entire town.

Let's geux Tigers!

Tigers fans are hoping they'll need a bigger sign at the end of this season.

Probably the only dudes on campus not decked out in yellow and purple. Fairweather fan alert?

See what I mean?

It's Death Valley on a Saturday night. Actually it's a Saturday afternoon, but that's not what the cool promo on the stadium screen says.

The eye of the Tiger is all-seeing. Kind of like that evil eye on the tower in those hobbit movies.

Apparently Death Valley is the sixth largest city in Louisiana when filled to capacity, which of course it always is. That's testament to the epic-ness of the venue... or alternatively the lack of epic-ness of the rest of the state.

That's pretty much what the ferocious Tigers did to the Gators in a 41-11 annihilation. Bring on 'Bama!

Adriatic Adventures Part 6: Eastside Story

2011-10-01T12:57:00.001+13:00

Bosnia and Herzegovina is one of those countries that has everyone scratching their heads every four years when they march out at the Olympics. Bosnia and who? Maybe they're sponsored by Hertz? Forged through a shotgun marriage in the dying days of the old Yugoslavia, this uneasy amalgamation of ethnicities is a fascinating place of contrasts. And nowhere symbolizes the melding of two cultures better than the city of Mostar, and its legendary Old Bridge. Which is actually a New Bridge, but more on that in a second.

Mostar is only an short three hours from the glitzy Adriatic coast, but those three hours might as well be three centuries. As the kilometers slip but, the masts of super yachts are replaced by elegant marble minarets, and the skimpy bikinis give way to mysterious burqas.

Apparently the start of the cobblestones indicates the start of, you guessed it, another UNESCO World Heritage site.

It's tough choosing between the 20% off magic carpets, and the buy one get one free Genie lamps. Unfortunately the fine print precludes the chaining of wishes in a ponzi-esque wishing for more wishes fashion.

The Old Bridge of Mostar is symbolically, and indeed literally, the link between two cultures. Alas, that link was severed rather violently in 1993 during the Croat-Bosniak war.

Luckily, mutually assured destruction is something reserved for superpowers. After patching up their differences, the bridge was painstakingly pieced back together, using traditional techniques wherever possible.

The interior of a traditional Turkish house. Actually, it's a traditional Turkish mansion. Apparently the owners were quite rich, hence their expansive courtyard, complete with water feature and center spread in Better Mosques and Gardens.

Apparently those pantaloon-like pants that you see in Aladdin and the like were actually invented because they make it impossible to tell how fat a women really is, until it's too late and you've already married her. True story. Unlike everything else you read on this blog.

Does anyone else get the feeling this is a one bridge town?

Bargaining is a way of life out here. Unfortunately, clicking on the Amazon order button does not keep one's skills very sharp.

Apparently every summer there's a diving contest off the middle of the bridge. The only problem is, the river is quite shallow other than a few pockets of deep water. Hit the wrong spot, and instead of a 6.5 from the Ukrainian judge, you're looking at 6.5 less vertebrae.

Bosnian coffee is apparently a real treat. Ok, so it's better than Dunkin Donuts, but that hardly justifies elevating it to a pedestal that falls only just short of say, an Old Bridge.

A relic from the war, and a grim reminder that despite feel good symbols like a friendship bridge, the truce is an uneasy one. After all, this is a country that still hasn't agreed on a flag...

Sunset over the Adriatic, on the road back to Dubrovnik.It looks nice, but the only reason we are seeing it is because our bus blew out a tire somewhere around the "and" in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Team J00ster's fifth floor loft pad smack bang in the middle of the old town. Thank goodness UNESCO doesn't care about wifi waves polluting an otherwise time invariant old town.

Going out is easy. It's trying to work out the convoluted locking system on the way in that is the problem. Funnily enough, it's only a problem when Rock has the key though.

Tough place to leave. Luckily all you have to do is click close.

Adriatic Adventures Part 5: Strutting on the Stradun

2011-09-30T14:57:00.000+13:00

Remember that ferry we mentioned? Yeah, well it looks all nice and shiny on the outside...

...and the first hour or so is pleasant enough...

...but once Hvar fades into the distance, that clock starts to move mighty slowly. Twelve hours on a boat sounds romantic. And it is, if the boat is, say, the Queen Mary II. On the other hand, if the boat is a relic from the Tito era...

...then you should count yourself lucky that at least they have a coffee bar cranking out serviceable cappuccinos, albeit out of something that resembles a retired soviet tank, minus the cool red star.

Luckily, 12 hours on the open sea passes a lot quicker on a blog - especially one where the author is only doing the bare minimum to fill those white spaces between photos. On the subject of boats, we seem to have picked the wrong one. Just like you picked the wrong reading material. Perhaps you were looking for News of the World?

Welcome to Dubrovnik folks. It may be the tourist capital of Croatia, but tourist capitals usually get that way for a reason. Yeah, Ryanair starts flying there. Or they offer spreads like this.

First sighting of the great city walls. Sure, you can't see them from space, but hey, it's not like we can afford a space program anymore, so who's checking?

A glorious late summer day on the Adriatic. The water is so calm it's just asking for a bit of kayaking.

Which will come in due course, since Mei is just asking for a bit of breaky. Of course, whether it will give her enough energy to contribute on the paddling front is a different story.

Team J00ster, you are cleared for takeoff.

After a good two hours paddling for Rock, and an even better two minutes of paddling for Mei, it's time for a pit stop at a secluded cave. Lunch and a bit of snorkeling to cool off, it doesn't get any better than this.

But wait, it does! Hang on, if he's really Mr. Croatia 2011, how come he doesn't have a posse of beach babes to lavish him with sunblock?

Perhaps the full frontal assault wasn't the greatest plan after all. Those walls look quite thick, and seem to be bristling with cannons. And anyway, the last photo had enough full frontal to last quite a while.

The engine room of the operation.

Somehow I don't think those nails belong to someone in steerage class. On the plus side, that didn't stop Leo from getting some pre-iceberg action. On the negative side, there's no steamed up car in the hold of this ship.

Back on dry land. Remarkably with the camera intact.

Jedan dva tri. The real question is, do you really have time to copy it into Google Translate? Let's face it, if you're reading this blog, we all know the answer.

Things were going nicely until they swapped models.

That's more like it. For a minute there it was looking like those Croatian swim shorts were making a comeback.

Stradun, the legendary main street. Think of it as 5th Avenue and Champs-Élysées rolled into one. White marble gleaming under the blazing Mediterranean sun. Beautiful people strutting their stuff. Unbeautiful people taking photos and then writing about said photos.

Once off the Stradun, no one can see how short you are compared to Croatians.

This looks suspiciously like a breach in the impregnable fortress walls. It's almost like they want to let the tourists in or something.

When it comes to dishing out the coveted Best Bar in the World award... you wouldn't let Rock be the judge. But let's say you humor him for a minute. In that case, this has got to be right up there with an ice cold Lhasa Beer at Everest Base Camp, only here the ice is limited to the glass, not the exposed extremities.

The only way to reach the bar is to scramble through an almost hidden tunnel lurking at the base of a nondescript section of the wall. Once you get out, you're not going to be heading back in a hurry.

If it was any other city, this outrage could not go unpunished. But for Dubrovnik we'll let it slip.

Remarkably, the fountain is still functional. Must be a requirement of UNESCO status that you supply your tourists with old world concepts like actually filling up your water bottle instead of buying a new one.

The highlight of Dubrovnik, regardless of which guide book you read, or blog for that matter, is the 2km hike along the top of the mighty walls.

You can't by a frame like this at Ikea. Actually you can, it's called a JÖOSTER.

For over a century Dubrovnik was a haughty city-state, fiercely independent and a rival to the mighty Venice to the west. These days it's a no contest; Dubrovnik isn't sinking.

Like most things in this country, this was designed for tall people.

No need for words here. Lucky you.

Looks like the super yachts heard Rock was in town and headed for cooler climes.

That also must explain why he's got the wall to himself. Or maybe it was just the fact that everyone else heeded the sage advice of just about every guide book: don't climb the walls in the middle of the hottest part of the day.

UNESCO status is earned the hard way, one red clay tile at a time.

Are you sure you're really here to defend the walls?

Oh that's right, you perfected your aim on Angry Birds.

Is that Bono? No, can't be, he's too busy selling stuff on iTunes.

Congratulations Dubrovnik, you've earned the right to be mentioned in the same breath as New York.

Rock is tempted, sorely tempted, to buy that ~~New York~~ t-shirt.Oh come on, who are we kidding, he's way too cheap. He won't even buy the real thing when they're 10 for 10 bucks on Canal St.

Is anyone else feeling a bit peckish? Hell yeah, writing this blog is hungry work.

That's more like it. A huge tray of mussels for 10 bucks? Is this a great city, or is this a great city?

When the sun goes down, it's party time. That's Rock's cue to head for bed.

That's a wrap folks. Five down, one to go. That's one blog post for each reader, plus a bonus round.

Adriatic Adventures Part 4: Coastal cruising

2011-09-26T10:01:00.000+13:00

Next stop on the coastal road, the ancient Roman city of Split. Apart from having a darn cool name, this is a town that meets all the requirements for Awesomeness. Right on the crystal clear Adriatic. Check. A maze of cobbled alleys enclosed by towering Roman walls. Check. Wood-fired grilled fish served out of cheery hole-in-the-wall fisherman taverns. Check. And wait for it... wireless internet in our old town apartment. Check. After all, what's the point of all that awesomeness if you can't fire out that all important status update?

Another day, another old town to explore. Along the Adriatic coast old towns are so ubiquitous they might as well drop the old.

So let me get this straight, the latest craze in Croatian fast food is the McSpinach burger? Actually, after yet another grilled fish plate, that sounds kind of appealing.

The Roman history of the town is never far away. In the center lies a crumbling Roman forum, while around the outside the elegant arched walls hark back to a more civilized age. You know, an age when instead of tuning in to watch the Croatian football team in the Euro 2012 qualifiers, you could watch your favorite local criminals hack each other to death in a blood stained coliseum.

The outside of the west wall is where you can buy everything, including a pair of checkerboard Croatian swimming shorts that are the Adriatic analog of an I ♥ NY t-shirt. In other words, something only the most blatantly obvious tourist would be caught in. Needless to say, Rock was quick to slip on a pair.

Aren't you a little short for a Roman soldier?

Another picture perfect square. Which is cool if you were there, but is probably getting a little tiresome if you are reading about it on a blog.

Nothing like freshly squeezed orange juice to ward of the baking Mediterranean sun.

Just like the Croatian beauties who strut down Split's marbled promenades, the town itself isn't averse to a little self promotion, via a conveniently located viewing platform on the hill behind the town.

Rush hour on the Adriatic. The primary means of transport in these parts is the Jadrolinjia ferry line. With countless islands dotting the coast, there's really no other way to get around.

Still Life with Four Pots.

The centerpiece of the town is the elegant clock tower that rises high above the central forum. Like all good clock towers in Croatia, this one can be climbed... if one is willing to brave a dizzying series of catwalks that spiral up the inside of the tower.

The roofs of the old town haven't changed a whole lot over the centuries. The same might be said uncharitably about the interior of that Jadrolinjia ferry in the background. But more on that 12 hours of boredom in due course.

View from the top. Unfortunately the topless beach is a little too far away, despite Rock's best efforts with the zoom lens.

Watch your step, the quick way down isn't necessarily the most comfortable way down.

Is it just me, or do these stairs look like they are hanging in midair?

The zen-meister takes flight. The flight may be zen, but unfortunately the landing was somewhat less so.

Interior of a cylindrical Roman vestibule just off the central forum.

Roman ruins are all well and good, but you still need somewhere for the beautiful people to strut their stuff. Enter the Riva.

In the running for best meal of the trip - the hearty fare at a little konoba, or fisherman's tavern, just off the end of the Riva.

As the sun sinks below the Adriatic, quiet descends over the back streets of the old town as the tourists scurry back to their hotels, leaving the... uhm... other tourists the opportunity for more photos.

Another glorious day dawns on the Dalmatian coast. Today's destination: the party island of Hvar, a short one hour catamaran ride off the coast.

Hvar has undergone quite a transformation in recent years, from a sleepy fishing and farming community to one of the hottest party spots in all of the Mediterranean. Quaint fleets of fishing boats have given way to a flotilla of sleek super yachts, disgorging their moneyed Euro-elite into glitzy beach side clubs and poncy restaurants. No doubt the island's star will continue to rise now that it has earned a coveted spot in the J00ster Journal.

The main square is deserted at midday. This is the kind of place where daylight hours are best spent nursing a hangover with a refreshing dip in the sparkling turquoise waters of the Adriatic, not wandering the scorching streets.

Luckily the founding fathers built their compact little fishing village with future postcard photographers in mind.

The countless islands of the Dalmatian coast are best explored by super yacht. Preferably in the company of some of the flawless locals, who could best be described as what you get when you cross a mermaid with a Victoria's Secret catalog.

Speaking of super yachts, this one could be the king of them all, with ultra sleek styling and wood paneling throughout. Buy one of these babies and you'd barely know you're out at sea. Which most of the time will be true, since let's face it, you don't buy one of these to wow a few passing fisherman out on the open seas.

Sails? Bah, they're for poor people. Unless of course we're talking the remote controlled, kevlar-enhanced, computer-trimmed variety that come standard on the latest Prius-of-the-seas, green-friendly super yachts that seem to be all the rage for the new age please-tax-me-more billionaire crowd.

You don't need a super yacht to sizzle.

Why hello Walter, yes if you could please pull the yacht around I'd be much obliged. And did you remember to refuel the helicopter and mini-sub?

As the sun sets, the cool people finally start to emerge from their day spas for another night of debauchery. Rock gets ready to hit the sack.

A konoba with a view. Would you like the grilled fish with vegetables, or the vegetables and grilled fish? Or perhaps I can tempt you with our special fish of the day, served grilled with vegetables?

It's party time! The side streets off the Riva come alive once the heat of the day gives way to the cooling evening breeze.

Lucky the water is warm, because before the night is out more than a few revelers are going to end up with a rather salty sobering up.

Let's get this party started! Uhm, the best way to do that would be to tuck Rock in to bed so he stops scaring away the cool people.

The morning after. A quick bite to eat and a coffee to settle the stomach before hopping on the Jadrolinjia ferry for the 12 hour long haul to the final stop, the legendary fortress city of Dubrovnik. By the way, cruising the Adriatic by ferry sounds quite glamorous, and it is... for the first 30 minutes or so...

Adriatic Adventures Part 3: Sibenik to Trogir

2011-09-17T13:09:00.000+12:00

The best way to see how the locals live is to rent an old town apartment. That is, if you can find your way there. Invariably the door is hidden somewhere deep in the maze of cobbled passageways that form the heart of the typical Croatian old town. In this particular instance, that town is Sibenik, yet another UNESCO World Heritage site that enjoys an enviable geography perched on a hill above the turquoise waters of the Adriatic. For someone like Rock, who bombed out of Advanced Quantum Physics with a shocking A-, wandering the old town is as close as he's going to get to a time machine. With each twist and turn, the cacophony of the modern world slowly slips away behind the ancient stone walls.

What was that rubbish about leaving the modern world behind? We'll charitably call it poetic license on the part of the author. It turns out our old world apartment is actually a living, breathing Ikea showroom, but in a good way: think hyper-efficient use of space, funky furnishings, and of course, very un-old wifi. The only thing missing is the meatballs and funny dots over certain letters.

Even broadband internet can't keep Team J00ster indoors, when there's a town as cool as Sibenik to explore.

The immaculately maintained old town is a mixture of sparkling Mediteranean whitewash and medieval architecture.

Here's something else that is immaculately maintained, if the three ziplock bags of liquids that have to come out at every security checkpoint are any guide.

That's one way to overcome the scorching pavement on a late summer's day on the Adriatic.

Climbing the steep stairs of the old town is tough work in this heat; luckily there are ample opportunities for photo breaks.

Out here the farm-to-table movement has less of a hipster ring to it. It's called food.

Architecture Appreciation Week. Week being the operative word given the frequency at which this blog updates.

Forget architecture folks...

The primary means of transportation in the old town is the ubiquitous Fiat scooter. Unfortunately Mei flunks out at the first item on the license test: put the kickstand up.

The monks have the best view in town, not to mention the best herb garden.

No self-respecting old town can call itself as such without a mighty fortress looming over the town to stake out its claim. Don't get distracted soldier, there's an army of tour buses on the horizon.

Unlike some of the southern Croatian cities that have been transformed, for better and worse, by the budget airline revolution, Sibenik is still well off the beaten path for the average Pommie weekender. Hence the opportunity to enjoy the ancient streets without the risk of being trampled under a red army of a different kind; refugees from the rainy isles whose skin is already howling in protest at the sight of, shock, horror, a ray of sun.

Outdoor dining is the only way to eat on the Adriatic. Much like fish is the only thing to eat. Most restaurants are nothing more than a kitchen that opens out onto hidden squares or courtyards packed with tables and cheery diners enjoying the cooling evening breeze.

Is it the mythical two-headed Adriatic Hydra? Or has Rock finally discovered those mythical ISO settings on his camera?

In addition to a fortress, every old town worth its salt needs a Riva, which is a convenient Croatian shorthand word which can be translated as: a ridiculously scenic waterfront promenade where super hot babes wearing very little strut their stuff between the super yachts on one side, and the pumping open air bars on the other. Needless to say, after 10 days in Croatia, that was still the only local word Rock had learned.

A lap dance for a pizza? Seems like a winning trade to me.

Finding your way back through the warren of shadowy passageways is no mean feat, especially if one is coming straight from the Riva.

Another day, another old town. Oh, did I mention it's a UNESCO?

However, even among the cultural treasures of the Croatian coast, the tiny town of Trogir stands out. Set entirely on a small island that takes no more than 20 minutes to circumnavigate, the natural focus is the Riva that runs right the way around. No matter the time of day, it's a 360 degree party.

Notice a tropical flavor slipping in? Mei takes that as a sign that it's Pina Colada time.

Riva, riva, everywhere.

How many churches can you pack on one little island? Well, just like Manhattan, the answer is to build up.

Fortunately this finely-sculpted fellow is a little less forthright than his buddy David in Florence.

There's no better view in town than the highest clocktower on the island.

Of course, getting to that view is another story. The only comfort for those who inch their way up the hanging stairs is that if they've held up for a thousand years, surely they'll hang on for 15 minutes more.

The Croatians are a proud people, and their flag is one of the best. Even more importantly for a football mad country, it translates nicely into the distinctive checkerboard jerseys of the national team.

Way out there in the distance is tomorrow's destination, the famous city of Split, which lies only half an hour down the coast.

Someone really understood fractal geometery when they built this island, they seem to have fit an infinite number of twisting alleyways into a supposedly finite space. Or maybe Rock just keeps leading everyone in circles.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing, since it takes them past the island's best gelateria an inordinate number of times.

Nightfall is when the city comes to life, as the beautiful people spill off their super yachts and the un-beautiful people spill out of their cheap hotel rooms.

Dude, the streets are empty because all the cool people are down on the Riva.

Speaking of cool people, our impromptu drinking buddy fits the bill perfectly. From what we could gather from his limited, or inebriated, English he was Slovakian. The nationality of the female companions on each arm was less clear, but suffice it to say they wouldn't have any problem getting a passport in whatever country they decided to flaunt their assets in.

Adriatic Adventures Part 2: Land O' Lakes

2011-09-14T12:42:00.010+12:00

One of the amazing things about Croatia is you can literally average one UNESCO World Heritage Site per day on the way down the Adriatic coast. Today's stop: Plitvice Lakes National Park, about two hours out of Zagreb.

But what's so special about a bunch of lakes? Sure the waters nice and blue, and the shore is suitably verdant, but come on, it's just a lake, right? Another over-hyped J00ster post perhaps?

That's what Team J00ster was thinking too...

...until they spotted the roast chickens! Nothing like some charcoal chicken roasted on an open spit to whet the appetite for some serious hiking. Sure beats the "I'm sorry, we only serve Pepsi" attitude of stateside parks.

I'm seeing a lot of eating folks, and not much hiking.

That man deserves a... hang on, he doesn't deserve anything. Sure, downing a roast chicken in five minutes flat is mildly amusing, but it's hardly worthy of an elixir usually reserved for the summiting of epic mountains or the conquoring of vast plains. Or finishing a blog post.

Suitably chastised, it's time to hit the high road. And what a road it is. The absolutely unique feature of the lakes of Plitvice is their geography. Each lake in the chain is sunk a few meters below the last, forming a series of watery terraces that snake their way down the valley.

On the valley floor far below, an elevated boardwalk skirts the edges of the waterfalls that form the link between lake n and n+1.

The water is ridiculously clear, and the day is ridiculously hot. Unfortunately, it appears a couple of hikers already succumbed to the temptation, with earth shattering results.

Team J00ster is in da house!

The limestone the underpins the whole region makes for some great caves. And some lame photos.

As impressive as they are from above, the lakes are even more spectacular from water level. Each is delineated by a gurgling series of waterfalls that spill over the limestone rim and into the lake below.

Mei sees how close she can come to violating the No Swimming regulations. Actually, even if she fell in she wouldn't exactly fall foul of the letter of the law...

Rock demonstrates the textbook method for testing an unknown lake for crocodiles. He never was very good at biology.

Without a single predator to worry about, the lakes are almost overflowing with fish. Someone should really show them the standard menu from just about any Croatian restaurant, and perhaps they wouldn't be quite so keen to loiter right below the surface.

One of the interesting conundrums is why all the fish don't end up in the bottom lake. Unfortunately it will remain a conundrum because Wikipedia doesn't seem to have the answer.

The boardwalks are a great feature, allowing one to literally walk right over the delicate landscape without leaving anything other than an annoying blog post.

More boardwalks than Yellowstone. Even Mei is impressed, a state of affairs that is usual reserved for Bergdorf Goodman.

Good one dude, so you would have been cool in the Pleistocene epoch. Big deal, you're in the Holocene now. Get with the program.

In case you haven't noticed, there are a lot off waterfalls in this park. Rest assured, by the time you get to the end of this blog, you will certainly have noticed.

Mmmm... char-grilled fish with a dash of salt and olive oil. That roast chicken was a long boardwalk ago.

Apparently the color of the lakes is determined by the concentrations of various dissolved minerals and the angle of the sunlight. It's also determined by Rock's ability to use all those buttons on his camera. Which one is white balance again?

This is the view of the lakes Mei would have got if Rock wasn't too cheap to fork over for a helicopter flight.

Heading to the upper lakes as the sun sets proves to be a great plan. Or it would have been a great plan, had Rock checked the return boat schedule first. But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, there's plenty of stupidity to go between now and then.

Now that lake deserves a UNESCO.

The elevation difference between lakes at the top of the park is much greater than in the lower lakes. Instead of waterfalls of a meter or two, here the water plunges into a multi-story void.

You can almost hear the creaking. The only question: is it the boardwalk or those gimpy knees?

The grand finale. A spectacular waterfall that forms a semicircular veil of icy water as it gracefully leaps from one lake to the next. Even by the lofty standards of Plitvice falls this is a winner.

View from the bottom. 180 degrees of awesomeness.

As the sun slips below the hills, brilliant turquoise gives way to deep blue and finally inky black.

Speaking of inky black, that was pretty much what Team J00ster was facing after a rookie miscalculation involving distance, time, boat schedules, and Rock's brain or lack thereof. See, the only way to get back from the upper lakes is via boat. And this not being the city that never sleeps, it turns out the boats tie up for the night at 7pm...

Luckily, to cut a lot story short, or rather to cut a long and panicky run short, the last boat was just pushing off from the dock when Rock came charging down the path. Disaster averted. Beer and pizza never tasted so good.

So that's Plitvice folks. Next stop the old town (is there any other kind in Croatia) of Sibenik/

Adriatic Adventures Part 1: Three points for naming the capital of Croatia

2011-09-12T03:29:00.019+12:00

And two points if you knew that Croatia was a country. Unless you're American, in which case we'll give a pity point for knowing where Europe is. A quarter of a century ago, the map of Europe was a lot simpler. Some would say life was a lot simpler too. To the west, you had the good guys, and to the east you had the commies. In the west, you bought your food at a supermarket before heading back to your house in the leafy burbs. In the east you lined up for eight hours for your weekly ration of stale bread and then trudged back to you decrepit Soviet collective. And instead of a confusing array of Former-This and Former-That countries vying for attention around the Adriatic, you just had Yugoslavia. They even put a nice pointy commie star smack bang in the middle of their flag, just in case there was any doubt whether they should be on G.I. Joe's hit list. Like I said, simple.

But that was then. This is now. In the west you line up for eight hours at your local job center before grinding your way home through gridlocked traffic on your last five bucks of gas, to your house that's only one more bill away from foreclosure. In the east you sip a frothy cappuccino at the local cafe before hopping on a gleaming new electric tram that whisks you back home to your eco-friendly loft in a converted warehouse down by the river. But I digress. The world's problems can wait. If you wanted intellectual discourse and witty cartoons you'd read the Economist. You came to J00ster for gutter journalism and cheap jokes. It's like a Big Mac after a night on the town; as soon as you finish it you know you shouldn't have, but boy was it good while it lasted. So, for three points, the capital of Croatia is Zagreb, and as far as capitals go, it's one of the best. The gritty residue of industrialized socialism has bloomed into a vibrant mix of outdoor cafes, and funky galleries.

One of the first things you notice is that Croatians are tall. Really tall. It's like standing in the paint on an NBA court, or walking the runway behind an Adriatic supermodel, depending on which side you're ogling for. Either way, you spend a lot of time looking up. It also explains why Mei only needs one third of the clearance of this arch.

Old town streets weren't designed for cars. The best way around town is also the hip way around town. Be seen and be green folks.

Some famous dude from back when a Five Year Plan was what you did outside a fortified city when the enemy was showing no inclination of coming out any time soon.

Bar hopping the way it was meant to be done, on two wheels. Complete with convenient six pack basket in case you get thirsty on the way.

Like most European cities, churches outnumber everything except cafes. Zagreb in particular has a rich religious history, with a skyline shared by the Gothic spires of Catholic cathedrals and the bulbous domes favored by Serbian Orthodox.

The main bar strip is the place to be as the sun goes down. While half the city has fled the heat of August for the azure waters of the Adriatic, the other half makes their way here to find other ways to beat the heat.

A traffic jam, European style. Out here, the battle is to secure a prime street front table.

Beyond the main drag, the alleyways of the old town beckon; what mysterious treasures lie beyond the veil of encroaching darkness? Unfortunately, after 17 hours in transit, a comfy bed also beckons. Mystery and poetry will have to wait folks. For the latter, it could be a long wait indeed.

Luckily the hyper-modern trams are still old school enough to have a driver, whose main job is to keep an eye out for those who have indulged in one too many Ožujskos. And also for those tourists whose idea of the perfect shot involves learning to say "but doc, do you really need to amputate?" in Croatian.

According to the guide book Croatians are early risers. Which is a refreshing change from certain other southern European neighbors, whose main motivation for getting up is to wander to the mailbox to see if those useful Germans have sent through the next bailout check yet. Nope. Oh that's right, the postal workers are on strike today.

Zagreb may have a fantastic old city (more on that in a moment), but that doesn't mean it's trapped in the past. On the contrary, the city does a great job of blending in contemporary architecture without losing the olde world charm. Of course, Mei is more interested in blending a few of those fine gelato flavors from the cafe across the square.

All those lean mean lycra-clad machines you see in the Tour de France every year have to start their careers somewhere. Especially now that they can't start them in a "doctor's office" that just so happens to consult out of the back of a car.

Zagreb is the starting point for a challenging stage to Ljubljana, part of one of Europe's lesser know tours. By lesser known we mean Rock's cursory attempt at Googling the actual name failed.

Ok team, let's talk strategy. When we come to the McDonalds on the main road, you zip through the drive thru and grab the drinks while I pocket the burgers. And make sure you radio the team car to secure the fries.

Remember when everyone in China rode bikes? Yeah, that was back before there was a sucker in a blue Toyota Corolla on call.

Thank goodness lycra and Rock don't mix.

Let's see, this one's tricky, better fire up Google Translate.

Before the Champs Elysees there is the Savska Cesta. Hey don't laugh, it's still better than Fitzherbert Avenue on a freezing winter morning.

Those Italians sure do know how to do fashion. When your legs are screaming in agony at the 150km marker, at least they'll still look good. Insert Rock's latest juvenile comment about lycra and shaved legs here.

The best thing about declaring independence must be getting to design a new flag. Plus, it usually means an extra holiday on future iterations of the auspicious day.

Ok, it's not a completely car free utopia by any means, but if Rock had to parallel park on this street, he'd switch to pedals too.

Apparently that's the botanic gardens behind that fence. When you live next door to Central Park, visiting mere Not-So-Central Parks is not terribly high on the agenda.

The Dolac Market, where everything changes hand except, thank goodness, convoluted financial instruments. Unless those stairs lead to the sunflower futures pit perhaps?

When you're a coastal nation, like Croatia is, fish is always going to be high on the menu. In fact, it's the only thing on the menu at this hole in the wall cafe just off the market square. That suits Mei just fine.

The upper old town is where the real architectural treasure are, including the focal point of the city, a towering Gothic cathedral. It's also where all the tourists are. Funny that.

Just in case you prefer your worship experience in less grandiose surroundings, there are plenty of options for everyone.

A useful reminder that being stuck in an economy class seat is not really so bad.

A Mei-sized church is the last thing you'd expect to find in the land of 6 foot Romanesque goddesses.

J00ster always knows how to spoil a good view. And a good internet...

And the award for most patriotic roof goes to...

In Europe there are a lot of spectacular churches, so standing out requires taking things to the next level. Gotta give credit to the dude who foresaw a Google Earth opportunity 700 years before it was invented.

The high walls of the old town are conveniently orientated to allow the easy dumping of burning oils onto the unfortunate souls below.

Speaking of burning oil, do I spy a megaphone-toting tour group approaching over yonder?

Like in many European cities, youth unemployment is unfortunately quite high. Which must explain why there are so many artists about. Same thing, right?

Man, this sit around in cafes and do nothing lifestyle grows on you pretty quick. Now just kick back, relax, and wait for that EU membership card.

Nikola Telsa. Finally, a chance to use that physics degree for something other than filling up an extra line on my LinkedIn profile, by regaling you with the details of his many contributions to science. Uhm, let's see... well... oh yeah, didn't he design those coils in Command and Conquer: Red Alert?

Since Rock isn't driving this trip, we'll assume this battle damage is left over from the struggle for independence.

There's that church again. It's almost like there's nothing else to see.

1841? So much for 700 years old!

When you're meeting someone in Zagreb, you're meeting them in Ban Jelačić Square. On the old side of town all roads lead here, and on the new side all tram lines converge here. Which, given Rock's navigational prowess, means there's a lot more photos where this one came from.

Get a room you two, or should I say a parlor?

Sure beats elbowing your way into the packed 5 train at Wall St.

How do those Croatian babes stay so thin when there's five ice cream shops per block? Good genes. And the fact there's no western fast food here yet probably doesn't hurt either.

Mei gets some tips for her next trip back from Whole Foods. See, I told you there's no need to waste money on a cab.

Last night of bar hopping in cosmopolitan Zagreb before hitting the dusty road bright and early. Of course, it's hard to bar hop when you're one and done like Rock.

The local brew is cheaper than Coke. Actually, it's cheaper than water too. In fact, it's pretty much the cheapest thing you can buy here. Which must be why Rock is loading up.

Summer in the City

2011-06-26T08:58:00.019+12:00

The glorious sight of cherry blossoms can only mean one thing. Yep, this blog is once again hopelessly, utterly out of date. Spring has come and gone, as have congressmen with unfortunate names, and yet this blog is still stuck somewhere on that nebulous boundary between late winter and early spring.

So, in the space of 60 photos - and significantly less words - get ready to sizzle folks. Slap on the sunblock, get out the chilly bin, slip into some jandals, and get ready for the hottest online action you can get, short of signing up to follow your friendly local congressman's tweets.

How considerate, summer is having a Grand Opening this year. Just in case all the incessant rain and cold left you confused.

Cherry blossoms as far as the eye can see. Rock's wondering why he can't spot any cherries. It's hungry work venturing across the terrible raging waters of the East River to the wild lands far beyond.

Mei waits for an opening so she can get her turn in.

The local Geisha school seems to have embraced a few select modern American techniques. Such as never walking when you can drive. Brings a whole new dimension to floating like a Geisha.

The cherry trees don't get it all their own way. The other locals are clamoring for a little attention themselves.

Flower power. The Brooklyn Botanic Gardens may not be on the island, but don't hold that against them. Lots of good things don't come from the island. Like the Mets. Err ok, we concede the point.

I think someone forgot to tell them the Gundam Wing isn't going to make it this year. Apparently Mega Tokyo is under attack from the vile Zechs and they can't spare a platoon.

To fit in around here, you need either an 15 foot Mech, or a sailor suit.

They don't call New York the melting pot just because Rock forgot to turn off the stove.

From the tranquility of a Japanese oasis hidden in the heart of gritty Brooklyn, to the wilds of the Pocono Mountains for the Memorial Day long weekend.

Don't tell me the booze has run out already? Someone brave the maundering bears and make a dash for the local saloon.

I'll raise you one marshmallow...

For Rock, a royal flush is only interesting when flushed down with an ice cold coca cola.

Let the games begin! Or, in Rock's case, end in yet another crushing defeat.

A bitter melon sandwich anyone? Guess you had to be there.

When cabin fever sets in, the wilderness is conveniently close by. Nothing like a walk in the woods to burn off lunch. Actually, sit's going to take something more like 40 days and 40 nights in the wilderness to work off those BBQ ribs.

Jeepers, it's hot when you can't just flag down a nice air conned yellow cab at the next corner.

Rock figures he could beat the long weekend traffic back to NY in one of these babies. Mei is inclined to agree, having sat through more than one "but this lane looked faster from back there" speeches.

The town of Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania has the coolest name since Rochester, New York. How many towns bear the name of a legendary athlete? Excusing, of course, the aforementioned bright lights of Rochester.

Americana as far as the eye can see. Which ain't far when the main street is one block.

Looks like the kind of place to order a sarsaparilla, pardners.

Some appropriately patriotic Memorial Day regalia.

And with that, it's off to the next stop. Fast forward to the 35th running of the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge. Better known as the event where Goldman Sachers have to don the logo of their hated league table rival for the space of 3.5 sweaty miles.

The event is run in twelve cities around the world, but none can come close to the setting at the flagship New York event, where 30,000 bankers run like their bonus depends on it. Because in this economy, it probably does.

Just in case you get sick of watching type A personalities trying to get one up on the competition via color coordinated bespoke running kits.

On your marks...

Get set...

Some more eye candy for those who enjoy looking at something other than Fortune 500 logos streaming past.

3.5 miles is over faster than Anthony Weiner's political career.

It may not yet be the pre-GFC glory days of fully catered BBQs, but at least Gatorade is back on the menu at the corporate tents. Even if the tents themselves are still gathering dust in the underutilized boom boom room.

Next on the summer agenda, a birthday cruise around the island. Or rather, that will be on the agenda after a brief detour to load up on chili cheese fries.

Given this is a beer tasting cruise, one hopes the crew will be the ones trimming the sails.

Don't worry, after the beer tasting no one will expect you to know your port from your starboard. Although you darn well better know your Broolyn Lager from your Williamsburg Pale Ale.

Anchors away landlubbers!

The cameras roll for Summer in the City 3. Careful, so much glamor in one place is rocking the boat.

This guy is rocking the boat too. Unfortunately in this case it has more to do with those cheesy chili fries.

How many times do the poor crew have to witness the drunken I'm the King of the World routine?

Careful, any further south and we might enter the dreaded Staten Island waters.

The sea breeze has been known to play havoc with carefully crafted hairdos.

Tough times on Wall Street. This poor fellow is nearly destitute; he had to trade his 60 foot speedboat for a mere sailboat.

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Why that's the most eloquent thing that's ever been said on this blog.

One bank to rule them all. Errr... I think you mean King Bernake and his Fortress Fed.