My ID:  6:33pm, Sunday, 28 August 2005:  Kuala Lumpur International Airport

Cathay Pacific flight CX721 from Hong Kong

My Initial Descent into Malaysia, via Kuala Lumpur International Airport (like so many others), had me thinking the entire country was a lush, green bed of palm trees. As far as I could see into the distance, rows and rows of palm trees, seemingly planned and organized. I had expected a tropical paradise of sorts, and my first impression was exactly that. And as KLIA is one of the most beautifully designed airports in the world, featuring large glass panels and atriums with more palm trees, that impression continued until long after I had arrived.

While this wasn’t my Initial Descent into Australia, or even into Sydney (this was my second visit), I had one of my more interesting airport arrival experiences here, worth sharing. Sadly, it may even provide a glimpse into Sydney’s culture, although let’s hope that isn’t the case!

Finally reaching Australian soil!

For the last hour or two of my 13-hour flight from San Francisco, I had been talking to my seat buddy, a young lady from Montreal who spent a lot of time in Sydney working in modeling. She had the typical model look–tall, incredibly skinny and pale-skinned–definitely not my type. But she was nice, and most interestingly for me, she was from Montreal. I had always wanted to visit there, and was happy to get some “local” perspective.

This trip, she was to be reunited with her boyfriend, who lived in Sydney and awaited her at the airport. After standing in the customs queue together for another 30 minutes (after our 13 hours together on board), we were about to wish each other farewell and part ways, as she saw her boyfriend awaiting her in the arrivals hall. They hugged, I gave her a casual “good luck” and told her to keep in touch, perhaps by connecting on Facebook. I can’t emphasize enough that after 13 and a half hours of acquaintance, I was just hoping to have someone local I could get some information about Montreal from when I finally did get my act together and visit.

This, apparently, did not sit very well with her boyfriend. She introduced us and we shook hands, and I watched them walk off happily into the Sydney morning. I then proceeded to handle my international arrivals business (sorting out the money situation, phone, etc.), and was shocked to turn around 15 minutes later to a tap on my shoulder. It was the girl’s boyfriend, who had apparently left the girl he had been waiting months to see in the car, and felt the need to walk back into the terminal and seek me out with an important message.

(insert thick Aussie accent here)

Guy: Listen mate, I just wanted to let you know that she’s NOT going to keep in touch with you, and you are NOT going to see her again, alright???

Me: (so astonished that I can’t even stand straight) You actually left her in the car and walked back in here just to tell me that? Whatever man, I’m not even interested!

I then stepped aside and walked away, the situation apparently diffused, given that I didn’t receive any more taps on my shoulder.

Arrivals Hall at Kingsford Smith

But I didn’t know what I was more shocked by–the fact that the guy felt the need to come back and say this to me, when we were clearly introduced–or the fact that he actually had the nerve to tell his lady after they got back to the car that he had to go back into the terminal to talk to me. I mean, what’s she thinking at this point?? I just hope that he didn’t get any that night, and if he did, well, bless that poor girl (with a working brain cell, please).

So, this was my first perception of Sydney–meathead, gym-mongering guys just looking to show off their macho wares to impress a girl. I would later find that while this may be spot on for certain areas like Bondi, fortunately, not every Sydneysider is this way!

Imagine a million people running around with no place to go, all united in celebration of….something. So what that the vast majority of them haven’t a clue exactly what they are celebrating? It’s Notting Hill Carnival, baby!

Every year on the last weekend of August, about a million people of every creed, color and nationality descend upon this otherwise quaint neighborhood on the western edge of central London—just to the north of the posh Kensington and Holland Park areas and just east of gritty Shepherd’s Bush. The Carnival originated in the 1960’s as a celebration of West Indian culture, with a heavy dose of Trinidad, Jamaica, St. Lucia and just about every other country in the region. While its origins trace to a time of heavy racial tension in London, it has evolved over the past four decades into a multicultural celebration, with countless blocks of narrow residential streets packed shoulder to shoulder with peaceful party-goers.

While the event is centered around a parade, featuring Caribbean steel bands, dancers with elaborate costumes, radio deejays and the like, most attendees probably never see the parade course. Instead, every few hundred feet there seems to be another party going on, with a new set of speakers blasting reggae, trance, hip hop, and just about anything else that gets people moving.

If you can navigate to some of the food stalls, you can enjoy Jamaican specialties like jerk chicken, plantains, patties and rice & peas, and of course there is Red Stripe—the beer of choice by a longshot—available by the basketful.

Enjoy some of the pictures below from the Carnival, and if it looks appealing to you, book your ticket to London for the last weekend of August. If you’re looking for one of the largest street parties on the planet, with completely free entrance, you won’t be disappointed. 

Asians, male and female alike, generally tend to do pretty well when it comes to aging—in many countries in the Far East, it isn’t uncommon to see working professionals who could probably pass for high school students in many places. Whether it is genes, the hefty emphasis they place on body and skin care, or overall healthy lifestyles, it can be difficult for people from other cultures to play the age-guessing game here.

In Korea, that is even more challenging, because of Korea’s unique method of calculating someone’s age.

Most of us turn a particular age on the day that is exactly that number of years from our birth. So if I was born on the first day of March in 1990, then today, March 1st, 2013, I turned 23. For the rest of this year, and actually until March 1st, 2014, I will be considered 23 years of age.

Koreans, however, are all considered two years older than they really are. Three months after birth, a Korean is already considered to be age 1, factoring in the 9-month pregnancy. Then, on the New Year’s Day of their first year, they are considered to be 2. So from our example above, if I was Korean and born on the first day of March in 1990, then I turned 1 on June 1st of that year. Then, on New Year’s Day of 1991, I turned 2. From then on, I add a year every New Year’s Day.

So under this method, even though today is still celebrated as my birthday, my age doesn’t change. I actually “turned” 24 on January 1st. Come January 1st, 2014, I will turn 25, while the non-Korean I share a birthdate with will still be 23.

Of course, this method opens up another can of worms: If the first birthday is considered 90-or-so days after birth, and the second is the first New Year’s Day, then what about those babies born in the last three months of the year? Does that first New Year’s they experience just not count, because they haven’t reached their 90 days yet?

In this case (which the math would suggest applies to about 25% of Koreans), the first New Year’s Day is indeed “skipped” in regards to counting age. But the age calculation quickly catches up after that. For babies in this case, the first actual birthday (as in, the anniversary of the actual date of birth), would add a year, and then the annual New Year’s Day tally would continue as per normal.

So in this example, if I was born on November 1st, 1990, I would turn 1 on February 1st, 1991. I would turn 2 on November 1st of that year, and quickly turn 3 on New Year’s Day of 1992, just as in the example above when I was born on March 1st.

Got that?

Next time you bet a drink on guessing your Korean friend’s age, don’t forget to clarify whether you’re guessing their Korean age or their other age, and if it’s their Korean age, add two!

(image credit: eMagAsia.com)

This wasn’t my initial descent, and wasn’t even a descent, but instead a land crossing. I had been to Vancouver several times prior to this visit, but I had to share this experience, as it was my first time to encounter any trouble whatsoever with Canadian border authorities.

Driving from Seattle (which can often be the cheapest way of getting to and around in Vancouver if you’re counting), I usually cross the border at Peace Arch along US Interstate 5. Today, however, I listened to the wait times, and heard that it was backed up. So I tried the alternate crossing along State Route 543, just a few miles from Peach Arch. While I’m often heading into Vancouver solo, this time I had company in the form of my friend and snowboarding buddy, Shaun.

The line of cars wasn’t long, but when we got to the front, we were asked to pull aside and step out of the car. For a moment I thought it may have been a race thing, given Shaun’s long, dangling dreadlocks and the dearth of black people in this part of the world. But then I considered how truly diverse Vancouver is (for races other than black—though this is changing), and figured that couldn’t be the case. We were taken into a waiting room, and left for what felt like hours without being given any information. Then Shaun was called into a back room, taken for questioning, only to come out 15 minutes later with a clearance for us to proceed along our way.

Wondering what the hell had just happened during a routine border crossing I had made countless times before, Shaun explained that about 6 years ago, he had a misdemeanor marijuana possession charge on his record in the U.S. That basically means he was found carrying marijuana without any intent to distribute, and only in a quantity that one person could use. And it was 6 years ago!! Further, he was issued a warning that if something like that happened again, he wouldn’t be allowed to return.

Apparently, this was enough to trip Canada’s border authorities, which I found incredibly hypocritical given the fact that individual marijuana possession is legal in the state we had just physically crossed over from (Washington), and given my awareness of Vancouver’s relaxed attitude towards the drug. While it is not technically legal, most Vancouverites I know engage in some healthy smoking from time to time, and there are even cafes that allow it in public. As long as there isn’t distribution involved or some widespread disturbance, law enforcement tends to bat a blind eye.

Myself & Shaun celebrating our admittance into BC

So regardless of what your transgression is, just be aware that you may have some issues crossing the border into Canada if this applies to you! And it may be completely shocking and surprising to you as well, all the more so once you understand how generally tolerant the average Canadian is!

These people obviously didn’t have to cross the border in Blaine

My ID:  3:34pm, Tuesday, 22 March 2005:  Narita Airport

United Airlines Flight UA837 from San Francisco

While it goes without saying that most first-timers to Japan arrive through the Narita gateway, my first true experience with Japan was, quite literally, at Narita Airport.  The destination of my first trip to Asia was the Philippines, via Singapore, and my flight from the US touched down first in Tokyo.  I’m not counting the hour I spent around Gate 54 as my first foray into Japan, but it just so happens that I had the reverse route back, six days later.  This time, my incoming flight from Singapore left about a three hour window before I had to depart back to SFO.

Being the rookie traveler that I was at the time, I decided that instead of eating the same dried out sandwich and Pocky pack I had at Gate 54 earlier that week, I would stand in line at immigration to get my passport stamped.  I had my fancy Narita Immigration sticker 30 minutes later, and stepped outside to breathe Japanese air for the first time—in the Narita parking lot.  After a 15-minute tour of Narita’s long-term parking and train station, I thought better of my inkling to leave the airport, and went back to the gate for my flight…but not until I had experienced Japan for the first time!

My ID:  Train 4:32pm, Friday, 07 June 2002; Stazione Milano Centrale

Milano Centrale, home of MyID into Italy

My Initial Descent into Italy came via the rails, arriving into Milano Centrale after a night’s journey from Munich. Along the way, as the Alps bore down upon me like an intimidating older brother, I saw in the distance countless waterfalls so rugged that man dare not attempt approach. Cutting river valleys that housed rocky streams, and huge mountainside cliffs with trees above. Only water, strong enough to hold the ships of the sea and brave enough to tumble the likes of Niagara and Victoria, could experience these places up close. The Alp lakes were stunning, scattered with islands and vast waterways resting peacefully in the mountains’ pocket.

While I enjoyed my first day walking around Milano, the next few days heading further south in Italy left me with a few impressions, some of which I have subsequently discounted and others with I still hold true today:

• Rome has a lot of bad smells in it!
• I’ve even seen little kids smoking here; everyone smokes!
• Road rules don’t seem to apply to scooters—they are everywhere and do whatever they want!
• Every building has elaborate designs sculpted into it—outside and inside.
• Italian guys are so forward, aggressive and (if you’re a male) unfriendly. Could the stereotypes be true?
• Italian guys wear really, really tight jeans.
• The concept of air conditioning has no meaning in Italy.
• The shoes people wear here look like bowling shoes.
• Many people here have small, prissy dogs…..not the big dogs I’m used to!
• There is no hospitality here. Business owners are rude, and nothing is complimentary.

Over the next several weeks, my impression grew to be that of a stark difference between the North and South of Italy. The further north I got, the more comfortable I felt. This was shaped by a few experiences, such as seeing a brawl break out in a stairwell at Naples’ Central Station within minutes of my arrival there, and some of the shady characters I shared train compartments with in the south.

(Note: Please do not get upset, my Italian friends—this was all taken directly from a journal I kept the first time I was in Italy, and “MyID” is supposed to be an unfiltered, unedited account of first impressions! I know now these aren’t all true :).

My ID:  1:22pm, Wednesday, 23 March 2005:  Manila Ninoy Aquino International Airport

Philippine Airlines flight PR502 from Singapore

The tone was set for my Initial Descent into the Philippines before we had even approached Manila. About two hours into my flight from Singapore, where I had just transited from the United States, the Philippine Airlines flight attendant serving my section pulled me aside and asked a question: “Do you play basketball in the PBA?”

Of course, I had no idea what that was (it turns out it’s the Philippine Basketball Association), so I politely suggested that while I do play basketball, I was not a PBA participant. The middle-aged woman apologized unnecessarily, saying that I looked like I played basketball (perhaps my bald head at the time suggested as much), and asked if I needed anything else to make my flight more enjoyable. I settled for some mango juice and reclined my way into Manila.

The pleasant exchange taught me a few things about what to expect upon my arrival, which turned out to be true. The people were not shy, yet very humble, warm, polite and wanted to make me feel welcome. While this can be expected in the hospitality industry, in the Philippines I felt it from everyone, and it was genuine (and perhaps this is why the hospitality industry around the world employs so many people from the Philippines). I knew the visit would be good, and indeed it was.

Perhaps it was the dome that fooled the flight attendant…

If Santa Claus isn’t paying you a visit, maybe now you have a good alternative!

Very few places in the world celebrate Christmas the way Central Americans do. No matter what country you’re in here, chances are you will experience the most festive environment you’ve ever been a part of for a holiday (perhaps only the Philippines can compete for the honor of most extravagant Christmas celebrations).

The celebration here begins a full nine days before Christmas, with Las Posadas celebrating the symbolism of Mary’s pregnancy, the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the search for lodging on the night Jesus was born. Religious processions are often seen marching through the streets—particularly in Guatemala—with figures of Mary and Joseph carried to the houses of friends and loved ones.

This nine-day celebration culminates in Nochebuena, or Christmas Eve, when just about everyone in Central America begins to gather with friends and family for huge feasts— featuring tamales (similar to empanadas), lechon (roast pig), gallina rellena (stuffed chicken) and hot chocolate—and dance celebrations that include lots of Christmas carols. Many of them attend the Misa del Gallo (“Rooster Mass”), which begins at midnight. Those who don’t attend the midnight mass typically gather around their home Nativity scenes to pray, sing and often exchange gifts. Many also use this opportunity to complete their Nativity display with the baby Jesus figure—conspicuously absent from the display for the weeks leading up to Nochebuena. In El Salvador and Nicaragua, it is common for people to shoot fireworks and estrellitas (little stars) to illuminate their lands and beaches and celebrate the significance of the day.

It must be experienced to be appreciated, so if you want to be amongst Central American people in their most festive state, plan a Christmas season here sometime. Many of these same traditions are prevalent in other Latin American countries outside of Central America, but nowhere quite to the extent of here.