Do Not Go Gentle

[Stardust, Italy, Rome, May 2008.]

My last night in Rome I finally found a bar that suited my taste. I had struggled all week to see some jazz. Each time I went to a place it was either closed or much further away than I had expected, so I went home. Stardust was also mentioned in the Lonely Planet guide as playing some jazz now and again, so I went forth. It also says that the crowd is Boho (Bohemian) and that I can vouch for. Most remarkably for me, it had women who had great spirit. I talked to several patrons. One in particular could speak good English as he had lived in England for a few years. His name was Derek. I said, "There isn't even a K in the Italian alphabet." He laughed, but I never discovered the reason for the spelling.

[Jack Russell playing with a drunk and a plastic bottle.]

Running around the bar was a Jack Russell, so I spent a while playing with him, as did a good proportion of the other drunks. I mentioned to Derek how silly it was that Italian lighters had a cartoon stuck to them explaining how to use the child-proof action. He admitted their stupidity and said that children collected the stickers (I hoped he was being ironic). Towards the end of the night, a diminutive guy with large hair stood on the bar, quietened everyone, then performed Dylan Thomas' poem "Do not go gentle into that good night" in Italian. I could hear the familiar cadences even if in a sense I couldn't understand the Italian words:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[A recitation of Dylan Thomas in Italian. When I become leader of the free world I would institute the law that all pubs engage a patron to recite this poem at closing time.]

Along Nanjing to the Bund

[Nanjing Rd, Shanghai, May 2008]

On the 21st May 2008 I wrote in my diary: 

"I am in a restaurant in the French Concession called Sasha's. Bit up-market for me. I am surrounded by rich Shanghai women eating lunch. I have a pint of beer. Last night I walked along Nanjing Rd, being hounded by two touts, one spruiking women ("massage"), the other fake goods (I apparently need a new watch).I endured their questions because I needed a light (airports steal my lighters). Then I found a convenience store and I couldn't get rid of them (they followed me in and, much to my consternation, wanted to help me choose a drink and get a lighter). The watch-tout gave up on me shortly after the convenience store. I endured the massage-tout for another 400m till we reached the Bund. My head was buzzing with the adrenalin of getting off an international flight at night. It is more sensible to arrive anywhere in the morning, because you can find your bearings easier, get around easier, etc., but it is ten times more fun to arrive at night. And the Bund added to this enjoyment."

[The group on the left are looking at jewellery on a small stall. The guys squatting on the right are selling a rotating "laser" toy. The buildings in the background are selling capitalism. Shanghai, May 2008.]

The Bund is like a pier. People wander along it, take in the views, buy some food or cheap trinkets, watch passers-by, practice dancing on its smooth pavement, etc. Like a pier you go nowhere. You walk up and down. It is an end in itself.