Up and down

Yes, you can't enlarge a phone pic this much really without things getting noisy, but I wanted to make it easier to pick out the bungy jumper as well as the orange-suited SkyWalkers on the ring at the top of the SkyTower, all of them adding a bit of adrenalin to a warm, sunny autumn day in Auckland. The SkyJump isn't a bungy jump in the original, Shotover River sense: there's no freefall as such, there's a wheel whining away up at the top feeding out the cables, and then the brakes are gradually applied as the jumper nears the bottom so there's no jerk. They call it a base jump. There's still that moment of committing yourself to the plunge, though, so it still counts as an adventure. Not that I've done it.

I have, though, done the SkyWalk, wearing that fetching orange boiler suit. You can't really see, but some of the punters are leaning out over the edge, as demonstrated by the consciously chilled-out guide. They do it backwards because it's simpler and less scary that way I guess - but it would be fun to hang face-first over the void. Having, as I've mentioned before, no imagination, I'm pretty laid-back about doing these things, trusting implicitly that all the proper safety measures are in place. There was an incident last year, though, when one man somehow managed to unhook the two carabiners that fasten the cables to your harness behind your back, and wandered around loose while everyone quietly panicked and the road below was cleared. He didn't jump, in the end.

The brother to Auckland's SkyTower is in Macau, looking almost identical, and at the top there's an AJ Hackett bungy operation run by a Kiwi, which is all a bit disorientating. There, though, you can also climb up the mast: 100 metres up ladders to the highest point 338 metres above the ground. Now that would be scary - despite the assurances that they have "specially designed harnesses and fall arrest system". Something to skite about afterwards, though, for sure.

Sun, sand and sabres

Thirteen months ago, my anal soul would have been happy with this:

But I wanted more, this time, so I tried harder. And failed:

Reactions not as good as they used to be, or seconds have got shorter - or my laptop slower. I'm going with that. Never mind, it was a busy day with plenty of other stuff going on, like a lovely lunch at the Sofitel hosted by Macau Tourism, with a neat link between the two. It was in Macau that I saw sabrage for the first time, when chef Antonio, who was a bit of a showman and made us crepes Suzette with great flourish, took a lot of pleasure in showing the youngest, blondest member of our group how to remove the top from a champagne bottle with a sabre. (It's a French custom, initiated, legend has it, by Napoleon, so why a Portuguese man was doing it was never explained. Apart from the showmanship thing.) Of course, I learned earlier this year that it's a piece of weasel, and whipped one off myself with no trouble whatsoever, which hasn't stopped me from boasting about it ever since. With good reason, it turns out, judging by Trish's (three) efforts when the ritual was performed today, which left her with an eyeful - fortunately of champagne rather than bottle-top:

And then, after a lot of airline and travel chat, it was time to head out of the city on a sunny afternoon for a friend's Big Birthday picnic at a little beach on a gorgeous bit of coast with turquoise sea and islands and inlets. There was shared food and many popped corks - no sabres on hand, unfortunately - plus a dog with a stick, children, pohutukawa in bloom, sand between the toes and that glorious feeling that summer is finally here with lots more sun and sea and sociable times on the way. Yay.

Shaken to bits

Well, I don't want to go to Istanbul now, not since James Bond broke all the tiles by riding someone's motorbike over the roofs of the houses near the Grand Bazaar, and wrecked the market and everything. I suppose we should just be grateful he left the minarets standing. Skyfall was very entertaining throughout its afterwards surprising length, but my goodness there was a lot of smashing and breaking and general destruction. I seem to have become my father, who could never see a car on TV driven over a cliff without muttering, "What a waste of a perfectly good Vauxhall" or sucking in his breath in disapproval when one roared along a beach with salty, rusting seawater spraying up underneath.

All the other Skyfall locations - London, Shanghai, Macau, Scotland - were places I have been, and it was fun to see them on the screen, some of them looking so much more glamorous than they were in reality. Sensible shoes and a backpack are no competition for a slinky gown and tuxedo, of course, but all those aerial nighttime shots of Shanghai really showed off its fantastic buildings to their best; although that flash casino in Macau with the Komodo dragons? Never saw that: it was clearly way beyond the pale for humble travel writers on group famils. Glencoe, though, really is that huge and barren and inhospitable -

As for London, it was fun to see so many familiar places, looking so ordinary: Temple tube station, the Eye, Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery... Leaving aside wondering about the daunting logistics of filming in such busy places, and controlling such quantities of extras, I'm back to the thing about being distracted from the action by the locations. Of course it's a James Bond specialty to film in famous, glamorous places all over the world, but still - all that effort put into the special effects and stunts and so on to convince the viewers that it's all real, and yet so very many of them will have one part of their brains keeping up a running, and distancing, commentary about the scenery: "Look, I've seen that painting, I've driven along the A9, a pigeon crapped on me next to that fountain..."

Seems like a bit of a shame, from the creative angle; but with the first Hobbit movie coming out soon, the trilogy made with such generous tax concessions from our government, we'll be hoping to see a nice boost in tourism income from millions of viewers doing just that: taking notice of the background, and deciding to come here and see it for themselves.

Tarts and the Titanic

Random connections today: out of nowhere, a What's On in Macau in November promotion arrived in the post, personally addressed. Amongst the many attractions listed are the Grand Prix - as in Monaco, it's right through the central city, and would be exciting, if that were your thing - and the Fringe Festival with buskers on the streets (hopefully at a different time from the Grand Prix) which includes the usual sorts of acts plus, thrillingly, a presentation called 'Marathon Stories about Land Reclamation'. But the Food Festival sounds more promising, especially as the 'five top taste bud zones' includes Dessert - featuring egg custard tarts, no doubt. It's a local specialty they're very proud of which was introduced by the Portuguese who, and I say this having tasted both, make it better, especially at Casa Pasteis de Belem Restaurant in Lisbon, where they churn out thousands every day, each one flakily sweet and delicious.

There's a note about the calligraphy exhibition on in the Handover Gifts Museum, and those of you who've been paying attention know what that building is all about; and a respectful reminder that in Macau you may only stay in licensed accommodation "to avoid potential hazards such as fire and unsanitary conditions". Heaven forbid.

Another attraction coming to Macau is Titanic: the Exhibition. I've seen that and it's really good, with masses of artifacts from the Titanic and its identical sister ship the Olympic, and lots of individual passenger stories with items like watches and children's shoes. There's a big model of the ship cutaway on one side, which was interesting - and even an iceberg. No, really, a huge wall of ice that you can put your hand on and make the whole experience literally chilling. It's a travelling exhibition that I caught in Copenhagen last year. It was in a building across the road from the imposing and historic brick Town Hall, which I keep seeing as a location in Forbrydelsen, a terrific police murder investigation three-season TV series being played here end-to-end that I'm about 20 episodes into, all subtitled Danish, and which is the best thing I've seen for years (I spit upon the jazzed-up American version - this is dark and slow and detailed and brilliantly done). Worth seeking out.

Spot the difference (no spots included)

As the thunder grumbles rather thrillingly around the sky, I offer you this: one of these places is where I last heard thunder, and is half a world away from the other. What are the links, and what are the differences?

Of course, the links are obvious, with the architecture and the pattern of the cobbles which, apart from the surface being treacherously slippery, is also as bad as yesterday's Floating Pavilion for making you feel drunk when not a drop of the drink has passed your lips. The other is that they're both Portuguese, which means that now you know the difference, if you've been paying attention as you've dutifully been reading this blog.

Yes, on the left is Macau, and on the right, Cascais near Lisbon. Back in the fifteenth century, the Portuguese were all over the world like a rash: Africa, Mauritius, India, Japan, Macau, Brazil... They beat the British to the world's first global empire by quite a margin, and hung onto it longer too, because they weren't made to hand back Macau till 1999, which was two years after the Brits reluctantly let go of Hong Kong. They were fully occupied with slaves, sugar and spices for centuries; but they did export a few things too: they claim that when they went to Japan, where they founded the city of Nagasaki, they gave them their word for 'thank you'. Obrigado - arigatoo: you decide.

What's certain is that Japanese tourists are a lot more adventurous these days than back when they moved about en masse and only emerged from their coaches to take photos of each other... Oh, well, all right, maybe things don't change that much. But that's a 150 metre sheer drop right there. [Capo da Roca, north of Lisbon, Europe's westernmost point.]

Links and connections: not the same thing

In a waiting room today, I picked up a dog-eared copy of Mindfood magazine to read an article about Kiva, the micro-loan scheme I'd heard about when I was down in Queenstown doing the Ziptrek off Bob's Peak. It's a great idea: think about it. Anyway, then I looked for the travel section and saw a story titled 'Great Northern Land', referencing the song and unofficial Oz anthem 'Great Southern Land', just re-released by Tourism Australia accompanying a video of scenery with assorted Aussies singing along, and which I watched only this morning.

I recognised the images in the magazine instantly, having used several of the same ones myself for a story about a campervan trip through the Northern Territory a couple of years ago - and, in fact, I recognised myself in one of them, at our elegantly-set table beside the Katherine River, halfway through a kayak trip along that croc-infested river. Over the back of my chair is my faithful red jacket, which I happened to be wearing as I read Lorna's story (which mentioned how she went down most of the rapids backwards - she was a great sport about our heartless laughter). It was a good trip, lots of fun and with plenty of different experiences, and the company was very congenial too. We even had a photographer along, Peter Eve, who took this one, which took the pressure off us writers to produce our own worthy images.

The editor of Mindfood is Michael McHugh, who was also on the trip to Macau last year, a destination I perhaps unkindly slated yesterday. It's not that the place has nothing to offer - on the contrary, it's  an interesting mix of Chinese and Portuguese, it's pretty, the food is excellent, there are plenty of sights and activities to occupy a visitor popping across during a Hong Kong stopover, and some of the hotels are amazing. That was the problem, though: we saw far, far too many of them, the organiser of the famil treating us more like travel agents than travel writers. We spent so much time surrounded by marble and chandeliers and huge floral arrangements that we only had about 20 minutes with the pandas. And that's just tragic.

Sabrage a la Sofitel, Auckland

Sabrage: who knew there was a word for it? It's the act of removing the top (not just the cork) of a champagne bottle with a sabre, and the story goes that it was Napoleon (of course) who initiated the custom in the battlefield, saying that after a victory, you deserve champagne, and after a defeat, you need it. I saw it done last year in Macau with lots of smoke and mirrors - well, palaver, anyway - but today I discovered that it's actually very simple.

Gerard showed me, with no fuss, how to reposition the wire around the cork, rotate the bottle so a seam is upwards, and then just slide the back of the blade up to hit the neck. I have a broken shoulder, remember (still sore, about to get the decision on surgery, thanks for asking) and therefore no strength, but it didn't need any. Just consummate skill, which you can see from the photo I had every confidence that I possessed.

The top shears off cleanly, no slivers of glass anywhere, there's a brief fountain of foam, and then everyone gets stuck in drinking - nice dry Perrier-Jouet at the very classy Sofitel at the Viaduct in Auckland, just re-opened after a previous existence as a (spit) Westin. The lunch was delightful, light, fresh and tasty, and beautifully presented by the young chef Scott, recently poached (what else would you do with a chef?) from Huka Lodge. The sun was shining on the harbour and all the fancy boats moored just outside the restaurant, the company was good, and I'd just swiped the top off a champagne bottle with a sword. What more could you ask?

UPDATE: Your orthopaedic surgeon to say no operation required, that's what. Great day!

Heil hope, dashed

This trip has been so focused on the war, or wars, partly through choice, with visiting Stalag Luft III, but mostly because that's simply how it is in Europe, that today in Munich I just went with the flow and topped it all off with a Third Reich walking tour. Berlin is the other half of that story, of course, but Munich is where it all began and Eric (from the US) was a well-informed and interesting guide around the significant locations. Few are more significant than the upper hall of the Hofbrauhaus where every night tourists come to bend their elbows and sink a few steins in rowdy jollity, most of them probably in total ignorance of the fact that just above their heads is where Hitler announced the birth of the Nazi Party.

It was a very odd feeling to sit there and listen to the familiar story and know it had taken place on that very spot. Even more unexpected, though, was when we left to follow the path of the march of the Beerhall Putsch that took place three years later, from the Hofbrauhaus to the Odeonsplatz, and Eric described how the marchers had been fired on by soldiers. As he told the story, Hitler's bodyguard, "a big, fat Bavarian", flung himself on top of Hitler, taking four bullets for him "which didn't kill him, because of the fat" but in the process dislocating Hitler's shoulder.

Well! I never expected to feel any sympathy for Adolf Hitler, but just for a moment, I actually did. And immediately, I wanted to know which shoulder it had been. "No-one's ever asked me that before," said Eric, "but it was probably the left, because of the salutes." That was exactly why I was asking, of course - remembering all those crisply raised right arms, I wanted hope that my rapidly withering arm has a normal future ahead of it. But no. Scheisse. So afterwards I went to a Biergarten for some elbow-bending of my own. The left one.

Anyone here read Chinese?

I'd love to know what it says on this billboard, seen on the approach to Macau's A-Ma Temple, which is an attraction both for tourists and for local people, who go to make wishes, pray and light joss-sticks. Why are all the children in love with the sparkling pink toilet? Are they being encouraged to keep it clean? Get one? Pray to it instead of the temple? It's a mystery. They're an inscrutable lot, those Orientals - particularly if you've never bothered to learn their language.

Bathrooms featured remarkably prominently during our five days in Macau. Drawing a discreet veil over the evening I spent unhappily defiling the marble in my own hotel bathroom, let's consider instead the astonishing rooms we trailed through as a group on our otherwise fairly tedious programme of site inspections. Because they were wanting to impress us, they showed us their fanciest suites, and all the bathrooms featured acres of shiny marble, dinky bottles of expensive toiletries, twin basins, televisions, gold taps, and space, vast expanses of space. They had shower rooms, not just showers - some with a glass wall into the bedroom, which seemed odd, some set up almost like a stage. One was big enough for an entire rugby team to wash in at the same time with no unmanly touching. Another had a raised infinity spa bath with a projector and screen overhead. Several had killer views over the city about 40 floors below. They all had adjoining his-and-hers dressing rooms.

But mostly they had mirrors. Mirrors everywhere: floor to ceiling, on every wall, in the shower, even on the ceiling. And that's where they made their mistake, I reckon - because if I'm going to fork out a thousand dollars or so a night for all that luxury, I want to spend my time in there feeling good. And catching sight of my naked self bent over scrubbing my feet in the shower just ain't going to do that.

Signs

Writing about the East Cape circuit today, where even though the scenery was stunning, my attention was still caught by the odd quirky sign like this one, which to me indicates a true Athenian at the end of the arrow.

And next I have to do a Macau story which alas has to be mostly about the hotels, since someone else has snaffled all the interesting Portuguese-angled material for the same magazine. It wasn't all stylish suites and scented spas: walking down the busy lanes from the ruins of St Paul's to Senado Square, I was diverted by the assumption by some Chinese company that this would be a good fashion label:

Maybe there's something about those simple letters that looks elegant and classy to a Chinese eye - who knows? And probably they could be forgiven for not being familiar with the word. But really? They didn't see anything wrong with this one? Really???

Where's Michael Fish when you need him?

Three weeks ago I returned to NZ from summery UK via Hong Kong where it was 34 degrees and even though I didn't leave the airport's air-conditioning, I felt uncomfortably oppressed by all that heat and humidity bearing down on the vast curving roof; and then I got back to Auckland for the coldest day of the year. It was raw and chill and miserable.

Yesterday I returned to NZ from Macau and Hong Kong where it was again - still - 34 degrees and drippingly humid. I had spent a week going from melting heat to goosebumpy air-conditioning, setting off a similar fever-chill series on a personal level that had me prostrate in bed for 16 hours. But then I got home to a bright and surprisingly warm day, all set to head off to Gisborne this afternoon, seduced by reports of what last week was brilliant clear sunny weather. Except that now there's a massive cold front passing up the country bringing snow even to such unlikely recipients as Rotorua and Napier, and the phone is promising single-digit figures for Gisborne itself and freezing night temperatures.

It is winter, after all, but Gizzy and the East Cape usually skim through with lots of sunshine and warmer temperatures than elsewhere, and I was looking forward to exploring Whale Rider country. Bother. If only the forecast had come courtesy of Michael Fish, I could be feeling optimistic.

Everything is illuminated

Macau is a very compact place: a peninsula and a couple of islands linked by bridges, only 30 square kilometres altogether, so we’ve been travelling the same roads back and forth as we’ve been taken to various sights over the last four days. This quickly became a favourite view, across a man-made lake to the man-made cityscape of tall and extravagantly-shaped buildings. The Grand Lisboa is the oddest of them all, and at night is spectacular.

We were on our way to yet another Portuguese restaurant, Antonio’s, and were served by Antonio himself who indulged us (and himself) with his party piece after the excellent meal and the flaming crepes Suzette: he wiped off his sabre – what, you didn’t know that chefs had sabres? – and showed one of our group how to take the top off a champagne bottle with one swipe. That’s the glass and all, cleanly, with no splinters, or lost wine. Pretty cool, we all had to admit.

There was nothing cool about today. I’ve no idea of the temperature or humidity, but walking around the narrow streets I nearly melted, and reduced a substantial paper serviette to a limp rag simply by wiping my brow with it. My sense of direction was discombobulated and I went in frustrating circles trying to find my way back from a little park where I was sorely tempted to commit a sort of theft by releasing the birds left there by their owners in tiny little bamboo cages.

Despite the heat, there were people there working on the machines that are dotted about in parks throughout the city, doing unselfconscious tai chi under the trees and even walking backwards down the path; as well as playing cards and mah jong in stone pergolas. And everywhere there were people sweeping and tidying, keeping it all neat and tidy.

Then it was off to the ferry for the hour-long trip to Hong Kong, for which it would have been lovely to stand on deck to enjoy the islands and the interesting shipping, but we had to stay shut inside by foggy windows, alas. This city is as busy and energetic as ever. It’s odd to see other white faces here, after Macau, and the waterfront is very cosmopolitan – as well as spectacularly illuminated too, on this hot and muggy night.

A glass act

Two connections today: at the MGM hotel (yes, another site inspection) they have a Dale Chihuly hallway lined with big pieces of his work, which also features in the lobby. I first came across him in Washington state and especially in Tacoma - and thought I had already seen some of his distinctive twirly tubes at the Galaxy earlier today (why yes, since you ask, that was a hotel inspection too). Lovely stuff, and classy, which was the aim - where all the other hotels have had us walking on (spit) marble, at the MGM the floors were jade and lapis lazuli. It's the kind of place where they employ leaf-dusters.

At the two hotels we drifted through scented corridors where it was all about hush and Zen, every detail considered - at Galaxy's associated Banyan Tree, the swirls of little bubbles in the coloured concrete panels of the walls were each applied by hand - and in the suite that was bigger than many houses, if it was Tuesday it was Ylang Ylang. Galaxy had a wave pool with a white sand beach on its second floor. MGM had a Portuguese square recreated indoors, with bored little budgies in tiny cages hanging from pergolas.

But then we got to see some proper sights: wine museum where we tasted white port, an aperitif; a Grand Prix museum where we got to sit in a real Formula 3 car (those things are like coffins - and hopelessly insubstantial); and a science museum where they had a display of da Vinci machines which included the cryptex that Dan Brown claimed he had invented, wrongly - but the da Vinci people were forced to include it by popular demand, and it's the most popular item. How sad, when there's all that other amazing stuff there that he actually invented.

And then we went to see the pandas, so I could be all "Oh, I've touched a panda before, in Adelaide, look at the close-up photo on my phone here, I can tell you all about them, what do you want to know?" I make a lot of friends that way. The two here were in the same enclosure, and moving around, which was lovely and a treat - "They do spend most of the day asleep in a ball," I informed everyone beforehand - but we were whisked away after a scant 10 minutes, which was mean.

Finally we had some free time and, having been shown the hotel's Six Senses Spa where it was all trickling water, perfume, open spaces, orchids and bamboo, I went to a dark little dive off the street where armchairs draped in towels were jammed in and Chinese men with no trousers were lolling back having their feet rubbed while they smoked and watched Brazil beat Panama in the football. I had a rather painful foot massage from a fat woman who tutted over the hard skin on my toes and simpered "Tip? Tip?" when I paid her.

Not even one Cornetto, though

"Call that a bathroom? Why, it's only three times bigger than mine at home - pah!" That's what happens when you've been paraded through the swankiest suites of five flash hotels in the space of two days. Luxury fatigue: it's a sad condition.

All that said, there's no not being blown away, stunned, astonished and simply gob-smacked by The Venetian. It's the size - 3,000 suites, 10,000 employees - and the success - takes more in a year than the entire Las Vegas strip combined - but mostly the concept: recreate Venice, canals and all, indoors. It's bizarre, but so well done that it's fascinating, and easy to see how people spend all day there indoors under its permanently blue sky, wandering the shops, taking a gondola ride, watching the street entertainment, eating in one of the 30 restaurants - and then, of course, popping downstairs for a flutter in the vast casino.

Of all that, I took the gondola ride with Luciano, a real Italian opera singer in a blue-striped tshirt and red sash who had to learn how to row when he came here but belted out a mean cliche - Volare, Santa Lucia - and when asked how this Venice differed from the real one said simply, "It's cleaner."

We also visited Ice World there: an exhibition of ice sculptures - Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, Taj Mahal plus animals from dinosaurs to pandas and penguins - where I went down an ice slide (fast!) and was glad after half an hour to emerge from the -15 degrees, despite my big padded coat.

And then last night we were in the packed 15,000-seat theatre for a Cirque du Soleil show, Zaia, which was as spectacular as ever and left me feeling astonished and physically feeble.

There were other things today - cemetery with PO Box tombs as well as mini-mansions; old colonial houses; lotuses and white herons; and lots of delicious Portuguese food - but mainly it was all about the Venetian. Just as well really, as there was a tremendous thunderstorm this morning which dropped the temperature to a mere 25 degrees, but hoisted the humidity to 95%.

Sick of it

I've seen more shiny marble, thick rugs and gold taps today than you could shake a stick at. This famil has a tedious number of site inspections included in the itinerary: two or three every day, which is a shocking waste of time when we could have been out and about in Macau seeing the sights and getting material to write about. If I'd known how it was to be, I wouldn't have come - but I didn't get the itinerary till a couple of days before we left. This is travel agent stuff, not travel writer treatment.

It's because there's no such thing as a free lunch, of course, and though I would have been fine with street food, taking us to fancy hotels for slap-up buffets and shows means we have to trail around behind the marketing people making polite noises about their executive suites. They were pretty good, though, if you like acres of floor space, showers like small rooms, your own karaoke room, giant flat-screen TVs everywhere including over the infinity bath, and floor-to-ceiling views over Macau's skyscrapers and huddled apartment blocks to the hills of China just across the harbour.

We did get to do some touristy things: a visit to the A-Ma Temple, which climbs up a hill and was very busy with worshippers lighting bundles of joss-sticks and bowing before shrines; as well as buying wishes which were written on red paper, hung inside a big incense spiral and hung from the ceiling to smoke away for a couple of weeks. Then the ruins of St Paul's - literally just the facade at the top of a flight of steps, the rest having been destroyed in a fire. And we went up the Macau Tower, designed by the same company as Auckland's Skytower (evidently short of ideas, as it looks almost exactly the same) and found a Taupo guy called Anthony running the AJ Hackett bungy from the top: in the job 20 years, and still amused by how jumpers try to fly by waving their arms as they fall, "screaming like a stuck pig".

And then I got sick, and was sick, and had to opt out of the last visit which included a casino. It was incredibly hot and humid today and very uncomfortable walking the streets (even the locals hiding under umbrellas when they had to venture out of the air-conditioning); but I think it was actually something I ate that did for me. Such a tragedy, because the rest of the group couldn't stop raving about the lunchtime buffet...

Saúde!

Even I found yesterday unconscionably long, despite having slept in later than everyone else on the morning of departure thanks to having spent the night at the new Novotel Auckland Airport, which was very comfortable, amazingly quiet despite overlooking the runways, considerately provided breakfast from 5am, and was a brilliantly satisfying five-minute walk to check-in from literally across the road.

There was a lot of waiting around, as there always is with travel, plus a hiccup with a group member who broke a tooth on his flight to meet us from Sydney and had to be taken to hospital; so we didn't get out to dinner until well after 8pm local time (midnight according to our bodies). The drive to the restaurant was pretty spectacular - Macau advertises itself as "where Asia comes to play" and there are many casinos here, a couple of them built almost on Las Vegas scale: enormously tall, with fountains, mirrors and millions of coloured lights flashing and swirling and changing. That lovely bridge was spectacular too, in a much classier manner, lit up with white lights and reflected in the water.

We had an excellent dinner at O Porto Interior, a Portuguese restaurant that specialises in seafood, and the giant stuffed prawns and the seabass were really delicious; and the wines excellent too. It was nice to see big family parties there with three or four generations all eating together - and they're good-looking people too, the Macanese. We were sorry not to be up to reaching the port stage, but everyone was drooping by then and looking forward to our big soft beds. It took some vigilance on the part of our guide to herd us safely across the road - the zebra crossing under our feet meaning nothing whatsoever to the relentless drivers zooming along the street even late on a Sunday night.

Welcome

By hydrofoil across the Fragrant Harbour to Macau, a 45-minute trip with views of fishing boats like spiders, volcanic jungly islands ringed with ranks of uniform apartment blocks, and finally Macau itself, disconcerting  with its oddly familiar Skytower-clone silhouette looming over an unfamiliar skyline. And a very splendid bridge soaring across the water, white and modern and graceful.

Even at 6pm it's hot, and humid, and we were thankful for airconditioning on the short drive to our hotel, the Landmark, which is also rather splendid and spacious and has a most opulent marble bathroom to disport myself in. There was much excitement in the group when we checked in and were told that the minibar was free. "Surely she said 'fee'?" we speculated, thrilled at the prospect but anxious too.

There was no cause for concern. Even if our credit cards are charged for the entire contents, it's not going to break the bank:

Ni hao

Back in Hong Kong, just two weeks after passing through here on the way home from the UK - waiting now for the ferry across to Macau (straight from the airport, via train and a series of escalators, all very automated, clean and efficient).

We were wafted here in Cathay Pacific's Business class. I love those pods: unlike Air NZ's Business which scrimps on comfort, these are the real deal, with big TV screens, seats that recline fully flat WITH ALL THEIR PADDING, tables that are easy to eat off, feathery duvets and good-sized pillows. And excellent food and wine and chocolates and hot flannels...

So feeling pretty chilled - which is a laugh, seeing as how it's 34 degrees here.

Over it

It's been not quite the Black Dog of Depression on my shoulder, more the Grey Cat of Jet Lag sleeping on my face, but the effects have felt the same, especially when it's dragged (oh, how it's dragged) on for nine days, sucking the colour out of the day and making the endless night feel stuck at the 3am pits when the past is one long mistake, the future a downward spiral and all hope dead. But last night I finally slept through like a baby (actually not at all like the babies of my acquaintance) and woke at a sensible hour feeling refreshed and interested and light, so normal service can now be resumed.

Stephen Fry has just arrived in the country to film on The Hobbit, and is tweeting tetchily about feeling "weirdly high and spaced-out" after flying in from South Africa, so he has my sympathies (also, it must be rather irritating to be constantly mistaken on the street for James May - what are you thinking, Wellingtonians?) Coincidentally, Hugh Laurie is in Auckland this week filming Mr Pip. The Americans think he's theirs, and cool, thanks to House, but we've known him since A Bit of Fry and Laurie and Blackadder so we're not fooled by the jeans and stubble, and know what a cheerful (and thoroughly English) clown he really is.

The Baby was er, babysitting Motat yesterday while a set was being constructed in the blacksmith's forge for Mr Pip filming to take place there on Friday - it'll be exciting for them to have a bit of glamour in their midst. Motat (Auckland Museum of Transport and Technology) is a worthy place, but old-fashioned in a way that doesn't quite pull off charming, unfortunately. They have good stuff there, but it's not well displayed, and most of the hands-on stuff seems to be broken. It really needs an injection of cash and some pizazz in its management - if it could aim to be like the Yakima Valley Museum in the otherwise fairly undistinguished town of Yakima in Washington state, it would be beating the visitors off with sticks, rather than desperately enticing them in with free entry.

Their stuff was just as eclectic as Motat's - from a skunk pelt to a butter churn operated by a sheep to a piece of hardtack from the Civil War - but the display was bright and open and inviting, with lots of colour (especially the collection of neon signs) and entertaining storyboards. It probably helped that we were welcomed by the director, David, who was bubbling over with enthusiasm. I love enthusiastic people; and I hate that jet lag makes enthusiasm impossible. I'm glad to be over it.

(What a shame, then, that I'm going to Macau on Sunday, starting the whole sorry business all over again.)