Bustling, chaotic, anarchic Naples.  Jewel of Italy’s south.  Birthplace of at least three popes and a couple of kings and queens.  Sacked and invaded by the Goths, Byzantines, Normans and other long-forgotten races in times immemorial since its founding during the 8th century BC.  Glorious, romantic, dilapidated Naples.  Its history and virtues recounted and extolled by countless poets, writers, artists, bards and troubadours throughout the ages.  The subject of many a cautionary tale (“watch your bags – the city is full of pickpockets!”, “oh, and watch out for the mafiosi too!”) and of Northern Italy’s scorn (“it’s dirty – get out of it as soon as you can!”).

We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac of Naples airport, the Italian morning sunshine making us blink as it slowly thawed our English-spring frozen bones.  The April air was heavy with the scent of spring – common enough in Europe at this time of year – but deliciously overladen with the ripe, sultry lusciousness only found in a city of the south.

But despite the weight of history, of legend, of Hollywood myth, where would Naples (or Italy) be without its food, coffee, shopping, mad taxi drivers and peacocking males?  Or, in other words, where would Italy be without those things driving three girls to the Continent for  a weekend of fun?

Taxi Driver #1

It didn’t take long for us to make the acquaintance of a genuinely mad Neapolitan taxi driver.  I’m not sure what made us choose the dishevelled, slightly cross-eyed, hairy, smoking, muttering man to get us from the airport to the pension.  It certainly wasn’t the wild-eyed look he gave us as I asked him how much the ride would cost, or the fact that he had to call his company to find out where the street was.  But less than fifteen minutes later, we were bundled into his little Fiat, zipping through the streets of Naples, dodging old folks and other equally mad drivers.

Sitting in the front I found it best not to concentrate too closely on the road ahead.  Or my sense of overall contentment and future wellbeing would have evaporated in a heartbeat.  Instead, I focused on excavating the rudimentary Italian that I had picked up (gleaned from previous visits and years of dining at Italian restuarants) because our mad taxi driver was talking to me.

“Japan?” #1 asked in heavily-accented Italian, fixing his wild blue-eyed gaze on me for what I thought was an inappropriately long time.

“No,” I responded calmly while thinking not so calmly: ‘look at the road!’

“Cina?”

“No.  Australia.”

“But you…”  And #1 looked at me again, taking both hands off the wheel to make ‘Chinese eyes’, “Cinese?” he asked inquiringly.

I wasn’t sure whether I was more horrified at the fact that he was happy to take both hands off the wheel, or at ease with making  a gesture that when I was a newly arrived child to Australia, some less friendly children liked to taunt me with, and which, Chinese all over the world generally find offensive.  But there was no malice in his gesture.  He seemed genuinely trying to communicate as best he could.

“Si, Cinese,” I said, nodding.  A four day trip to Naples where I did not speak Italian was not the place to be educating a random bloke as to the finer points of the race issue.

Taxi Driver #2

#2 was a fair-haired chap who picked us up that evening after dinner to take us back to our pension.  But before he did so, grinning, he turned his little car into as close an approximation of a nightclub as possible, turning the station to one playing impossibly painful Euro techno and upping the volume to maximum.  Then he stopped to chat to another young taxi driver mate, made gestures at us to indicate ‘hey? hey?!  look what I’ve found here!’, had a a bit of a race to the next traffic lights with this mate and then ‘dufed dufed’ danced/drove us home.  As we got out, he looked at us expectantly and had we wanted a night out, he would have been the man.  But we were three very tired girls who had been up since 5am that morning.  And so it was arrivederci #2.

Taxi Driver #3

#3 was a young chap who picked us up the next night (Friday and Saturday seem to be the nights are when all the young, good-looking Italian boys play at taxi driver).  Dark-haired with a ready smile, he also seemed quite the Casanova.  “Sexy, sexy,” he kept insisting.  We assumed he was complimenting us.  But as his female TomTom issued directions with a growl and a purr which would have made any male within earshot salivate, we realised otherwise.  This boy was far too attached to a machine than was healthy.  And so it was arrivederci #3.

Taxi Driver #4, #5 etc.

#4 was an old man who constantly muttered to himself, even as he cursed the traffic and any man, child or vehicle in our vicinity.  #5 offered to personally drive us down the coast to Sorrento for 200 Euro (“cheap!” he said, probably fully aware that it was approximately 10 euro per person for a return fare on the train)… and so on.

But like all good fairytales, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you get to the prince.  And so it was that for our final taxi jaunt to the airport, Naples dished up the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.

The Last Taxi Driver

Having caught the slowest train this side of China from Sorrento back to Naples on account of bad weather and ferry cancellation, we were running late for our London flight.  It was no-nonsense time.  We dashed to the head of Napoli Centrale’s taxi rank where three dark good-looking chaps were once again, grinning at each other and at us, in the usual ‘hey hey!  signorinas!’ which by now we took as par for course.  Away from his mates, this chap proved to be the most articulate, least caveman-like and gosh-darn-it just plain nice taxi driver we had the pleasure of riding with.  He apologised for his bad English and the proceeded to talk quickly and easily about his beloved city’s history and monuments and of the interaction between national and regional politics, answering our questions as he went along.  All, while not driving like a maniac.  It was a refreshing breath of fresh air and it was with a certain amount of sadness that at the airport we bid arrivederci to the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.

Ego

It is my opinion that any girl who does not have the good fortune to reside in Italy who ever doubts her appeal to members of the opposite sex should immediately book a flight to Naples.  My travelling companions were serenaded in Arabic, just for being their delightful selves and there was no shortage of appreciative looks and admiring comments from all other quarters.

As for unattached chaps, there is a fine line between entertainingly flirty and downright sleazy.  In initial dealings with the opposite sex, keep it light, keep it playful, keep it complimentary.  Perhaps a flight out to Naples should also be a priority for all you boys, if only to learn the formidable chat up secrets of the Italian male.

Coffee

Coffee brewed and drunk in Italy is pure nectar from the gods.  But during our first evening, we stumbled across an ambrosia native to Napoli – the café rocher.  Slugs of milk chocolate, white chocolate (or cream), a sprinking of crushed hazelnuts and a shot of espresso.  The first sip left Khadeeja and I speechless in awe.  Only Sadaf, who had made the mistake of ordering some other flavoured coffee, made a face saying: ‘this isn’t so great!’  But she wasn’t singing that tune after her first sip of café rocher on our next visit to the espresso bar.

On A Mission

We were in Naples for three nights and by gum we intended to see all the sights: Capri, Sorrento, Pompei, Vesuvius, Ercolano (trans. Herculaneum) and squeeze in the requisite amount of shopping, coffee-quaffing, pasta-consuming and gelati-slurping.  And this, I’m proud to say, we accomplished with flying colours.  Even the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers looked at us with an amount of admiration and shock when we told him all that places we’d visited.  “But you need a week to see all of that?” he asked.

Our itinerary was not for the faint-hearted.

Day 1:  Arrive in Naples late morning.  Spend day in Naples shopping and quaffing espressos and margherita pizzas.

Day 2: Up by 7.30am.  Off to Capri by ferry.  After bobbing outside the Azzura Grotta for around seventy minutes, during which four of our fellow boat passengers had to be taken to land on account of seasickness, we were in and out of the Grotto in less than fifteen minutes.  I wasted about four of those minutes wondering why I couldn’t see any of the fabled blue water, and then fumbling to remove my sunglasses once our gondolier had told me to do so.  The water indeed glowed an iridescent blue, and one was reminded of the weight of history in this part of the world as the gondolier pointed out an old carved stone lion on the wall, its features almost indistinguishable from centuries of sea erosion.  And hearing ‘Volare’ sung by your own swarthy gorgeous Italian gondolier is itself quite a treat.

Capri itself is stunning; full of five star boutique hotels, stunning clifftop and Mediterranean panoramas, more Italian designer stores than you can poke a stick at, and the heavenly scent of basil, majoram, oregano, parsley, thyme, lemon trees, myrtle, bougainvillea, wisteria, clover, wild garlic.  The isle is where the wealthy have come to play for centuries.  I’ll be back, one day, in grander style.  Meanwhile, we satisfied ourselves with climbing the long and winding stairs in search of a ‘hidden gem’ of a restaurant.  Or so Khadeeja insisted.  I wasn’t so certain that such a ‘hidden gem’ existed and wanted to turn back to the port.  But Khadeeja prevailed and unexpectedly, about forty five minutes later, we were seated at a table just short of a stunning sea view and I was tucking into my beloved insalata di polipi and Khadeeja and Sadaf were scoffing a fine vegetarian pasta.

Day 3: Up at 7.30am.  Fortified by an espresso and an Italian croissant, we caught the train to Vesuvius.  We trudged up the slumbering volcano, bested by an old man impeccably groomed in a spotless, cream-coloured coat and shiny black brogues and many Italian women, much older than us, tottering up the slope in stillettos.  Respect.  Then it was onto Ercolano and countless ridiculous jokes and silly photos of being caught in a volcanic eruption.  Next up was the tourist hordes at Pompei, which prompted vague memories of Year 7 Latin class.  Then, exhausted and hypoglacaemic, we made our way home, sustained by arancini and pizza slices.

Day 4 (the last day): Up at 7.30am again to catch the earliest ferry to Sorrento.  The earliest ferry turned out to be a good forty five minutes’ wait – a perfect interval for yet another café rocher.  Sorrento proved to be touristy and what any foreigner would wish for an Italian seaside town.  But I preferred Capri.  And gorgeous, chaotic, mad Naples.

When you walk down in a dream
but you know you’re not
Dreaming signore
Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli
That’s amore.

Old Deano sure got it right.

*(trans: Taxi!  Stop being a strange egg and concentrate on the road!)

This turtle’s travels will soon be coming to a halt, give or take a couple more posts.

For current musings and activity, head over to Salon du Thé.

Seven years of living in Europe and I’d not once made it to Germany.  And I had concluded that for all intents and purposes, I probably never would, unless an occasion demanded it.

“But you can’t leave Europe without seeing Berlin,” a friend exclaimed, aghast.  “Berlin is awesome.”

I was unconvinced.  Germanic food had never really appealed.  During visits to Vienna and Salzburg, I had initially attacked the gulasch, sachertorte, sauerkraut and apfelstrudel with gusto.  But prolonged consumption of dumplings, stew and offal had left me nauseous, plump and err… longing for a Marks & Spencer salad.  And a country known for punctual trains, dour burly, efficient folk (permit me the stereotypes, please!) and the shrill synthesized electronic beats and heart pounding bass of techno was quite the antithesis of my ideal café (con leche/au lait/latte)-quaffing people-watching foodie-fuelled break in one of the laidback, emotionally volatile Continental nations.

Still, there was that undeniable slice of history that Berlin inhabited.  I’d been fortunate enough to visit Moscow, St Petersburg, Vienna, Paris, Versailles, Rome, Budapest, Prague, Amsterdam and London, of course.  It was time to venture to the Bundesrepublik Deutschland.

Architecture

It has been 20 years since the fall of the Berlin Wall.  And to my newbie tourist eyes, the formerly divided city is seamless.  Public transport effortlessly and efficiently transports you to anywhere throughout the capital – although I was told that apparently the trams tend to service the city’s east and the U-Bahn the city’s west.

It has, like all great capitals, amazing architecture, the old and the newer results of the post reunification construction spree.  A German friend said that twenty years ago, the large, corporate style Potsdamer Platz (PricewaterhouseCoopers and the Sony building are nearby) did not exist.  The Reichstag, awe-inspring on the approach from the Holocaust Monument, has been given the ubiquitous Norman Foster touch; a glass dome with a stairway spiralling upwards from which the Bundestag discussions can be viewed (London’s City Hall, anyone?).  Daniel Libeskind’s extension to the Jewish Museum – thought-provoking, sad and at times disconcerting – provides another striking architectural statement.  And the Brandenburg Gate will always impress.

Then there are the majestic, nineteenth century tenement houses of the quiet, leafy Prenzlauer Berg district (formerly East Berlin), home to the artists and intellectuals from Berlin, and other countries fleeing the high rents of London, Paris and New York, not to mention the (seemingly) masses of children which have earned the district the nickname of ‘Babyberg’, and an abundance of lo-fi hipper than thou clothing and homeware boutiques, second-hand stores, baby and children’s clothing stores, cafés, restaurants and bars.

The only evidence to me of the city being once wholly and totally divided was Checkpoint Charlie; Russian and American soldiers symbolically holding the flags of their nations (both probably German in reality); boards lining the pavements and telling the history of the Wall and moving accounts of the people who have died trying to cross the Wall from East Germany to freedom.  Still, teeming as it was with snap-happy tourists and their cameras (I happily joined in), and surrounded by stalls selling ‘Cold War memorabilia’ (read: tourist tat) and Starbucks-style cafés (including an Einsteinkaffe!  At Potsdamer Platz, I spotted a Balzac Café), it was hard to imagine that a wall, ranging in width from 5m to 100m and an even larger idealogical gulf ever existed.

Prejudice

While idly sipping my organic Tiger Spice chai latte one semi sunny afternoon in Prezlauer Berg, I noted a casually-dressed good-looking chap in his late 20s/early 30s emerge onto the pavement, hand in hand with two well-dressed little girls, about knee-high.  Following him were another pair of well-dressed little girls, also holding hands.  Wow, these Germans have a fabulous social security system, I mused.  Or he’s the scion of an old, well-connected, well-to-do German family.  Or he has some ridiculously enviable new media job which involves minimal work and large amounts of money.  Or he’s a drug dealer.  Or…

These thoughts ceased as another pair of well-dressed little girls appeared, hand in hand.  Then another.  And another.  And finally, another casually-dressed good-looking chap appeared, hand-in-hand with and bringing up the rear of the outing with the last pair of girls.  Oh, they’re both teachers! I realised, relieved.  And then oddly felt guilty for thinking otherwise.  Male teachers, all but hounded out of the job by societal prejudice and paranoia, are a rarer than rarer breed, in England.

Potsdam

A slight hiccup with the S-Bahn – I took an express train – which landed me in Brandenburg instead of Potsdam.  Finally on the train bound for Sanssouci Park, I was confronted by a stout female ticket inspector who demanded the fare.  I proffered my Berlin-Sanssouci ticket and tried to explain that I had taken the wrong train, had hopped off at Brandenburg station and had simply waited in the station for the right train and therefore should not be liable for the fare.  But she was having none of it.  Her lack of English defeated me and I thought paying (admittedly only 5,10 euro) easier than dealing with this bulldog of a woman.

Frederick the Great built Schloss Sanssouci as his summer palace and scattered the surrounding park and gardens with other pavilions and palaces, notably the Chinesisches Haus (trans: Chinese House), a combination of French Roccocco and Chinoiserie styles.  It is also decorated with golden statues of supposedly Chinese men and women, playing oriental instruments.  The German sculptors of these statues clearly modelled them on folk which were close at hand, as the statues’ features – prominent foreheads and noses – are clearly not Chinese by any means!

The extensive grounds – which includes a vineyard cultivated by Frederick – were ideal for soaking in the long-missed European sun, watching a family of cygnets, overseen by Mum (or Dad), swimming by, eating my first (and only) wiener and stumbling across Chuck Norris grafitti.

* * *

Two point five days is hardly long enough to get to know or enjoy Berlin, in particular its plethora of underground, unmarked bars.  I’ll be back.

*Which is how John F Kennedy meant to address the people of West Berlin on 26 June 1963, of course.

Here in the UK, there has only been the faintest ripple of interest in Kindle, the wireless reading device which, endorsed by Oprah Winfrey, is making a big splash across the Pond.  Effectively an iPod for books, Kindle allows you to download books via Amazon and access them much like the iPod access music via iTunes.  Kindle, with its smooth white rectangular shape, even channels the spirit of Apple’s creation.  The Kindle application can also be added to your iPhone so that your iPhone effectively becomes an e-reader.

No doubt, an e-reader is environmentally friendly and portable (hey, you could conceivably carry your entire library around with you, and toss in your favourite magazines and newspapers for good measure).  But, as someone who wears glasses, and  stares at a computer screen for most of my working hours (and a goodly portion of my non-working hours), I dread the thought of staring at yet another screen.  It’s a relief to pick up a magazine, a newspaper, a solid book, and read, the pages turning with a satisfying rustle.

For the techno-savvy traveller and perhaps the generation who doesn’t remember the time when the world wide web was but a twinkle in Tim Berners-Lee’s eye, Kindle and its ilk will undoubtedly be a godsend.  And I admit I am curious as to whether I could get lost in the text of an e-reader the way I can lose myself in a book.

I suspect an e-reader will take longer to grasp the imagination of the British.  After all, this is a country where there is an entire town devoted to books!  And given the recession, books remain a relatively cheap form of entertainment, at least for the middle classes.  But the publishing industry in the United Kingdom, and globally, is experiencing momentous change.  Charing Cross Road in London, that famous street lined with bookshops filled to the brim with books old and new, has seen several recent closures.  Traditional publishing mediums are having to compete with the Net, DVDs, YouTube and a whole host of new-tech leisure activities.  An e-reader might just pave the way for a fightback.

As for me, books remain objets d’art.  I can’t see an e-reader ever mimicking the lovely feel or smell of the printed page, nor the lovingly designed visuals of book covers, or ever replacing the cosy, satisfying feeling of entering a room lined with books.

But I’m sure similar arguments were made in support of vinyl.

Still, here are a few lovely covers from my library.

The opening sequence of Mad Men floats across the screen like a slick, successful Everyman executive’s nightmare: the silhouetted man reaches his expansive office, which slowly crumbles as he freefalls, past giant advertising billboards towards what end, we are unsure.  His doom?  Utopia?  Only the final episode will tell.

By referencing indelible images of the past (9/11, Hitchcock’s Vertigo) and soundtracked by David Carbonara’s haunting instrumental theme, the scene is set.  Madison Avenue.  New York.  The 1960s.  Nixon is in power and a young Senator by the name of John F. Kennedy is making his mark.  A time when men are men – and on Madison Avenue, they are the masters of the universe – and rarely seen without a cigarette or a drink in hand.  A time when women are housewives, mothers, daughters, secretaries, mistresses and shopgirls and occasionally, artists or divorcées – but never equals.  When children are seen but rarely heard.  When hippy beatniks and their ‘art’ are irrelevant and peripheral.  The Beatles have yet to hit America, the Summer of Love is almost a decade away and Vietnam was simply an exotic destination in East Asia.

It’s a handsome-looking series.  The era in all its art deco, brill-creamed, starched glory is lovingly reproduced.  No detail is spared on the interiors of Sterling Cooper, the advertising agency where this particular bunch of ‘Mad Men’ work, the bars and restaurants where they play and the surburban homes where they return to at the end of a hard day.  The wardrobes of the characters – the beautifully tailored suits of the men of Sterling Cooper, the figure hugging outfits of curvaceous alpha female office manager Joan Holloway (Christina Hendrick), the prim getups of surburban housewife Betty Draper (January Jones), wife of the main protagonist, Don Draper (Jon Hamm), and even the conical bra of the earnest secretary-cum-copywriter, Peggy Olson (Elizabeth Moss) – accurately and gloriously reflect the trends of the time.  No surprise that the series has won several Golden Globes and Emmy awards for its design and costuming.

But it is Mad Men’s depiction of the era’s mores which compel.  The successful white male protoganists freely make racist, sexist or homophobic slurs in the workplace and no one blinks an eye.  A working divorcée is the subject of housewives’ bitchy contempt.  A Jewish businesswoman is an exoticism – and despite the business she brings, one which most of the WASPish males at Sterling Cooper are unable or unwilling to connect with.  Between cigarette intakes, a mother wearily tells a child with a dry cleaning bag over her head, ‘if the clothes from that dry cleaning bag are on the floor of my closet, you’re going to be a very sorry young lady.’  And the dynamics between men and women, as colleagues, as husband and wife, as illicit lovers are, frankly, astonishing.  In these times of political correctness and blurred gender roles, these attitudes – prevalent only a few decades ago – seem to hail from another planet.

Revolutionary Road, the 1961 novel by Richard Yates widely regarded as an American literary masterpiece (and now the 2008 film directed by Sam Mendes) can be seen as the natural predecessor to Mad Men.  Matthew Weiner, the series’ creator (who also created The Sopranos), stated that had he been aware of Revolutionary Road, he would never have had the courage to write Mad Men.

Thank goodness for the relative obscurity of Richard Yates and his novel then, or we would never have gotten to know the world of Don Draper and his band of merry Mad Men (and Women).

In news to cheer the hearts of all broken-hearted, lonely folk  beseiged by the media and marketing pre-Valentine’s Day blitz last week, one UK train station has imposed a kissing ban.

Yes, Warrington Bank Quay station in Cheshire (near Manchester), has instigated ‘no kissing’ zones in its car park and taxi ranks, primarily to ease congestion.  Or so said the curmudgeonly spokesman for the station, which is run by Virgin Trains.  Incidentally, the ‘no kissing’ zone at Warrington Force came into force on Friday, 13 February 2009 – the day before Valentine’s Day.  The resulting media interest, I’m sure, was a consequence not unwelcome by one R. Branson.

Bah humbug, Sir Richard.  Surely love, and not Virgin Trains – however much you would want otherwise - makes the world go round?

I was late.  For a very important date.  Much like the White Rabbit would have done, I bounded down the Bethnal Green tube escalators, dodged a few slow-moving meanderers and boarded the westbound tube which had conveniently just pulled into the station.  I glanced at my Pod: 13.26.  A 13.45 arrival at a Baker Street restaurant was probably pushing it but I wouldn’t disgrace myself too badly.

Until the tube juddered to a stop about 5 mins later.

Signal failures, the driver informed us apologetically, at Stratford.  Which had affected the Central Line up to Liverpool Street and Bank.  Which was fine, although I noted absent-mindedly, Pod music suddenly deafening in the silence of a stilled train, that I would probably be quite a bit later than I anticipated.  Yep, yet another cross against London transport and the city in general.

But, as the minutes ticked slowly by, it became evident that all was not fine.  The crowded train suddenly seemed warm; folk around me shed their winter coats and hats; some, lucky enough to be seated, were slumped, seemingly unconscious; those standing shifted their weight impatiently.

Twenty minutes later, the driver’s bodiless voice echoed through the carriage: “Signal failures at Stratford are holding up the trains up through Liverpool Street and Bank.  The technical officers are trying to find out what is wrong.  And as soon as they do, we’ll move the trains through.  We apologise for the holdup to your day.”

Groans, sighs and a few muttered curses greeted his words.  I furiously flicked through my Pod’s music choice.  Oh why hadn’t I caught the bus?  In a misguided attempt to save time, I’d put myself in the hands of the Tube – a reliable option when it works, but when it goes wrong, it all goes so very very wrong.  At least, if one were in a bus, in the case of a traffic jam, a route diversion, or heaven forbid, a break down, one could  always jump off and rely on that most reliable of tranport modes, one’s feet.  Or if one was on a overground train, well, one could see the sky and open a window or two.

Instead, I was stuck in a small, enclosed, crowded, increasingly airless space, goodness knows how many feet underground, with no way of extricating myself from this situation.  While friends were probably, at that very moment, happily chatting, laughing and tucking into a Chinese New Year yum cha which I had organised.  No, instead, I was at the complete mercy of Transport for London and its whimsical infrastructure.  And there wasn’t even a well-dressed nice-looking man in the vicinity with which I could relieve the monotony of waiting with a spot of light conversation.  Sex and the City, this certainly wasn’t.

Time inched painfully along.  Friends and couples engaged in low murmured conversations.  No one else spoke.  Not even the potential, awkward, uncomfortable, boredom-inducing disaster of spending the rest of Sunday, possibly the rest of our lives, in a cramped Underground carriage was enough to snap Londoners’ out of habitual reticence on public transport.

As for me, I was in no mood to talk to anyone:  I was missing yum cha!  I was missing London’s grey sorry excuse for sunshine! I was standing!  I was running out of things to fix my gaze on!  Oh why hadn’t I brought a book?!  And then, my thoughts became more sombre as I contemplated the events of 7/7 and the Kings’ Cross fire.  Oh yes, it was all going a little Elaine Benes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the train in front of us has gone.”  The driver’s voice startled me out of my reverie.  “We’re waiting for the technical officers to give us the okay to pull into Liverpool Street Station.  I suggest you change lines or use a bus to continue your journey on Transport for London.”

No shit, Sherlock, I muttered crossly and childishly, willing with all my might for the train to go that little bit forward, to get to  Liverpool Street, which must certainly be within our grasp, so to speak.  As the crow flies, it is only approximately 1.5km  from Bethnal Green.

But the train didn’t move.  A large Carribean woman near me fanned herself furiously with a letter she was carrying to post.  She looked quite faint.  A girl wearing a hijab got up to offer her a seat, which she took gratefully.  I wished I looked like I needed to sit down.  Instead, I was angry, powerless – without a mobile signal, I couldn’t call TfL and let them have a piece of my mind – and bored.  The couple standing behind me slid to the ground to rest their tired legs.  The man in front of me tapped his foot loudly and impatiently.

Unexpectedly, the train shuddered and began to move.  Inwardly, I cheered.  Until it slid to a stop, still short of a train platform, upon which my silent cheers turned to an almighty Elaine-style cuss: “Motherf%^*ers!”

Eventually, after what seemed an eon, we did pull into Liverpool Street station.  I leapt off the tube, onto the sweet platform of freedom, and was swept up in a crowd of my fellow escapees, just as peachy keen to breathe the fresh, fresh (ironic) air of London.  I glanced at my Pod: 14:14.

And shortly thereafter, I arrived at the restaurant table, out of breath and slightly traumatised, and was presented with ang pow, in sympathy of my fifty minute ordeal, just as the first dumplings were being served.  The sudden thumping of drums, eerily similar to the opening bars of New Order’s Blue Monday, and the syncopated clanging of cymbals heralded the arrival of two Chinese Lions which then set off the wailing of several child diners, terrified at the noise and the jerky antics of the glorious beasts.

I hadn’t missed a thing.

A happy New Year of the Ox to one and all.

So this is the New Year/And I don’t feel any different/The clanking of crystal/Explosions off in the distance

So everybody put your best suit or dress on/Let’s make believe that we are wealthy for just this once/Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn/As thirty dialogues bleed into one

I wish the world was flat like the old days/Then I could travel just by folding a map/No more airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways/There’d be no distance that could hold us back

- death cab for cutie

The lyrics of emo/indie fencesitters and Seth Cohen pin-ups Death Cab for Cutie seem apt as 2008 and its events (natural, political, financial - it all seemed particularly calamitous) segues quietly into 2009.

London is awash with upbeat tourists taking full advantage of the dire state of the pound.  But overall, the mood is sombre as the celebrations and hangovers of Christmas (who could not love the story of French customs officials foiling the dastardly plot to flood the European party circuit with 10 tons of fake Ferrero Rocher chocolates) and the New Year recede and reality pokes its unwelcome head into proceedings once more.

Unlike the melancholy earnest navel gazers of Death Cab, I have made resolutions – most notably, to spend more time in the places in London which I adore:

1. Foyles and its Cafe, Charing Cross Road.

2. The Curzon, Soho.  Three levels dedicated to film where movie anoraks, wannabe intellectuals, Soho nu-media types, daytrippers, bar poseurs and good, simple folk who adore their film with a dash of pastry panache (the stars were all aligned when the good folk of Konditor & Cook decided to open shop at the Curzon) can gather to watch, dissect, analyse, drink, munch and generally make merry.

3. Southbank and its stores retailing all manner of kitsch delights from the 1950s, galleries, art spaces, concert halls, and wonderful arts programme

4. The Victoria & Albert Museum and its store, a veritable cornucopia for lovers and magpies of textiles, fashion and shiny baubles and its even more stunning Modern/Victorian (what else?) fushion style tea rooms.

5. The Tate Britain and its round bright art deco style cafe.  Sufficiently distant from a tube to to deter the tourist hordes which have to satisfy themselves with the Tate Modern.

“There’s a Patti Smith documentary out,” a colleague told me.  “I think you’d like it.”

“Oh?”  I pricked my ears up in interest.  I vaguely remembered two friends talking about the movie but had dismissed it, because I wasn’t familiar with Smith’s work.  Although I probably had been more concerned with the food I was about to tuck into at the time.  “Is she still around?”

My colleague laughed.  “Yes.  It’s full of poetry.  You should see it.”

And so, this misty, chilly December night, I set out for the West End.  In search of Poetry and its comrades, Truth, Beauty and Love.

Patti Smith had never figured in my meme.  Probably because her output seemed far too heavy and intense for someone who had, many moons ago, completed a ‘who’s your inner rockstar?’ quiz and, embarrassingly for a self-styled ‘hep’ music afficionado, been outed as Faith Hill.  Sure enough, sequences showing her onstage performances showcased what she is best known for: pure, unadulterated rawk in all its raw, transcendent, sweaty, raging glory.  A female Iggy Pop, if you will.  And at times, Smith eerily resembles her male contemporary.

One moving montage showcases an incandescent Smith, vitriol and spittle flying from her enraged lips, as she lists the crimes of George Bush Jr.  Interspersed with images of soldiers’ graves, symbols of American power,  and the names of those who have died for their country, Smith snarls her final, electric pronouncement: ‘we indict George W Bush’, accompanied by the emphatic howl of an electric guitar.

Which immediately cuts away to a quotidian scene of one of her band members ironing a shirt in their dressing room, presumably before a show.  Because Smith seems to appreciate the glory of the grand gesture and equally, the beauty in the mundane.  Belying her intense onstage personna, she seems like a woman ready for a laugh and a story (or five!) to tell.  She has, of course, also been a daughter, wife and mother.  And this film touches on the wonder and sadness of those roles for her.

Patti Smith fans will be ecstatic at this stylish, heartfelt, insightful documentary which was 10 years in the filming.  My only disappointment was the revelation that Smith wears Prada and Comme des Garçons (so rock icon chic can’t be had for the credit-crunched masses).  But a must-see for anyone who has ever had a passing interest in music, in art, in poetry and this amazing woman, this pure force of nature.