Even at the End of the Road-

You can't find Cafe Java. You can find Sea Gypsies, shark teeth, tsunami escape routes and golden buddhas- but the elusive cafe likes to switch cities, and is, as a result, impossible to find- even if you spend two hours searching for it last thing at night in the back streets of Thailand. But hey! I guess that's life.

On the other hand, at least neither I or my hypothetical ox were killed horribly by a curse from the vengeful half buried buddha we visited- maybe it's because of my brand new protection charm. Maybe it's because the buddha decided to take a vacation. Either way as of yet I have not yet fallen into terminal illness after the inexplicable appearance of a piece of gold leaf (normally put on the buddhas as a sign of worship) on my thumb. I'm sure that's some kind of omen- I'm hoping it's a good one, because as the days before I get my gcse results dwindle away painfully slowly, I'm developing a sort of bipolar disorder.

One minute I'm hiding in my bed till midday feeling sick every time I check the date on my possibly waterproof watch. The next, I'm laughing madly whilst flying down zipwires 50 feet above a jungle canopy. Maybe it's just me- but really, these examiners seem to have devised the perfect slow torture for the hordes of normally indifferent teens- it's like payback for all those years of missing half the lesson because of a lie in- or just savouring a chocolate bar- or once talking to my headmaster having dinner with my parents in Hong Kong. What can I say? Time is immaterial to me- it brings neither snow, strawberries, yorkshire puddings, bubbles or puppies when I want them. Why should I obey it's namby pamby laws?

Ok, scratch that- it's impossible not to, but it doesn't mean I have to pay attention to the fact.

Regardless- time is most certainly at a standstill when you're having a fish spa. This quaint custom involves you putting your feet in a tank full of fish for a period of the afore mentioned T word and having your feet nibbled and groomed by several dozen small fish. Yes, I am incredibly ticklish, yes, I went through with the fish spa, yes, I screamed and laughed like an idiot for the first ten mintues- and no, I'm not entirely sure it's a good thing that these fish are being raised on human flesh. But it's an experience I can scratch off my 'bucket list'. (The list of things you want to do before you die, nicked from the excellent film by the same name.)

If only time stretched the same way whilst I'm lying with a cocktail, 'far from the madding crowd', and the azure ocean stretching out before me whilst lying on a sun lounger on a beach in the sun. Really dislike me yet? (apparently hates a strong word- incidentally, what does that make love?)

I suppose it doesn't matter the situation, circumstance, country or gibbon reserve- time and monsoon rain will carry on regardless. You don't have to pretend to pay any attention to it (I doubt I ever will), but sometimes, maybe- it's best to make the most of it. After all, no one ever knows how much 'time' they have left- but nor do they often realise any 'time' they have is infinite- and therefore, to steal a cliche, full of endless possibility.

There are fish in the sea;

God is a saxophonist who goes by the alias of Morgan Freeman; and in the end, everything comes back to Uncle Howard.

It's funny, the things you learn from people. Whether that involves sailing a sixty five metre long ship, or taking a friend wakeboarding, our fellow human beings can be some of our closest friends- and still remain a mystery.

I mean, I get each one of us is an individual- or at least I try to comprehend 6 billion different chances for a new imagination, opinion, spirit and mind. But really- from a fear of fish and cats to the dangers of cursing someone with a wart up the nose, sometimes, though I find it fascinating, I am presented with the most impossibly bewildering pieces of nonsense even I can not begin to comprehend in my own dotty mind.

It could just be me- I'll accept that, I've heard that daydreaming every few seconds and putting the book you just bought back on the shelf in the second hand bookstore you just bought it from is supposed to be a sign you're losing touch. Also, talking to yourself and craving chocolate- though I know that's far less unusual. (In fact, I consider chocolate cravings positively healthy- I mean, a cocoa bean is a vegetable/fruit/berry- whatever the real category is.)

But I try my best to find out about normal people- I watch them on TV, and read about them in books. (We haven't yet wired up the broadband to my hermit cave, but we're working on it. The satellite man will be the first guest in years, and I've cleared out all the pythons for him.)

Seriously- I have a terrible sense of humour, even I don't understand it. I have a friend who may never get above a C in an exam, and still remains one of the most intelligent, diligent people I've ever met- I know the most decent gentleman in the world, who at late thirty something is still happy to be openly promiscuous with every female he comes across. I look at reality, then flip back to the one Jacqueline Wilson book I ever read- and I don't get it- I mean, am I missing something?

In the immortal words of Sue Sylvester- "Is it me?"

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I expect my ever so slightly skewed perception of everything from my brother to floating blue beach balls belonging to white haired chinese men may be somewhat responsible for the apparent oddity of even the most sensible people I come across.

However, I'm fairly sure it's possible it's them too. I cannot imagine sharing every experience, every spoken word, lesson learned, book read and dream or nightmare dreamt with even one other human being. Biology and genetics aside- can you imagine the multicolor mess of experiences that build each human being?

I mean, I'm sure it's easy enough to consider from time to time- to let it flash across your mind, but if you really think about it, really make yourself try and imagine that many scenes- the acting out of a liftetime, and then multiply it by six billion, the result will make the amount of stars in the sky seem numerable.

On the Star ferry, crossing Victoria harbour, or on the parade of sail in Antwerp, or the sailing festival in Aalborg- one thing repeatedly struck me.

My Mum used to say to me that beaches are graveyards- fantastic, beautiful, halfway points, the cemeteries of the sea. I realised, suddenly, that cities are the beaches for human beings and their oddities.

It sounds bizarre, but give me a moment to explain- beaches are what's left of 'la fruit de la mer'- the 'peoples' and wildlife of the oceans, the objects they've constructed, and given their lives to- to have as shelters, birth places, and opportunities for exhibition.

So a collection of buildings, on occasion so cluttered they seem to be overflowing, inhabited by hundreds of thousands of people, who live there and leave their mark and build their heritage upon the foundations of their homes; a collection of buildings that are often as different in shape and size as a daisy and a rose; a collection of buildings made for shelter, exhibition, safety.... Are the two really that different?

How many stories lie in a building? Even a boring old apartment block will have hundreds- and each one will be the result of an individual personality, an individual set of emotions and experiences, some of which will have been played out inside all four walls.

You can look at a city like Hong Kong, or London, or Paris- and you can consider those six billion epic stories- about anyone, from a janitor to a Duke- each dotted and flavored by preference: Uncle Howards; not leaving New Shoe's on table; an inherited love of the ocean- and maybe you'll start to realize, as I'm trying to, with the proof right before your eyes, that the human race- though faulted, predictable, and often primitive- is just as varied, and brilliant as the universe it inhabits.