Travel

The desert palate is grey and yellow now. The grey of sagebrush, and the vibrant yellow of daisy-like brittlebush that bursts in great round humps among the rocks.  In fact, it's gloriously golden absolutely everywhere in Palm Springs.  These plants flower only once or twice a decade, so I feel enormously grateful to have been there at the right time, not that my Hipstamatic does them justice.

Sunday was the last day of the Coachella Valley music festival and the girls had very reasonably agreed to a 5pm pick-up, forgoing the chance to see Thom Yorke or Phoenix. It's a school night, after all. With a happy two hours to spare, annotated map in hand, I embarked on an architectural tour of Palm Springs. Some of the best examples of mid-century modern can be found within spitting distance of Palm Canyon Drive. I tried but failed to visit the Elrod House (1968, John Lautner) on Southridge Drive, saw the Ship of the Desert (1936, Earl Webster & Adrian Wilson, and the stunning Kaufmann House (1947, Richard Neutra).

To understand the food in Richmond you must have a quick lesson on demographics and history. Don’t worry, it’s quick. Richmond began to see many immigrants from Hong Kong and throughout Asia after World War II, with a great number flowing in during the 1990s. Currently, Richmond is 65% Asian, 49% of those are Chinese. You’ll find other Asian cultures as well, particularly Southeast Asian as well as a mix of other cultures from all over the world. But this predominately Chinese makeup means restaurants, stores, shops and markets all cater to an Asian population, and visiting and eating is pure heaven for a guy like me.

What you won’t find in Richmond is a central Asian neighborhood, a place that announces itself with a banner or red arches as a gateway to a Chinatown. Here Chinese culture here is woven into every aspect of living, reflected not only in its citizens but also through signage and everyday life. I have never felt more like a visitor in Asia than I did in Richmond, and considering I was still standing in North America my mind was blown away.

Then there’s the food. Oh my goodness, the food. The New York Times said Richmond has “the best Chinese food outside China” and I’m not going to disagree. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my trips to Asia it’s this: food must be of a certain quality, taste good, be made and served properly…there are definitely standards. Richmond was no different. Each restaurant I visited seemed to outdo the last as I sampled Hong Kong-style comfort foods, Malaysian noodles, a Shanghainese dim sum as well as glorious food courts within 2 distinct Asian malls.

Tears always run down my cheeks as we cross that first bridge on the way to the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I promise myself repeatedly that I won’t cry, but I always do. I can feel my emotions start to well up when I am denied Paris air when the Air France autobus door shuts out the sweet scent of my favorite city. I get anxious knowing the door won’t open again for a whole year as I start my ungraceful shuffle homeward bound. I’m not sad to be going home, I’m sad to be leaving Paris.

For 12 months I dream of all the smells of my early morning walks on the quiet streets of my favorite Arrondisement. The aroma of onions and shallots cooking in cafes as their day starts, the sleepy venders setting up their display at the daily market smile at me. The familiar butcher from a few doors down has arrived for his morning glass of red wine with his apron stained with fresh blood. No need for him to talk; an empty glass slides across the copper bar and the bartender fills it to the rim. The same faces of my wordless companions sit at the same surrounding tables as we all sip our morning beverages silently. We never talk but yet I miss them. I even check my watch when the garbage truck is running late. The sound of the truck and the assault of diesel fumes that fills my favorite café on the corner, I miss that too.

We were going to take a cab to Damascus for dinner, but we couldn’t get our visas, so we headed south.  I was in Jordan, the Middle Eastern Sundance Lab had ended.  The aspiring filmmakers and their mentors were dispersing back home to Cairo, Beruit, Ramallah and Casablanca.

With time on our hands – the writer’s strike had been called 24 hours before – a fellow mentor and I headed south with our guide, Mohammad Gabaah, to the desert of the Wadi Rum (The Valley of the Mountains, in southern Jordan.)  You’ve all seen it –  yes, you have – even though you don’t realize  it.   It’s the last leg of the journey T.E. Lawrence took, when he crossed on camel to get to Aqaba, 45 miles west.  (The guns are no longer facing the wrong direction.)   And where David Lean spent nine months shooting his hagiographic biopic.