Join my journey to the corners of this world
A guy dressed like Napoleon Bonaparte rides a horse down Main Street. His horse is led by what looks like a Turkish servant wearing a tall orange fez. On the sidewalk, a young couple dressed in 16th-century attire trade French kisses in front of Porky’s Sex Shop. It’s the First of May Sant’Efisio celebration, and in Cagliari, they take their processions seriously. And as for us? We’re just happy to have made it so far alive.
It’s four degrees, and the heat coming from my Ducati Diavel V4 engine can barely change the fact that I’m freezing. We are 200km from Hamamatsu, the birthplace of Yamaha and Suzuki, and I can hardly wait for the ordeal to end. On my right, the colossal Mount Fuji peaks in between the clouds. Fully covered in snow, it is a mighty sight to be seen (and quite rare, too, as the local folks tell me later). Still, all I can think about are the never-ending bends of route SP95 towards Alavari. That, and a warm cup of green tea!
The road winds ahead as if taken directly out of the pages of some old Moto magazine. Hung on the edge of a verdant cliff, it snakes its way forward, barely clutching the rock beneath. A deep turquoise Mediterranean on my left is a constant disruption, threatening to throw the distracted rider into its cold abyss. This is the kind of road we came here for. Give me the helpline of the Oxford Dictionary – I have found the definition of “perfect!”
The waiter comes rushing in with a plate of Fregola Sarda ai Frutti di Mare, a local favorite. The dish includes a whole crab split into two, nestled in a sea of clams, mussels, and calamari. It resembles something the crew of the space tag Nostromo might have had, had they succeeded in killing the Alian. It’s a simple, almost rugged dish, yet it’s nothing short of fabulous. Some would say it makes the perfect analogy to the island itself. I think they’re on to something.
I hear a loud “Bang” and “screeeech״ as my Arai helmet and the left side bag butt against the red-plastered wall. The motorcycle jolts violently to the right, and me with it. I’m thrown, shoulder first, against the stone pebbles, my right hand still gripping the throttle. Big mistake. The back wheel, now free of ground friction, spins fast against my left foot.
I hear my friend yelling over the Packtalk Mesh intercom, “Oh, S***!”
“Why the hell would you hide two Michelin awards?” I asked Tsubasa Tamaki, Pizza Tamaki Studio’s owner and Chef. I know that the Japanese take things differently than other humans, but still, having devoured a few exquisite pies, I couldn’t make any sense of it. “We Japanese don’t like to boast,” he says with a shrug, “Please note that I also placed two chubby Michelin dolls on the window overlooking the dark back alley.”
All I could think of was, “I’m in Tokyo. What answer did I expect?”
Continue reading “The Michelin Award is behind the espresso machine”
It’s the sixth shot in a row at the second Whiskey establishment we visited that day. My memory starts to betray me. Was the first 15-year-old Scotch better than the third 12-year-old Chery-barrel shot we had at the first distillery… or was it the other way around? And how do you spell “Kask”? (or was it “Cask”?) And where is the nirest batrum? end Y’s me f&#$Ing heD sO sp iNi n G?
I should have suspected something was up when I couldn’t book a room, any room in Tokyo. Some capsule hotels and youth hostel bunks were still bookable, but honestly, I would rather brave it out in a sleeping bag at Shimbashi train station. Now I’m in Ueno Park, just north of Akihabara, watching endless groves of Cheery trees in their peek blossom. To give this a bit of perspective, Japanese Cherry blossom is a fickle thing that lasts no more than a week or two. Many around the world put seeing Cherry Blossom in Japan high on their bucket list. I’m here by complete chance and can’t help but feel a bit “unworthy”. Now, if only I could find an umbrella.
I woke up at around 2am to the sound of a loud bang coming from out of the window. I’m not easily awaken – a capacity my wife had long detested – so it must have been going on for some time. I get up and open the window to a raging hurricane and a broken, thick wooden shade. I wrestle with it for a few long minutes. Finally, I manage to anchor it wide open against the outside wall of the castle. When we got to our hilltop hotel outside Baden Baden earlier that evening, everything was calm and pleasant. Naturally, we paid no heed to the “Hurricane-force” wind alert from our weather app. I fall asleep thinking, “did we park our Boxster, M2, and Alpine near a tree?
Continue reading “Best Black Blast!”
I once thought Las Vegas’ moto was the Dollar sign. I was wrong. When it comes to obscene opulence, nothing compares to Miami. In this Floridian town, spending cash IS a spectator sport. 25 years ago, a one-hit-wonder named Meja sang “It’s all ’bout the money.” In Miami, the description still holds true. Sustainability? Go to hell!
Now, let’s party!
