Bali, 1996: The taxi driver honks his way from the airport through Denpasar’s polluted, dusty chaos and drops me off at a walled compound in Kuta by the beach. From the gate, I see a tropical garden, a pavilion with a pointy ceramic-tile roof, a swimming pool, and two-story guest buildings. A girl in red flowery sarong and sheer blouse….
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Australia: A tall chick in a bikini walks along the beach, face shaded by a floppy hat. She carries a bag in one hand, sandals in the other. Her boobs sway and her hips swing and her inner thighs rub together as she puts foot before foot in the loose sand.
“Look at that babe,” he says.
“Holy moly,” I observe in my perspicacious manner.
Udon noodles came, like so many things in Japan, from China. Kūkai, a Buddhist monk from the province of Sanuki on the Japanese island of Shikoku, had brought them back. Today, the province is called Kagawa Prefecture, but the noodles are still called Sanuki udon—which sparked an international dispute between Japan and Taiwan. All because of a noodle guy.
My German contacts want to keep the euro. They’ve gotten used to it. They like it in their wallets. It’s so convenient for cross-border travel and commerce. And it has been strong. But now that the European bailout fund has descended into irrelevance, they fret about the euro’s future. They want it saved. And they’re increasingly willing to pay a price.