The tour is over. The bags are unpacked, and things are settling back into their usual rhythm at home. But even though I’m back, part of me is still in China—still thinking about the streets of Shao Xing, the energy of Shenzhen, or the moments shared with the orchestra. The journey may have ended, but it hasn’t really left me.
Reflecting on the Journey
From the moment I landed in Changsha to the final farewell in Shanghai, this trip was a series of moments—some I expected, and some I didn’t. The hustle and bustle in Shenzhen, the streets of Shao Xing, the quiet hills of Xian Ju, and the meals shared with colleagues between concerts. It wasn’t just about the places. It was about the little things—a gesture of hospitality, that mutual respect between musicians, or just watching the world go by.
This trip wasn’t just about playing concerts, it was about learning and adjusting. It was about connecting with people, understanding their way of life, and how we relate to one another in those brief encounters.
The Photographer Without Film
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t travel with my usual film cameras. The Fujifilm X100F was the only camera I had with me, and while I had mixed feelings about it at first, it became a good fit. There was no hesitating over which shot was worth the price of a roll of film. It was just me, the camera, and the present moment.
Not every moment needed to be captured. I found myself slowing down and soaking things in—sometimes shooting quickly, sometimes just letting the moment pass. It wasn’t about having everything on film; it was about experiencing it fully, even without the lens in front of me.
Respect and Connection
One of the most memorable things about this trip wasn’t the landscapes or the buildings—it was the people. Everywhere I went, I felt a deep respect and sense of community. It wasn’t about being given titles like “Uncle” or anything else. It was just how people engaged, how they saw me as part of something.
The concerts themselves were a reminder of this—the public wasn’t there for rehearsals, but they were there for the concerts, offering energy and appreciation. Music, like photography, is about presence. It’s about sharing a moment with others, and that’s something I’ll never forget.
Coming Home
Returning home after a trip like this always feels a little strange. The familiar feels slightly unfamiliar at first—the quieter streets, the slower pace. But there’s comfort in returning, and yet, it’s hard not to feel that shift in perspective. Things seem different now.
The Final Frame
So, what remains from all of this? The photographs, of course. They’ll hold the moments, the details, the things I might forget over time. But beyond that, it’s not just about the photos. It’s the way travel shifts your perspective and makes you notice the small moments—the ones that don’t always get captured in a frame.
This series was meant to document a tour, but it ended up being more than that. It’s a reflection on the journey itself, on photography, on what it means to truly be somewhere, to connect with others. The tour might be over, but this story isn’t done yet. And whenever the next journey comes, I’ll be ready to pack my bags again.
I have been posting these articles in the WhatsApp group made for the people on the tour, and people’s feedback has been amazing. What came out the most was the feeling of revisiting the tour through the photographs and how that made people feel. And if you make somebody feel something with an image, then you’re off to a good start. The other comment was, “Oh, I didn’t see that!” And that is part of our role as photographers, to record what people don’t see… My reputation as a photographer seems to have surpassed my reputation as a beer drinker, which is good, because I hardly drink a drop anymore. My reputation as a writer seems to be well established too.
So not only am I seen as a hornplayer but also as a photographer, a writer, and a sensitive soul instead of the gruff bear that sits at the back of the orchestra and makes farting sounds with his instrument. Quite the step up really!
In China, “uncle” isn’t just a family title — it’s a social position that carries real weight. Being called uncle means you’ve reached a certain age and earned a place in the hierarchy: someone to be respected, acknowledged, and even photographed with a gentle bow. This is a Western photographer’s personal account of unexpectedly becoming an uncle in Shenzhen — and what it reveals about Chinese culture, collective identity, and how age is honoured in ways the West has largely forgotten.
I think the first thing to do is to define what an Uncle actually is. In the West, an uncle is a member of the family, the brother of the child’s mother or father. You can be the cool Uncle, the one that lets the children get away with everything and spoils them. You can be the Uncle who buys them toys that make lots of noise or require a long time to set up, just to get back at your siblings. You can be the responsible Uncle, the one who supports the parents in their parenting role. Then, in English and Irish society, you might also be the Uncle who is a close family friend. And you can be a mixture of all four. Like asking your nephews and nieces to get you a beer from the fridge on a warm summer evening while enjoying a long French-style meal that seems to go on forever.
As you might know, Chinese society is somewhat different from Western, English, or even Irish society. In China, an uncle is someone who has reached a certain age and is expected to be shown deep respect—not just for their age, but also for the wisdom and position they hold in the family hierarchy. The sense of individuality in China is less important than the sense of a collective identity, one shaped not only by Chinese Communism but also by traditional values that predate the Revolution. This collective identity, emphasizing the role of the individual within the larger whole, is especially prominent in China but can be seen, to varying degrees, across much of Asia.
In Chinese culture, the importance of hierarchy and respect for age are fundamental. An uncle is not just a family member; they are a figure who is honored because of their age and wisdom, and their role is tied to the broader family structure. It’s about understanding that personal desires often take a backseat to the responsibilities and duties that come with being part of this collective identity. This is in contrast to the individualism often celebrated in the West, where the role of an uncle may focus more on personal relationships and the joy of spoiling nieces and nephews.
So now we know what an Uncle is in China. It would appear that I am of that particular age, and obvious wisdom, to be considered an Uncle. But how did this manifest itself? I have talked about the love of the Chinese for selfies to mark an occasion or a passing moment. During Operation Shenzhen Nights, I was made aware of people recording my posterior for posterity. Obviously the Father Christmas effect. But people didn’t dare to approach me. I would of course have given in to their demands, as I did after the first Shenzhen concert. Definitely the Father Christmas effect. The concert in Huizhou definitely confirmed this. There was the example of a fellow Uncle who wanted a selfie with him to show the two Uncles together. Even when thinking back to that particular moment, I feel a certain emotion. It was lovely to give a part of myself and solidify that moment together. Two men from the same generation looking marvellous together. And let’s not forget the courage shown by the youngsters whilst waiting for our buses to arrive who came up to me and asked for a selfie (to record the moment) with such respect, even bowing gently to me. I felt very humbled by the whole experience, and it felt like a real privilege to acquiesce.
Becoming an uncle in China wasn’t something I saw coming, but it’s an experience that has stayed with me. The respect shown towards age and wisdom, the gentle bows, and the formality behind something as simple as a selfie request all highlighted just how different things are from back home. In England or France, my beard might earn me a knowing nod from a fellow facial hair enthusiast, but in China, it put me in a role of quiet authority—someone to be acknowledged with deference.
What struck me most was how natural it all felt, as if this respect was simply part of everyday life. It wasn’t about status, just an understanding of where people fit within the bigger picture. The warmth of those interactions made me reflect on how we see age and experience in the West, where individualism tends to take priority over hierarchy and tradition.
This unexpected unclehood turned out to be a reminder of the importance of connection, respect, and the roles we play in each other’s lives. In China, I became an uncle in the broadest sense of the word—a sign of age, wisdom, and community. I might not carry that same role in the West, but the experience has given me a new perspective on what it means to be acknowledged, respected, and, in some small way, part of something bigger than myself.
There’s a stock phrase about the journey being more important than the destination. Another one suggests that a journey can transform a man into something new—something he didn’t even suspect. As I look back at the man who left home, went to China on tour, and the one who came home, I can’t help but wonder if there’s truth in both. I’ve previously described China as a “foreign concept,” and now, having returned, it feels far less so. I’ve peeled back a layer of the country and gained a deeper understanding of its culture—musical, culinary, and otherwise.
This tour, too, has been a “parenthesis,” a break from real life, and a chance to be me—not just “Papa” or “husband.” No longer defined by my role in the family or at work, I could just exist as I am, whoever that is. Though I still feel some anxiety about how others perceive me, age has brought a certain self-awareness, self-knowledge, and—perhaps—a bit too much overthinking. For those two weeks, I was simply a guy on a bus, surrounded by French people, walking through new experiences, and discovering everything along the way.
China as a Totally Foreign Concept
Before I left, my idea of China was that of a far-off place, so completely different from anywhere I had lived before. Those ideas were formed in childhood, shaped by the media’s portrayal of this foreign land. I won’t deny it—I was terrified of the whole trip. Researching things online only added to my worries about not being able to read or speak the language. Growing up, I saw China as a Communist regime, almost oppressive like the Soviet Union, and as the enemy we had to defend against. I remember watching the handover of Hong Kong in 1997, feeling my stomach churn as I watched truckloads of PLA soldiers occupy our old colony.
I remember, too, older members of the band, where I wore green for a living, talking about Hong Kong as the dream posting—warm, sunny, and everything a soldier could need. But what was I really afraid of? The unknown. We all knew about China’s state security apparatus, without truly understanding it. The events of Covid only deepened that sense of fear and mystery.
I even worried about something as simple as eating with chopsticks, imagining I’d have to rely on forks or my fingers. Looking back, all of these fears now seem so silly. But they were real before I experienced the country for myself—and especially before I met its people.
The People Who Changed My View
Somehow, I managed to take each day as it came, simply bathing in the new experiences. And, strangely enough, China worked its magic on me. It didn’t just change my view of the place—it changed how I saw the people. They were charming, incredibly friendly, and in a way that made them seem so much more human.
I began to see myself in them, and I realized that, despite our differences, we are more alike than we might think. We all fall in love, become parents with grace, and share the same aspirations for our children—to be happy, to find love, and to repeat the cycle.
I think back to Christmas Day, when I made new friends. The simple “Merry Christmas” was enough to endear me to them. I also reflect on how beer, it seems, transcends barriers of language, creating a connection that only men seem to understand. I’m not trying to exclude women, of course—heaven forbid—but there’s something inherently masculine about it.
My Place in the Orchestra
Another transformation came in terms of my place in the orchestra—or rather, my perception of it. As the 4th horn, a position typically reserved for the least experienced player, I have always resented the remark. But now, I know my role to be the solid foundation of the section, guiding it through the music. At 53, I no longer feel the need to prove anything. I’m here for the music, content to plod along at the bottom. It’s not humility—it’s comfort, and a willingness to let the young bucks enjoy the spotlight.
Being on tour, though, inevitably brings people closer together. Take poor Corentin, who shared a room with me for two weeks. It’s one thing to get along during rehearsals or after a concert, but living in such close quarters really gives you a new perspective on someone. I knew Corentin was a good lad, but during those two weeks, I saw him in a different light. We talked, laughed, and endured the trials of close proximity.
I remember one drive home from a concert when my birth mother FaceTimed me with the news of her cancer diagnosis. Corentin, despite his limited English, understood more than he let on. He listened as I processed the information, and in that moment, we connected in a way that most people don’t. Maybe that’s what brought us even closer.
Sharing a room with him was like being back in the army. We worked hard, played hard, and celebrated with the kind of noises only a group of men could share. If you can fart in front of someone, you’re already on the next level of friendship.
One moment that stood out for me was when I helped Clement, the other horn player. I had offered him some coaching to help him out of his funk. During the concerts, he had some delicate parts, and although I could easily play his passages for him, I didn’t want to embarrass him. So, I didn’t change seats to play his part during the performance. Instead, I stayed where I was, and when it came to his turn, I played my part to the best of my ability. It was subtle but important—I didn’t want to take his place; I just wanted to give him the support he needed without making him feel like he couldn’t do it on his own.
Afterward, Clement spoke very kindly about me to the younger players in the group. He praised me in a way that felt both generous and sincere, and it left me feeling deeply grateful. His words were not just kind—they spoke to a level of respect and camaraderie I hadn’t anticipated. I hadn’t sought recognition; I just wanted to help. But his thoughtful comments—about my support without overshadowing him—meant more than I could have expected. It’s rare to find such generosity of spirit, and I appreciate him for that.
I nearly forgot to talk about my girls from my days in Cholet. It was Eléonore that suggested that I join the orchestra, and I’m so glad she did. I was about to leave my horn in its box and let it gather dust somewhere in my house where people wouldn’t trip over it. She has been a very good friend to me over the last 13 years, and I think she’s wonderful. Then of course I mustn’t forget Titaua and Mathilde. And they certainly didn’t forget to tall every one about my “kilt” days, where as fed up of being English, I would let people know that one can be from the UK without necessarily being English. My first adoptive father was Scottish, and his brother, Uncle Joe, was Professor Regis at Edinburgh University. People came up to them saying that Ian wasn’t like how they had imagined him, and was actually a decent chap and all-round good egg! Then Eléonore just reminded them that “they” didn’t know me the way she did…
During the tour, as you’ve seen, I took some photos—some of them very odd. But I wasn’t the only one sharing them in the infamous WhatsApp group. For the first time, people saw a different side of me—the artist, not just the beer-loving horn player. I even started sharing my blog posts in the group, and maybe I’ve earned a reputation as the writer. Who would’ve thought? A beer-drinking horn player who takes decent photos and has a way with words—still knows how to play, though.
Anything Else?
I think my approach to food has also shifted. I’ve always liked the idea of sitting around a big table with friends, and during the tour, I was reminded of that. The variety of dishes was astounding, and I saw some players more comfortable with what they knew, while others bravely ate silk worm chrysalids. Me? I just enjoyed whatever was put in front of me, from chicken and duck feet to tortoise.
I found myself stepping away from desserts, my sweet tooth growing calmer. Eating the Chinese way—deliberately, mindfully—was a revelation. Much like film photography, it slowed me down and made me more aware. I ate less, but I appreciated the variety. I even tried to emulate that at home—though, I didn’t put chillies in my dishes.
I’ve also become more accepting of my body. Despite still feeling like I have a long way to go, I’ve made peace with the body I’ve got. Corentin’s lack of judgment helped, and I’ve learned to be more at ease with the frame that carries me around.
How to Conclude?
What’s clear is that this journey, this “parenthesis,” hasn’t just been a break from the familiar—it’s been a period of quiet transformation. The familiar parts of myself have had space to evolve. And perhaps that’s the true beauty of any journey—not the destination, but the unfolding of a self you might not have fully known. In a way, I’ve returned not quite the same man who left. But then again, perhaps that’s the essence of travel: it allows us to become more fully who we truly are, even as we discover the world around us.
As the journey ended, I found myself thinking less about the places I’ve seen and more about the moments shared—those small, unexpected connections that shape an experience just as much as the landscapes we pass through. Travel isn’t only about what we take away from it; it’s also about what we bring to those we meet along the way.
Perhaps that’s what lingers most—the idea that stepping beyond our usual paths isn’t just an act of discovery but a quiet exchange. We put ourselves out there, not just as observers but as participants, leaving behind something of ourselves in the process. And in return, we find that the world, in all its vastness, feels just a little more connected.
Have you ever had to make a difficult decision that you really had to think long and hard about, one that would have real-world consequences for you and your creative process? I have, and I’m going to share this first-world problem with you. Now, I know first-world problems are a joke, but this problem became very real to me during the run-up to the China Orchestra Tour: film or digital?
You all know about my fondness for the analogue process and the results I’ve been able to acquire. Judging by my recent stats and pages visited, this might just interest you.
The Allure of Film Photography
I’m not saying this was causing me the traditional anxiety that I have been known to suffer from in the past. But… I had to decide how I was going to record my trip and, therefore, what to take with me. I’ll give you a list of my ideal kit, and it might help you to understand my dilemma.
Camera 1 A recently acquired Nikon FE (my first ever Nikon) and black-and-white film, ranging from Fomapan 100 ASA right through to Ilford HP5 Plus, whose box speed is 400 ASA but can be pushed up to 1600 ASA and still provide great images.
Camera 2 A Mamiya C220, which is a beautiful piece of kit with various 120 format black-and-white films, HP5 Plus, Portra 400, with the addition of Kodak Tri-X.
Camera 3 (maybe 4) My Olympus Trip or even the Olympus Pen EE S half-frame camera, for those informal colour shots with some Kodak Ultra and even a roll of Portra 160 for that gorgeous vintage style.
So, you have my film cameras with the film that goes with them. They provide a photographic experience unlike any other. The slowing down of the process, the reflection on each shot taken, the satisfying sound they make when you press the shutter release button. And so much more. They also look pretty damned sexy just hanging there around your neck, and people will think you are a “real” photographer, and that old-school vibe just adds tonnes to your sartorial elegance. Yes, you become a real poser, but do I care? Absolutely not!
The Practicality of Digital
Camera 5 My much-loved Canon 6D Mark II, with a couple of zoom lenses – 24-70mm F4.0, and my 16-35mm F4.0 lens, and maybe even my nifty 50.
Camera 6 Fujifilm X100F, the travel photographer’s ideal camera with the 35mm equivalent F2.0 lens for that sexy bokeh. It’s the Internet that said it, not me.
Now moving into the digital world. Convenience, convenience, and in case you hadn’t realised, convenience. I love them both for the variety of shots they allow me to take, and as I learnt photography “back in the day,” I have still conserved the same approach that I had in analogue photography, i.e., not spraying and praying like I have seen some colleagues do.
It is easier to use a flash, and you have an image that can be transferred to your phone, edited in Lightroom CC, and rapidly shared in the China Orchestra Tour WhatsApp group. And people can see what a great photographer you are. Couple the Canon colours and the Fuji film simulations, and you can have all the creativity fixes you might need at your fingertips.
The film cameras were there to satisfy my love of the analogue process and the nostalgic film look that only film can give. The digital cameras for their practicality, lens effects of going really wide, and having the possibility of going right up to 70mm. Choices, choices, choices.
Reality Check
Now let’s get back to reality and look at the ever-growing list of constraints. First of all, I am going on tour as a musician and not as a photographer. One really has to make this important distinction, as it gives a sense of purpose to the trip as well as the implication of priorities.
I would be flying across half the world, and therefore have to follow the demands of the air travel industry and airline rules. That meant no more than two lithium batteries, and one in the camera, and not in your suitcase but in your hand luggage, or on your person. They don’t like the idea of these batteries exploding or causing fires mid-flight. And because we are respecting the zero BS rule here, I don’t fancy that either. I would be limited by weight for my suitcase: 23kg and 20kg for flights inside China. My priority was to be a musician first and not a photographer, if ever I needed reminding…
If I were going to the UK, I would just have to annoy my family in the car with it being loaded up with camera gear, but this is China we’re talking about. Not a jaunt across the Channel.
In my suitcase, I will need my clothes for two weeks, my suit for concerts, shoes for concerts, wash bag with all my toiletries, as well as my CPAP machine for my sleep apnoea (I have to think about my quality of sleep as well as not snoring for my unsuspecting roommate Corentin). My hand luggage would be my instrument, and as we didn’t need mutes, I might be able to get away with stuffing things up the end of my horn’s bell. Please note that I didn’t try to get a cheap laugh by using the word bell-end…
So here I am back at the beginning of this article, and yet now you might better understand my dilemma.
Tell us what you decided then!
Alright then, I will. Welcome inside my mind and my thought processes. The sheer weight of all the kit would have made tking everything completely impractical. I knew this and had come to terms with it. I really wanted to analogical, but then had to come to terms with the fact that airport scanners can damage undeveloped film. Also the Mamiya weighs a tonne and would have been impractical to lug around China, despite the wonderful images it provides. Carmer 2 out! Now for security check I had bought a metal film box for my films so that those charming people at airport security could check my films, making sure that I would not blow up the plane. Not really my style…
That would leave me with Camera1, 3, and 4. Cameras 3 and 4 are particularly sexy and Carmera 4 being a half frame camera, gives you double the amount of shots for your film. However it uses zone focussing, and the ISO setting only go up to 200ASA so you need lots of light. Camera 3 is similar in the fact that it goes only up to 400ASA so not good for lowlight shooting. Cameras 3 and 4 out.
That leaves me with Camera 2. Which is of course uber sexy and Aperture priotity, which I like, and has a larger ISO range, and one that I can focus accurately with. I had black and white film for it which I enjoy using and know how it reacts and what kind of shots I can get out of it. Very satisfying shots. It also doesn’t need lithium batteries to work, so that helps rule that danger out. But I would still have to contend with the possibility of annoying security staff, and annoying Chinese security staff, and as I speak no Chinese, that would be challenging. And yet it still had a chance of staying in the race.
Now lets explore the digital realm. Camera 5: The Canon 6D Mark II is a beast of a camera and one I enjoy using. It’s lenses are beyond compare, and it would offer me lots of choice in choosing my subjects. However it would be heavy, especially with those lenses, and despite being able to have my images straight away, would it really be worth that added weight. Camera 5 out.
Camera 6. The Fujifilm X100F. Probably my favourite digital camera, and the one I took to the UK this summer as a test for this Chinese trip. It’s small. Compact and silent. And yet despite being a digital camera, it has an analogue feel to it, and is also very sexy, so I can still pose with it and it will give that serious photographer look, and make make people wonder is he using digital of analogue… Hmmm. Sounds like a good choice. It’s downfall lies in its power consumption. I would need three batteries in total. Which would mean that I would have to entrust a battery to a friend..
The two cameras left in the race are the Nikon FE analogue camera with it’s 50mm F1.8 lens which doesn’t need batteries. 50mm was the lens I learnt photography on and would allow me to get some decent portrait shots. However with the Fujifilm, I could change ISO setting without the hassle of changing my film, create scenic shots, as well as environmental portraits, and I could transfer the photos directly to my phone and share them straight after editing.
The X100F: Why It Was the Right Choice
The X100F became the clear winner for several reasons. It’s compact and lightweight, which was essential for travel, yet it produces sharp, detailed images. The 35mm equivalent F2.0 lens allowed me to shoot wide-open for beautiful bokeh in portraiture and environmental shots. The range of film simulations, from classic Chrome to Acros, allowed me to quickly achieve the look I desired without extra post-processing.
Its hybrid viewfinder provided both optical and electronic options, letting me choose the right method depending on the shooting conditions. The controls are direct, giving me full control over exposure and depth of field, without the need to dig through menus. And though it’s a digital camera, it retains that analogue charm that makes shooting feel personal and intentional.
The only downside was battery life, but I managed to bring a few extra batteries, which wasn’t too much of an issue for the flexibility the X100F offered.
Conclusion
In the end, the Fujifilm X100F was the perfect balance between practicality and creativity. Its digital conveniences, combined with its classic photographic feel, made it the ideal camera for the China Orchestra Tour. The images you’ve seen in my latest China Series article were all taken with the X100F, and I’m happy with the decision I made and I hope you might be too…
It’s a “long” title, and it was also a “long” journey. We left our hotel at 7 am on the 3rd of January, and I arrived home with feet under the table at 5 pm on the 4th of January. My mind is still on strike and the memories a little vague, but I’ll try and keep going for as long as possible.
Group 1, i.e. the other group, would be leaving at Terminal 1 in Shanghai, and Group 2, i.e. my group, would be leaving from Terminal 2 in Shanghai. There was a small and very select group that were going to do the “extension,” including my friend Eléonore. We managed to get our suitcases into the “system” at the airport check-in. And then through security, which, due to my sports jacket hack, went very smoothly. All we had to do then was to find somewhere for lunch. I had been in a group for the whole tour and headed off on my own to try and find something to eat.
I did find something to eat—tofu and crab, with a bowl of greens because it’s healthy! And a cup of tea was served with my meal. I spotted a hamburger place just next door to where I was eating and alerted the group via WhatsApp. I took my time eating because I could. I don’t like being rushed. Apart from getting onto the plane on time, my only task was to find a gift for my wife that would please her and, at the same time, be very Chinese. I bought tea. Because why not? And the shop looked very luxurious, and I was sure I couldn’t mess it up.
We flew from Shanghai to Beijing, and part I of our trip home was over.
The wait in Beijing seemed to go on forever, and our flight was at 2:40 am local time, which would mean a night flight back to Roissy. Beijing airport is a rather large place where most everything seems to shut at 5 pm. This was going to be a long wait. I resisted the temptation to go and have a “couple” of pints at a bar that was still open but still felt the need to have a drink of something. That something would be a bottle of water. We had our gate and waited for our flight to leave.
As you know, I can generally fall asleep anywhere and at any time. But even for me, this was going to be a tad tricky. I managed to charge my phone thanks to my colleagues and lay down on a bench to try and get some shut-eye. The sports jacket and jumper make a rather good pillow, and I felt slightly more invigorated when boarding the plane.
Maybe that wasn’t a good thing. Anyway, I made my way to my seat, which was at the very back of the aircraft, and tried talking to my neighbour, who asked me if I spoke French. I did, and I could tell she had a plan, that girl. She wanted to be able to have two seats so she could lie down. I asked the hostess if those two empty seats were going to be available, and she took pity on me, saying that they were technically for crew and that if one of the crew asked, I would have to move back and sit with Miss Two Seats.
That sounded very fair, and Miss Two Seats seemed to be happy. I used the pillow for my back, and the blanket was just large enough to snuggle into. Did I sleep like a baby? No, he said, going for the understatement of the year award. No, he did not, but I think he at least managed to snooze, which was good enough. We had breakfast on the plane, which would be my last “Chinese” meal. Part II of our voyage was over.
We landed in Roissy and played everyone’s favourite game—go to the loo, and then on to baggage reclaim. The trombones had been put in with the suitcases and, of course, were the very last things to be put onto the conveyor belt. I have to admit to a rather tense moment when I was wondering if my suitcase would ever turn up. Eventually, it did, and we were reunited. The trombonists were soon reunited with their trombones, but it was all very stressful and a grand moment of solitude for them. We eventually found what we thought was the exit, turned around because it wasn’t the exit, and headed off to another exit to meet our colleagues in Group 1, who had arrived a wee while before us. We were herded along, with Mathilde and Titaua helping us cross the road. You’ve guessed it—we got on the bus, except this bus would be taking us back to Nantes. Part III of our voyage had begun.
My memory was still hazy, and I think we stopped off in the Perche—the place, not the fish, but maybe they had them in the local rivers. I’m not here to judge. We all traipsed into the service station and were greeted by the overpriced sandwiches. Not a chicken foot in sight. It all felt such an anticlimax after the food in China.
We arrived eventually where we had set off from in Nantes. Part III of our voyage was nearly over. Kate and Virginie were there to pick me up, and that hug was particularly tight and lasted quite a while—or so it seemed. Had I missed my family? I will say yes, of course. It will save us many arguments at home!
Part IV of the trip had begun. My wife drove us home through the rain. I entered the house that I had left two weeks earlier. I had been on tour, I had seen things that I had never seen before, I had eaten things that I had never eaten before, and I even managed to save my special Christmas chocolates from the inquisitive looks from the two women in my life. Killian wasn’t there, so Kate had first dibs on which mug she would like. The chopsticks were put away. Tea was made, and the day ended up at home. I was a little tired…
Welcome back to China. It is the morning of the 2nd of January. The whole tour seems to have flown by, and my memory is already hazy. I remember going around Shao Xing, and I remember the concert in Xian Ju, but beyond that? Not much.
I don’t usually black out, even after a drinky-poo, but it feels like I forgot to press Control+S. No saves to rely on. Bugger. Maybe it’s the thought of going home tomorrow? The dread of the parenthesis closing?
Strangely, I wasn’t even fed up with sharing a room with Corentin, and bus rides with everyone were still enjoyable. Definitely bizarre. It can’t be Blue Monday yet!
Anyway. The previous evening, while I was exploring the park, some of my colleagues had stumbled upon a scenic residential area—just the kind of place I’d love to capture in my last shots of China. This wasn’t the posh China of Shenzhen; this felt like a more “authentic” part of town.
And it was stunning, as you’ll see later in the photos—filled with all the quintessential imagery of China: round entrances leading to inner courtyards, red lanterns preparing for the Chinese New Year, fish drying under the rafters, boats drifting along the canals, humpback bridges, mopeds zipping past, and an old lady eating her rice for breakfast. Even Confucius was there—his wisdom guiding us through the streets.
I had heard about this little quarter at dinner the night before. My colleagues had waxed lyrical about it, so off I went, camera in hand. Now, you know my sense of direction—getting lost, or at best, off track, is inevitable. I was told: “Turn left outside the hotel, walk about ten minutes, and you can’t miss it.” Which, of course, is exactly the kind of thing I do miss.
But not today. For once, my terrible sense of direction didn’t fail me—God must have been smiling on me that morning.
All of a sudden I was there, walking around with my camera at the ready remembering to take colour photographs because my wife had asked me to. I meandered through the street watching the morning rituals, people clearing their throats and spitting on the ground, better out than in, people eating their rice for breakfast. The place seemed to be waking up gently, and the mopeds taking their passengers to work and not driving too fast either.
There was one moped that thought he could make it over the bridge in one go. He tried a few times, but obviously it wasn’t going to happen, because it would have made a wonderful photograph. The man got off the thing, and walked it across the bridge and seemed to appreciate my clapping him over. Encouragement is as universal as something very universal.
I kept wandering around with no fixed idea of what to do or see. I could see a kettle boing for the tea, and felt a slight pang of jealousy. I was of course, tealess. I reached the outside of the quarter, and just headed back in at the sign. I had seen a wicker chair which would have been perfect for my afternoon snoozes.
As I came back in, people seem to have awoken from their slumber, and the small shops started to open. There were all kinds of things for sale. Chinese New year decorations, clothes that were lovely but might have been a tad small for my more rotund frame. There were shops selling brooms and pans. It was definitely buy local…
As I left for the last time and having taken my phtoographs, I passed Sarah, a fellow photographer, who had obviously awoken slightly later then myself. We of course said good morning and wished her luck with her camera.
I mozied on down, back to the hotel to pick up my suitcase and horn, getting ready for the trip to Xian Ju. And this is where my memory goes a little fuzzy, like my camera out of focus. I remember the concert, sure, but everything else? It’s like my mind just pressed pause. A temporary freeze-frame.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How the mind works in these moments. Maybe it’s the thought of the long journey home—the “parenthesis” closing, as it were. The feeling of something coming to an end, but not quite ready to leave. That lingering moment between chapters, when you’re not sure if you’re truly finished yet.
But then again, I’ll leave that for next time. Perhaps when I’m home, looking back on these images, I’ll see it clearer. For now, though, I can’t remember a thing—not for the life of me.
Welcome back to China, Dear Reader. When I last left you, we were on the bus somewhere between Hangzhou and Shao Xing. I’m pleased to report that we made it safe and sound, and that Corentin and I now had two keys to our room. It was still sunny—a joy to be alive. Thank you, happy pills. Our room had all the mod cons, though there was a quirk: if one of us was on the loo, we’d slide the door across for privacy. Unfortunately, that meant the person taking a shower lost their privacy. Still, I couldn’t see anything from the loo, so my roomie’s modesty was safe.
Speaking of toilets, we encountered quite a range during our travels. In the service stations, they were the French “chiottes à la Turque,” which are nothing like the Mozart Rondo, but certainly more pungent. Then there were the “ordinary” toilets, followed by the ones whose lids lifted automatically as you passed, and finally the pièce de résistance: the Japanese-style toilet, which remained resolutely Chinese.
This marvel had a heated seat—luxury in itself. You had to lift the lid manually (slumming it in the Stone Age again), but once seated, nature took its course in unparalleled comfort. The real magic began when you pressed a button: a mechanism extended to spray water precisely where needed. There was even a function for ladies. And after the water came the air, drying everything off! I double-checked with toilet paper, of course, but it had done an impeccable job. Truly, a game-changer. As Forrest Gump said, “That’s all I have to say about that!”
Now, let’s move quickly on from toilet humour (as universal as it may be) to the park next to our hotel. We were on the 22nd floor and had a marvellous view of the city centre. I could even see that night’s venue from our room and decided to explore the area, camera in hand. The winter sunlight was soft—bright but not blinding—perfect for photography. I wanted to capture the impression of Shao Xing, not just through candid portraits of people but through its landscapes and atmosphere. My aim was to convey the city’s essence, much like an impressionist painting, but with a camera instead of a brush.
The park was alive with activity. Aunties and uncles sat on benches, chatting animatedly and observing the world go by. One Aunty beckoned me to join her, and I obliged. She greeted me with a thumbs-up—a universally positive gesture, except when hitchhiking in Greece, where it’s a faux pas. Using the translator in Alipay, I explained that I was a horn player with the visiting orchestra and would be performing that night in the concert hall across the park. This app is a godsend in China, though I briefly considered going back to study the language. My wife might not be thrilled with me disappearing for six months, though.
As we sat, the Aunty hummed a Chinese song. I was transported elsewhere, nearly dozing off in the sunlight—a habit I seemed to be developing. Thanking her for her company, I wandered further into the park. The sunlight filtered through the trees, highlighting the park’s serene beauty. I came across a single artist practicing calligraphy on the ground, using water instead of ink. His strokes were delicate and ephemeral—a fleeting masterpiece destined to evaporate. Children played with marbles nearby, using the sculpted floor as their playground. The juxtaposition of timeless tradition and youthful play captured the spirit of China for me. Above it all, a pagoda stood proudly, with an airship hovering in the background—a striking blend of the classic and the modern.
Reluctantly, I left the park to prepare for our penultimate concert. The thought of returning to the mundanity of home life began to weigh on me. This tour had been a gift, filled with unforgettable experiences and people. I wasn’t ready for it to end.
The concert hall was just across the park, and I strolled over leisurely—no need to rush; a gentleman never runs. The theatre director and his team greeted us warmly, their hospitality as magical as ever. Some brass players had prepared a fanfare to welcome the audience, and the atmosphere buzzed with excitement. Selfies were taken in abundance, and someone was even live-streaming for TikTok.
The concert itself went beautifully, with the usual audience participation adding to the magic. Afterward, the theatre manager addressed us, reminding us of the event’s purpose: celebrating Franco-Sino relations and their 60th anniversary. His French was excellent, and his enthusiasm infectious. They had prepared a spread for us—a delightful picnic with beer aplenty. As the night progressed, the manager led by example, dancing and motivating his team to let loose. Seeing their boss in this light seemed to surprise them.
I left the party early, taking a quiet stroll back to the hotel. The park, now illuminated, looked entirely different. The pagoda glowed softly and had changed character, and became the central element to the park. Meanwhile, Corentin extended the festivities at a local bar, where the owner was treated to an impromptu rendition of Michel Sardou’s “Les Lacs du Connemara.” A night to remember, indeed.
I am glad to report that today was a lot more successful than the day before. New Year, New Me? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. After a good night’s sleep, I was feeling almost human and Corentin explained last night’s quid pro quo. Phones without batteries, people calling me and I must have been on “do not disturb mode.’ The girls asked why I hadn’t called them too, as they would have said where they were. Look, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter, except it did matter, but there was nothing I could do about it. Can’t change the past, it’s too late, can’t change the future, it hasn’t happened yet, so live in the present moment. Probably a better idea to try and make the best of the day as humanly possible.
Today’s trip by bus, leaving at midday, was a welcome change. The next town was only 40 miles away, which made the journey feel entirely manageable—and, more importantly, it gave me the time I needed to move my little booty and try and find something for Kilian. He had asked me for cooking chopsticks and I thought I would bring back some nicer model like the ones we had been using in restaurants during the trip. Corentin told me about his visit to the market just down the road, and gave me directions that even I could follow. With my suitcase packed I was off camera in hand, and with a sense of renewed confidence.
On the way I crossed paths with Anne, one of the percussionists who wanted to go and get some Chinese bowls like the ones we had been using in the restaurants but knew exactly what she was after. So off we both went to the market. I’m going to use a phrase that I used on Foshan. A “joyeux bordel!” The market was on the ground floor of a building that rose about as high as our expectations. So pretty high. As you will see in the photos there was stuff everywhere and each shop looked as if it morphed into the next one. If you had ever wanted to start a restaurant business, they could cater for every single one of your needs. They had stoves, kitchen tools, woks of all shapes and sizes, cookers designed specifically for woks. All kinds of crockery to put said food into and serve it to your guests. I could hardly believe my eyes. You could buy sound systems, display cabinets, even those electric Mahjong tables that we saw in Shenzhen. It was extraordinary, and it was full of people buying and selling. Everyone back home always decries the made in China, but over 1billion people be wrong? I was very impressed by the whole thing, and seeing things that we I thought of my son straight away who, like me, is a bit of a foodie and who loves cooking. All we really need is somebody who loves doing the washing up afterwards and we’d be onto a winner…
We both managed to find what we were looking for so all in all today was turning out much better than the previous night’s fiasco. This success and eventual pleasing my son just put me in a positive mood for the day. I got back to the hotel room to pick up my case and instrument and stow away my latest additions to the family cooking utensils. And it was sunny ,and it was a relief to feel something fresh, something clear. What more could you ask for? It felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The change in mood from the night before was undeniable—subtle but meaningful. After a rough start, today was a quiet triumph. Finding the market, picking out those perfect cooking chopsticks for Kilian, and stepping into the sunshine felt like small victories, but they added up to something more significant. It wasn’t a grand transformation, but it was enough to shift my outlook for the day.
New Year, new me? Maybe. But I’m taking things one step at a time. For now, I’ll settle for the fact that, for once, things felt a little more bearable. And in a world that so often feels overwhelming, that, in itself, is enough. Sometimes it’s the smallest wins—the unexpected moments of clarity—that make the biggest difference.
As the bus carried us to the next town, I didn’t know what the rest of the day would bring. But, for once, there was a quiet sense of relief—small steps that didn’t feel like setbacks. It wasn’t a grand victory, but for today, it was enough. Sometimes, it’s the smallest wins that make all the difference.
That last night in Shenzhen was going to be a short one. We had to be in the lobby at 6:30 a.m. the next morning, and I still had laundry to do. I managed it—though without an iron, my shirts weren’t as sharp as I’d have liked. Luckily, I wasn’t the only last-minute person; a few colleagues joined me. Doing laundry can feel tedious at the best of times, let alone on an unfamiliar machine with instructions in Chinese. Google Lens to the rescue! Thankfully, the dryers used pictograms instead of script. By 1:30 a.m., the task was done and dusted.
Feeling proud of my late-night accomplishment, I returned to my room to pack my suitcase, leaving only the electronics and CPAP machine for the morning. With just a few hours of sleep, I was up and ready to go, looking presentable enough to head to the lobby. The lift opened to a procession of bleary-eyed colleagues—some visibly worn out, others trying to fake energy, and a few annoyingly chirpy. You can guess which category I fit into. We boarded the bus to the Shenzhen airport, where the process of travel began.
At the airport entrance, we went through the initial security check. I couldn’t help but wonder about its effectiveness—if someone wanted to cause harm, the entrance seemed as vulnerable as anywhere else. Still, the process felt routine, and the crowd was patient. We checked in, dropped off our luggage, and received new labels for the domestic flight to Hangzhou. Knowing we’d miss breakfast, our organisers provided us with brown paper bags containing a banana, a small brioche, and a yoghurt drink. Not the most substantial meal, but sometimes “enough” is enough. There is a joke about that: “Why is just one egg for breakfast sufficient for a Frenchman? Because one egg is un oeuf…”
Leaving Shenzhen was tinged with sadness. I’d enjoyed my time there—the bustling city, the open and welcoming atmosphere, and the superb weather all left a good impression. I also appreciated just having a weekend off to myself to reflect on this China experience. We were at the halfway point in our tour, and it felt like we were slowly moving back towards our more mundane existence back home—a bit like the Sunday night blues. I regretted not being able to visit Hong Kong across the bay, as leaving the mainland would have invalidated my work visa. Despite that, Shenzhen felt like a place I’d love to revisit—a city that put me at ease.
At the airport, we sleepily boarded a bus to our plane. The drive across the tarmac seemed to take forever, weaving through runways and passages. Finally, we boarded the aircraft. It was a Chinese domestic airline, and like with Air China, I couldn’t fault the service. I could, however, fault the passenger in front of me, who reclined their seat as far back as possible. Deciding to pick my battles wisely, I opted for the high road (and multiple trips to the loo, courtesy of the Sprite they kept plying me with).
The flight was short compared to the long-haul journeys to get to China, so I endured the discomfort with grace. At baggage reclaim, I silently prayed for my suitcase to appear—and eventually, it did. We were herded onto our respective buses and driven to our hotel. You’re probably getting into the rhythm of touring now. Yes, that’s right! Dropped off at the hotel, then off to a restaurant for lunch. This time, the regional differences were evident—spicier dishes and more vegetables. Sitting with the girls and Catherine, I enjoyed the meal, even relishing the chicken feet.
A musician and his wife at a nearby table seemed less impressed. They talked about missing French cheese and looked at me oddly as I tucked into the local fare. I won’t repeat my thoughts at the time, but let’s say they weren’t complimentary.
Some impetuous, and adventurous souls decided to explore that afternoon before heading back to change for the evening’s rehearsal and concert. Corentin was one of them, and later told me about the sights he’d seen. I decided to rest instead and have a nice cup of the complimentary tea. I like rest and a nice cup of tea. I needed to rest and have a nice cup of tea.
We headed off to the venue on foot! Again, a wonderful welcome making us feel at home. Fruits ready for us as well as tea. Yummy. We had our New Year’s Eve concert, and the audience loved it. A very satisfactory evening, and definitely the high point of the evening. All we had to do now was to get back to the hotel, get changed, freshen up, and head off for our evening meal, and our New Year’s Eve party!
The concert had gone wonderfully, and there was a sense of satisfaction as I made my way back to the hotel. The evening had unfolded perfectly, and I was proud of the performance. But that satisfaction quickly slipped away as the night wore on. I should have been looking forward to the evening ahead—a celebration, a New Year’s Eve party. But instead, frustration took over. I’d been told the restaurant was a short walk away, but somewhere along the way, things had changed, and my lack of direction—along with a memory that failed me—left me in a bind. It was one of those moments when everything felt wrong, and my patience had all but evaporated. The restaurant where we had had lunch was empty and the lights were off upstairs where I expected to eat.
The thought of the party, the noise, the forced cheerfulness, made my frustration grow. I didn’t want to join in, not when I was feeling so irritated and defeated. I was basically furious. The exhaustion from the long day only amplified my mood. My inner voice couldn’t have been clearer: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” I was done.
Instead of ringing in the New Year with everyone else, I did the one thing that felt right—I went to bed. I wasn’t in the mood for any celebrations. It wasn’t just about the confusion with the venue; it was the cumulative weight of the long day. As midnight approached, I just didn’t care.
I should have been looking forward to the evening ahead—a celebration, a New Year’s Eve party. But it wasn’t to be. Things just went from bad to worse. I’d been told the restaurant was a short walk away, but somewhere along the way, things had changed, and my lack of direction—along with a memory that failed me—left me up the proverbial creek without a paddle. It was one of those moments when everything felt wrong, and my patience had all but evaporated The restaurant where we had had lunch was empty and the lights were off upstairs where I expected to eat. I was basically furious at my own incompetence and ineptitude. My inner voice couldn’t have been clearer: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” I hated myself.
Instead of ringing in the New Year with everyone else, I did the one thing that felt right—I went to bed. I wasn’t in the mood for any celebrations. It wasn’t just about the confusion with the venue; it could well have been the cumulative effect of a very long day. As midnight approached, I just didn’t care.
Kate said she would call at midnight but instead I called her, hoping to find a moment of calm ad reassure her that all was well in the world. Speaking with her helped, but only because I had to make the effort to mask my frustration, not wanting to burden her with my mood. That effort, though, was enough to steady my emotions, if only slightly. That girl knows how to calm down her old man.
No sooner had I ended the call than there was a knock at the door. And just like that, my brief reprieve was shattered by Eléonore, Mathilde, and Titaua with a bottle in hand, ready to ring in the New Year. I opened the door, still in my boxer shorts, and offered a clipped “Happy New Year.” They probably didn’t expect it, but it was all I could muster. Sometimes, you just want to fall off the face of the earth.
Not the best of evenings, but considering what had happened, what did you expect? Can’t be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed every night.
Today, we were giving a concert in Huizhou (clue in the title, as always) and needed to be ready for the buses at 10 a.m.—a thoroughly civilised hour for a gentleman like myself. The journey would take us about 90 kilometres, another day of life on tour spent bussing around. Victor, the oboe player, kindly put my suit in his suiter, leaving me to carry only my instrument and camera. What a pleasant young man. As people drifted down from their respective floors, we gathered in the hotel lobby, a mix of sleepy faces and quiet anticipation.
Off we went. Was I with the young, trendy crowd today? Not at all. Always leave them wanting more. Instead, I decided to spend the day with my “girlies” from my Cholet days—Eléonore, Titaua, and Mathilde—along with Catherine, another first violin. It was a calmer group, slightly olde9r than the twenty-somethings at the back, which suited me just fine.
Once underway, we learned our first stop would be a lake before heading to the evening’s venue. A leisurely stroll around a lake? I wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Am I coming across as a misanthrope? Moi? Really? But when we arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. The lake, surrounded by hazy sunshine, was breathtaking—quintessentially Chinese with pagodas, temples, and bamboo groves. The entrance gate itself was a work of art: a grey, ornate roof atop white columns, with traditional calligraphy adorning the sign above. It was beautiful, and I felt unexpectedly happy to be there.
The walk would be leisurely, which was ideal for me. The trees and bamboo offered some welcome shade and acted as a diffuser for my photographs, and I knew this was definitely going to be a good day. I saw our friends’ Chinese boyfriend and Chinese girlfriend going through the same rigmarole as they had in Shenzhen’s Window on the World, which I still find amusing!
There were groups of Aunties and Uncles, as the Chinese call older people, sitting on benches looking out across the lake at various pagodas and temples. It was one of those places that breathes calm. I like calm.
I sat down to join the girls for lunch, but I had already eaten, yet they insisted I partake of their picnic, which I did with pleasure. They really are good to Uncle Ian. They joked about hiring a pedalo and going around the lake. Mathilde’s foot was hurting her, so we decided to take the shorter walk back to our rendezvous point, letting Eléonore and Catherine explore the long way round. We even joked about hiring one of the electric golf cart-type buggies to get around. You may have noticed that I haven’t talked about selfies yet.
Well, at the table behind was an Uncle and Auntie who wanted to take a selfie with us—first it was the two uncles together, then everyone! I was getting a taste for all this. The attention is definitely validating and made us feel amazing. Yes, made me feel very special, especially when you see their smiles. It’s not like being adulated by adoring fans, but more like appreciating and celebrating your presence in China. It is something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
We crossed the lake using the walkway and going through the decorated walkway with its traditional Chinese style. Everything felt Chinese, but in a more classical way. The architecture, the building styles, the plants—even with the bamboo being a feature—as well as the white hump-backed bridges. I was having a special moment with Mathilde and Titaua as we gently made our way back to the bus, and even though it wasn’t the scenic route, you could be mistaken for believing it was. The views were amazing…
Taking in the light coming through the trees, and sparkling on the water. It was beautiful, and I was so happy to be there amongst longtime friends. Titaua moved on ahead, and I stayed to accompany Mathilde and her bad foot.
She had put on a brave face the day before, chasing around Shenzhen with the girls. It had gotten so bad that Titaua had to accompany her back to the hotel in a taxi. She didn’t want to put anyone out, and I found myself seeing her in a new light. Maybe that’s what this tour was really about—seeing people in a new light and discovering facets of them you’d never noticed before. When you’re on tour, the masks we all wear tend to slip, and the inner person shines through. It’s human nature to put on a front—I’m certainly guilty of it, especially with my own ongoing struggles with mental health. But during the tour, I felt I could let that mask drop. It was liberating in a way I didn’t quite expect.
Back at the rendezvous, I was captivated by a coconut and sugarcane juice stall—a moped with a shop grafted onto its back. I didn’t partake but saw how the backlit scene looked very poetic and couldn’t resist taking a picture. I’m glad I did.
The younger crowd soon returned, with Corentin (aka Sir Fanny Magnet) and Paul (“Duck Tongue” Trouillet) basking in their fan club’s adoration.
Another selfie session ensued with the younger crowd having selfies with the young Chinese crowd. Corentin, aka Sir Fanny Magnet, and Paul “the Duck Tongue” Trouillet had obviously told their fan club of their imminent arrival. But unexpectedly, that same younger Chinese crowd came up to me asking very shyly if they could have photos with me. I don’t know if it was the Uncle Ian legendary charm or the Father Christmas effect; it certainly left me feeling even more wonderful!
Yes, I think you might have guessed by now, but it was back onto the buses, and off to the venue. I had certainly been inspired for this concert by the kindness and bienveillance of the local population. I would have to make this a performance to remember. And indeed, it was!
After a late night chat (you know how it goes on tour – what happens, stays on tour), I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a lie-in. And it was just what I needed. This felt like our mini-break during the tour – a sort of weekend off. It was well deserved. Life on tour can be demanding, and the emotional investment involved can really take its toll. Corentin and I both got up at the same time, and he was off to join the others in the big city. As for me, I was having a day to myself with my little companion – the X100F. Just the two of us.
So, what was the plan for the day? Well, I was hoping to visit a spa for a massage to sort out my legs. I’m not exactly fond of pain, but thought it would do me good. I have arthritis in my right knee, and although the weight loss has relieved much of the pain, my left knee has been compensating, and my left calf was starting to feel like it was on the brink of tearing. Not ideal. I had found a few places on TripAdvisor, one of which had a rather dubious reputation – apparently, not only offering massages but also “happy endings.” Definitely not for me. I did find a more refined option with a solid reputation for wellness. Perfect. All I had to do now was find it.
As I left the hotel, I bumped into Jennifer Courcier, our soloist and guest star. She still has an amazing voice – if you caught last week’s concert post, you would have heard it. If not, well, go have a listen now. I’ll wait…
Starbucks and Cultural Contradictions
Good, wasn’t it? Doesn’t she sing beautifully? Jennifer mentioned she was heading to the beach but first needed a coffee fix. Starbucks was nearby, so off we went for a caffeine hit. Now, whenever I hear the word “Starbucks,” the phrase “basic bitch” comes to mind. I never know what to order, so, with a bit of help, I discovered that “ordinary” coffee is actually a double espresso. My anxiety was starting to rise as I tried to make the choice, but I finally settled on the “Yunnan” blend. The Chinese barista prepared it with such care that I almost felt like royalty. Things were already looking up.
We sat on the terrace and chatted. I’d been mentoring one of my younger horn players to help him out of a funk. He had recently switched mouthpieces to improve his upper range but went back to his old one. Classic horn player existential crisis. If you know, you know. Jennifer had witnessed one of my coaching sessions and seemed quite impressed by the process. Maybe I did know a thing or two about teaching after all.
The coffee was excellent, and so was the company. We chatted some more, staying off the topic of music. Who wants to talk shop when you can get to know the real person? It humanises them, and Jennifer shared the story of how she became a professional singer, her journey to this point. We eventually parted ways, and I popped back into Starbucks to buy a couple of mugs for the children. One less thing to argue about back home.
Solo Adventure – Exploring the City
I managed to find the metro on my own and bought my little green ticket. The attendant asked where I was going and showed me the map. I couldn’t make sense of it, so out came my phone to zoom in on the stop I needed. I suddenly felt very old, yet thoroughly modern.
On the train, I just watched people, even managed to get a photo or two. My destination? Window to the World – a theme park where you can see replicas of monuments from around the world. I wasn’t going to pay for the full experience, as I’ve already seen many of the real monuments during my travels, but it seemed like good material for photography.
I’ve mentioned before the cultural differences between France and China, but this next observation took me by surprise. Let me introduce you to our characters: Chinese girlfriend and Chinese boyfriend. Chinese girlfriend is the picture of elegance, effortlessly fashionable, her makeup and hair flawless. Chinese boyfriend, by definition, is the photographer, capturing every moment to make his girlfriend look like a top model. She strikes a pose, usually demure and poised, while he stands there, holding the handbag, looking less than graceful. After a few snaps, she sends him back to retake the shot, and they repeat the process at every new location.
I could understand the desire to control one’s image, especially in a location that might seem exotic for a Chinese person, just as a pagoda in Europe feels exotic for us. In some ways, I must seem a bit exotic to them, too. Later, I learned that some people had been taking photos of me without approaching. It might have been a respect thing, as I was a bit older than them.
I wandered around, watching society unwind on a Sunday outing. It felt good to be alive. But then, it was time to head to my massage.
The Google Maps Mishap
I knew the spa wasn’t far away, but that’s where I made the mistake of trusting Google Maps in China. Let’s just say it’s not the most reliable way to get around here. It led me in the wrong direction, and before I knew it, I was walking the streets, getting increasingly lost. But in moments like these, you often find unexpected shots because you’re paying attention to everything, frantically trying to orient yourself. I eventually found my way thanks to a kind gentleman at a hotel who pointed me in the right direction. I was back on track.
The Deep Tissue Experience
Arriving at the spa, I was greeted by dimmed lighting, tea, and a comfortable chair to relax in. I chose a deep tissue massage that would last an hour – pure self-care. I was told there was a short wait, so I took the opportunity to edit some of my photos from earlier in the day. I was offered more tea by the receptionist, who made sure I felt well taken care of.
When it was my turn, I was shown to the massage room and instructed to change into the disposable undies and bathrobe. Let’s just say, as a bigger guy, I was given their largest robe, and it was definitely on the small side. The little lady who came in to perform the massage had no hesitation in digging her elbows into my back with surprising force. She asked if the pressure was okay, and honestly, it felt like her elbows were massaging so deep that they had gone right through me. The pressure was definitely intense, and despite whincing a little, I said the pressure was fine, lying through my back teeth. She worked through my back, shoulders, and calves, and though at times it felt a “little” too much, I could feel the benefits immediately. They don’t call it deep tissue for nothing!
Recharging and Reflection
After the massage, I was feeling thoroughly relaxed, though not quite “recharged” yet. It would take a couple of days before I truly felt the benefits, but it was already worth it. I was pampered with more tea, biscuits, and nuts – twice! I couldn’t fault the service.
Next, I popped into a shopping mall near the hotel, hoping to find a silk tie for my outfit. Dark jeans, nice shirt, and sports jacket – I looked quite dashing, if I do say so myself. But the price of the ties wasn’t going to work for me, I’m fine with a little luxury now and again, but everything within reason…
A Humorous End to the Day
I took the tube back to the hotel, but of course, I foolishly tried to use Google Maps again to navigate. That was a mistake. I ended up lost. As my phone battery started running low, I sent a WhatsApp message to Corentin, who suggested I take a taxi and sent me the address in Chinese. I was perfectly safe, but definitely lost. Eventually, I hailed a cab, showed the driver the address, and thanked him for saving me. When I told him how awful Google Maps was in China, he just smiled. The fare wasn’t much, but the relief of getting back to the hotel was priceless.
As the great man himself once said, “All’s well that ends well.”
It had been a relaxing day. I’d emptied my mind by wandering around Shenzhen, taking colour photos for my wife, editing them on the go with Lightroom CC on my phone—all the power of Lightroom, neatly packaged for mobile. The afternoon had been just as easy-going. I could get used to this.
Corentin, Monsieur Lover Lover, and Paul “the Duck Tongue” Trouillet had decided that, since we weren’t performing that night, we’d head out for a bit of fun. Thus, Operation Shenzhen Nights was born. They’d planned everything down to the last detail. The walk to the tube station was about a kilometre, and even with my gammy knee, it was doable.
So, off we went—a whole group of us—to the Shenzhen tube. Along the way, we passed bustling restaurants where people were already seated for dinner. We walked by a pet shop where people were cuddling kittens. At least, I hoped it was just a pet shop and not a restaurant! The kittens were adorable.
The Saturday night energy was in full swing, with people out for meals or simply strolling. We were about to do much the same.
First, the journey into town. Entering the tube station, I was relieved to see all the signs in both Chinese and English—a lifesaver, as my Chinese still needs work. Passing through a baggage and body scanner was certainly out of the ordinary, but I quickly got over it. People often talk about personal freedoms in China, but it didn’t faze me in the least.
We bought our tickets—or more accurately, small green plastic disks that you scan to access the platform. Then came the stairs, and that’s when my gammy knee started to let itself be heared. Fortunately, there was a lift, which would have been a shame not to use. When the train arrived, I managed to grab a seat, camera ready to snap photos of the metro ride.
About an hour later, we reached our destination, where Operation Shenzhen Nights would truly begin.
Corentin, always as eager as a five-year-old at the zoo, practically bounced with excitement. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I tried to keep up, though one day I’ll have to explain the “pace of the slowest man” rule to him.
As we exited the tube, we were greeted by a sea of lights, red lanterns swaying overhead in celebration of Chinese New Year, and professional TikTok setups. These weren’t just quick phone clips—this was full-scale production, complete with lighting and sound. I still don’t quite get TikTok, but they sure seem to.
Paul and Corentin were already eager to dive into the street food, and it wouldn’t be the first stop of the evening. Skewers with all kinds of “supposedly” edible things lined the stalls. I was fine with chicken and octopus but drew the line at scorpions and crickets. Maybe next time I’ll embrace my more adventurous side.
The place was packed, with street restaurants everywhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a shop selling mineral water and bought a litre. I felt much better after hydrating. I knew it would mean a bathroom hunt later, but I threw caution to the wind. “Bugger it,” I thought. Some risks are worth taking.
The night was buzzing with energy—smells, sounds, and lights everywhere. Red lanterns swayed overhead, casting a warm glow as the city geared up for Chinese New Year.
Paul and Corentin thrived in the chaos, eagerly planning their next round of snacks while some of the group veered off to McDonald’s for a quick bite. As we waited, we soaked in the atmosphere. When the others rejoined us, I was already with my camera taking shots of a city that seemed to be in perpetual motion. Operation Shenzhen Nights was rich with everything that mattered—good company, questionable snacks, and memories destined to linger long after the evening faded.
We continued walking, and the boys ended up finding tofu in sauce, which they let me taste. I must learn how to cook tofu like that at home. But again, I drew the line at eating durian. “It can have a rather pungent smell,” he said, going for the understatement of the year.
As we left the main drag, the goal was to find a watering hole. And we did! More beer, and a last chance to have a bit to eat. I kept it simple with my food choices, but one of the group tried roasted silk worm chrysalids. Definitely interesting, but it turned out to be one of the less than tasty things of the evening.
The youngsters wanted to go to a nightclub, an idea which wasn’t really for me at nearly 53 years old. I’m not a fan of nightclubs and haven’t set foot in one since the early ’90s. Still not a fan 30 years later. The elders of the group headed out for a beer, and the more adventurous of them had rice wine—or rather, rice alcohol. I ended up chatting to one of them until half past six in the morning. He had things to get off his chest, and I entered Uncle Ian mode.
