Aurora

Brooklyn, NY

Chris Rock once provided a pertinent sound bite, saying that there are two types of malls: malls that white people go to, and malls that white people used to go to.  A funny line in its own right, it was also shared by some friends in high school during our daily commute past the Aurora Mall.  Fast forward fifteen years and it would be no surprise to our former selves where a midnight multiplex massacre would take place.  I can't say I'm so surprised as my present self.

There are few things more American than firearms.  Giving weapons a close run for the money in the modern era is victimhood.  We see some tragedy, perceive some slight, real of imagined, and latch ourselves onto it like it's our turn on the mechanical bull in the crowded bar.  We know we'll get bucked off quickly, and we know we'll make it look more arduous than it really is, but look how many people pay attention to us while we're on it.

So I feared I was feeling such this morning as I read about my hometown.  That's five miles from where I grew up!  That's two miles from my church!  My favorite German restaurant is in that same complex!  Now, everyone, write on my Facebook wall and share some sympathy.

Indeed.  Of the global population, I probably rank somewhere in the top half-million when it comes to associations with the Aurora Mall (the press is calling it the Town Center, but trust me, you can't rebrand the Aurora Mall, no matter how much you spend on changing the facade.)  I left long ago.  I went away to school in the midwest, spent a year volunteering in Africa, wandered a bit more and somehow find myself receiving my mail in Brooklyn these days.  As my late grandmother remarked, I undid centuries' worth of my family's migrations with a single plane ticket.  Aurora was always great to come home to for the holidays, but I'm just one of those kids with their eyes perpetually on the horizon.

Truth be told, I'd be farther away from the tragedy had I never left.  My parents shelled out for a Catholic school down Parker Road, so I know what crowd I I'd be with if I stayed.  My peers knew their fathers, had cars on their sixteenth, filled out applications for this thing called "college."  They've got their own set of problems now, but none of us ever feared for our personal safety while wearing a Starter jacket during school hours.

I've come to appreciate growing up between the two worlds.  I can talk literature while playing drinking games with the car dealers and mortgage brokers; I know where to keep my eyes and how to comport myself in those......um......diverse parts of town.  Just as I would never trade my quality Jesuit education, so too am I grateful for those moments of terror when John Norman was about to beat the living shit out of little skinny me.

So imagine my sorrow, but, moreover, my resigned understanding when I learned about today's shooting.  Of course that happened where it happened.  Of course I don't have to make frantic phone calls home because people I know don't go to movies at midnight, and certainly not there.  So I could be sad without grieving, feel without hurting, shocked and sympathetic with the full lucidity to shake my head and say, "That's Aurora."  Put their names with Zach Obert, Ed Morales, all those people working at Chuck E Cheese that one night, those at Skate City another, plus at least a couple dozen each year.  My City Of Lights always has police tape and body bags at the ready.

So imagine my disappointment (yes, I am saying disappointment) when they flashed a picture of the "suspect."  Had he been some young, angry, discontent and misguided dropout from Gateway or Overland or Aurora Central, it would have fit the narrative.  There would have been the grief and anger, the pleas for solidarity, a couple wordless candlelight marches and a tearful ceremony of forgiveness between the families and then we could have had The Conversation.  I was all set to lead the excoriation against the NRA and those who fight so tirelessly to arm our streets.  I was salivating to be the one to point out (because, Look At Me, I'm from there!) the billions pouring out of Washington to the campuses of Lockheed and the Air Force Academy for industrialized murder.  Then (Then!) to juxtapose that against the budget shortfalls of Aurora Public Schools and the dearth of opportunity facing young men and women born on the wrong side of I-225.  Add a dash of resentment against the present tax structure that burdens the poor (which would most certainly have affected the formative years of The Shooter), a pinch of militant incredulity at the for-profit health care system (which would have completely ignored the psychological red flags of The Shooter), a dash of lament at the urban sprawl and the sights of blight it leaves behind, then top it all off with a dollop of seething, entitled rage against the Do-Nothing Congress that scares us with abortion and birth certificates so they can keep taking bulging envelopes of cash from the people that keep guns on our streets. 

It was going to be a good one.

Instead it just turns out to be some batshit-crazy grad school ne'er-do-well with faulty neurons and a case of homesickness.  The media will fixate on the video games he played, the music he listened to, who he followed on Twitter, but I knew 90% of what I needed to know when I saw his picture and heard he was from San Diego.  Peers will describe him as "weird", neighbors as "quiet, but polite", and we'll spend a couple news cycles interpreting his creepy green eyes with our thumbs up our asses until Anderson Cooper and Oprah tell us it's about time to move on.  All the while, Romney will try to telegraph fraternity to the gun nuts in his speech of condolence, Obama will go out of his way to mention that the problem is anything other than guns for fear of losing Ohio's electoral votes, and the media will keep its helicopters and klieg lights on standby until the Next One.

An unspeakable tragedy.  A terrible morning.  Let's hug our daughters a little bit closer tonight and remember not to change a fucking thing.

Alas, The Conversation will not happen tonight.  We're destined to keep spinning our wheels into post-industrial dystopian decline and these unfortunate patrons of the silver screen will get a moment of silence at the Rockies game, maybe a couple ribbon decals to grace the cars along Peoria Street.  The rest of us will just be grateful it wasn't us and keep blazing our bold trails of meekness.

And me?  Well, I'll go back to church and that German restaurant next time I'm home.  I'll lament the loss of innocence and try to squeeze some tears out of my eyes.  And then maybe afterward, I'll feel good about my sympathy, remind myself what a terrific victim I can be while driving to a bar downtown.

why i travel

singapore

less than a week ago, i'm walking through little india in penang. from one of the video store's speakers comes gayatri mantra, a hindi chant that i recognized from my time in india a few years ago. i'm not sure exactly where i heard it, maybe the rooftop in jodhpur or one of the ganga aarti ceremonies in rishikesh or just after sunset in delhi. i am certain that it was a poignant moment. that song. it was one of those moments when the world seems to pause for you alone. it's like everything is conspiring to tell you that there's something intangibly real all around you, and it's all good. i heard it then and wanted to know its name. the other day, i walked into the video store and found out.

what i remember most vividly about that moment in india is that it was one that i wanted to put into my pocket. i wanted to saran wrap that baby and stow it away for a rainy day. it was one of those break-glass-in-case-of-emergency-need-for-inspiration memories that get us out of the emotional tunnels of the daily grind.

and then i got home and that momentum seemed to vanish a la sonny bono on a ski slope. to be honest, i started writing a novel, so much of that was self-inflicted and worthwhile in the long run. but hearing that mantra the other day was a poignant reminder. i could call it something like serendipity or destiny, but i like to keep it a bit more plausible. after all, the odds are not exactly astronomical that indian music would be playing in a part of town called little india. i think it best contextualized as a reminder of how good i feel and how great i've been to myself; how i don't have to let it slip away.

this is not a three month trip. departure to arrival, sure. but it really goes back to about one year ago, when i decided that i would travel. it goes back to every time i bit my tongue at a shitty job that allowed me to save; every time i denied myself a short-term diversion so i could be gone for a longer spell. it reaches back to every time i heard the mosquito buzz in my life that told me that something had to be swatted, something had to be itched, something had to be done.

mostly, though, it goes forward. it will be there in the spring in my step and lightness of being. it will be there in my ability to separate what matters from what is just noise. i've made some decisions about my path going forward and at least one of them involves major change. i would not have the strength to do so without these past few months.

if you want the cold, hard facts to support my reasoning for travel, i'm afraid that's as you're gonna get outta me. that may prove unsatisfactory for many out there, those that believe in tangibles and weighing them out like justice. but, dear, there ain't evidence and this is no courtroom. it's a far more important venue that i refer to as life.

if you still need the evidence, still need the play-by-play, then consider this an adumbrated attempt at appeasement. i present my reasons for why i travel:

to be bicycling in angkor wat and have to debate whether to overtake the elephant in front of me

to have to ask what day it is

to learn that it's also called the american war

to be stumbling and sweating after climbing liang biang and receive an introduction to lat barbecue and muoi ot chanh

for the only item on the daily agenda to be sunset

to see conical hats in the rice paddies

because i hear what you have to say about careers, but i remain thoroughly unconvinced

to be here, now

to be now, here

how can i be entirely sure it exists if i don't see it for myself?

to make new friends, on facebook and otherwise

for fan mail

to grab a little khe sanh soil to sprinkle in d.c.

to read matterhorn in vietnam

to feel proud to be out of my 20s

to stare at palm trees for a half-hour and think about life; to continue staring at them for another ten minutes thinking about palm trees

to spot the irrawaddy dolphin

to make solid friendships stronger

to learn the translation for 'no problem' in four languages

because i know why the caged bird sings

to watch an australian open final between a serb and a spaniard while smoking filipino hash with a german in vietnam

to go from exploring my options to optioning to explore

so that when someone asks if i'm canadian, i can reply, "hell no"

to make peace

for the slow boat

to leave it cleaner than i found it

to respect the ladyboy

for thai smiles

because for this bus ride/trek/sunset/walk/coffee/meal/beer/railway ticket queue/swim/dive/song/spectacle, we can be friends

to give myself a little credit for once

because my generation will not be able to retire

for cheap massages

to take life seriously

for strawberry shakes

for ringside seats to muay thai fights

to swim with the barracudas

to pursue that thing called happiness

for street food

to take 1400 pictures and then put the camera away for a little bit

for those 1400 pictures

for endearingly terrible lao karaoke

to follow through on that promise with the eight ball and the corner pocket

to put a face to the name

for reggae bars

to empty my life's spam folder

to arrive in tokyo and kuala lumpur at night

to be the guy riding my motobike through the hoi an pedestrian market

to say chul muouy with the fellas

to be the generation that forgives

but, again, if you have to ask, you'll never understand.


if you followed along on my journey: thank you. i appreciated the company. i'm already looking forward to having more to share in the (hopefully) not too distant future.

and to the great people of these great lands: i simply don't have the words. in their stead, i'll simply say arigato gozaimasu, khawp khun khrap, aw kohn, cam on, khawp jai lai lai, terima kasih, and thank you with perfect pronunciation and my head bowed, palms fused in front of my chest until i'm blue in the face and these tears dry up. i will very soon be gone, and you will never be forgotten.

coming home

melaka, malaysia

with regard to 'proper travel', i believe that one mentally prepares to be away for the exact amount of time they will be gone. they set an internal alarm clock, as it were. there is the initial honeymoon phase where the accumulated baggage from life over there is unpacked. one can make sweet, blissful love to the distance they've put between their stress and their self. toward the end, there is the preparation for reintegration phase where one rearms both defensively and offensively. were i to use a simile or metaphor here, it would be football and/or battle related. in between these phases, there is this thing called living.

the theory states that if you tell yourself you'll return in three months, you'll be ready to return a little bit before that point. over- or under-staying that time frame feels exactly as such. there grows the sensation that you're missing out, be that at home or on the road, case depending. it is my own theory, and according to it, i am ready to come home right about now.

i'm not. sure, okay, i really want to see some people. i miss my family. i can't wait to receive hugs from so many great friends. one of the greatest thrills in life is seeing someone's face light up when they're genuinely excited, and i mean excited, to see you after a prolonged absence. i foresee several instances of that in the coming month and that feels very good.

i miss americans. what a far cry from several years back, but i've determined that we are the funniest and most fun people to be around. i want to hear some new music and spend hours watching and rewatching every vietnam movie. i want to take my time in a great bookstore, catch a baseball game, drink a fat tire, and overdose on mexican food. the friends and family deserve another mention. and another.

but it's not lost on me that i'm closer to jakarta than new york. ditto yangon. shanghai. dhaka. lhasa. geographically, at least, and if i really press two fingers to my spirit's pulse, there are a few other senses as well. a lot of that you would already know. i travel and i write on a blog about how i like to travel; you get it. it's probably lost on nobody that i enjoy seeing new places. but it's bigger than just some desire to take some more photos, collect some more sun, challenge my gastrointestinal system with some new street food. the reason is that i'm good at this. some guys can throw a baseball, others have the patience to care for the infirm, i have talent for travel. they don't keep score on bus ride tolerance, map reading, tuk tuk bargaining, food finding, local experience locating, and they don't have target practice for kindness killing. these are skills, i tell you, and i have them.

in the west, we have personality tests and buy self-help books; we attend seminars and shadow people who are "in the field." we are supposed to add value to some supply chain and be grateful we don't have it as bad as the other guy. i've done that and i am grateful for everything i've got, but it's getting to where i don't see the point. finding a job after traveling is like casually dating after being in love. eating stouffers for dinner after a five-star brunch. it's like that ex-ballplayer in the broadcast booth or selling cars. there's somewhere we'd all rather be and we've been there before. and we were really, really good at it. we are the living, breathing, ruined for everything after.

the after, for me, for now, comes soon. before the after, come the realizations and the bargaining. the anticipations, good and bad, and the nearer i get to that 747, the worse they get. i don't want to perform solidly at a job i'm apathetic about and i don't want to politic. i don't want to spend hours on query letters and be all "professional and shit" around some literary agent. i want to network like my ass wants teeth. i don't want to get into a routine and i don't want to accept things as they are, simply because they are. and, yes, frankly, there are some things about america that i'm less than excited for. i don't want to be asked fifty times in a day about how i am doing and have none but a handful mean it. i don't want to eat across from someone on their cell phone and i really don't want to witness aggravated entitlement. i don't want to hear romney and santorum try to out-cro-magnon one another in their high-wire act for low-lying fruit.

if you're telling me to grow up, you're partially correct. this is all par for the course and one that must be navigated, even if we have to plug our noses for a stretch every now and then. and there is something really beautiful about a normal life. dorothy was right: there is no place like home. it's just that for some of us, saying those magic words and clicking the heels of the ruby slippers is a nice journey that soon has us looking for the songthaew back to oz.

so that's what it shall be: home for now and a "hello kansas i missed you so." appreciate the small stuff, spend some time with auntie em and uncle henry and remember to never take a precious moment with a great person for granted. i'll take toto for a couple spins on the bike, lend a hand on the farm, and make sure i've got my backpack on standby: it might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but there will be another twister.

pulau penang

penang, malaysia

there is an inherent dissonance between an applebee's commercial and the actual dining experience. as it appears on television, we show up with loose neck ties after a great day at the office to find all our smiling friends of variegated ethnicities gathered around and making merry. a waitress with perky tits and great teeth delivers a couple tall beers and sizzling fajitas, adding an innocuous rejoinder to whatever you said upon entering camera left. your friends all laugh at your expense and you join in after feigning objection. she really got you there, jim. she sure did.

in reality, you're likely to be one of three customers in the entire place. it's mid-afternoon and you're alone at the bar, almost entirely ignored by a bartender riveted by a game of angry birds. you stare down at a plate full of stale mozzarella sticks and think about how the only reason you took the highway off-ramp was because you wanted a clean place to take a dump. this place is far from a neighborhood, and you're definitely not "eating good."

an exaggeration, of course, but once i decided to leave koh tao, i realized that this was close to the sentiment i was feeling. my experience on the island closely resembled the plot of forgetting sarah marshall, without the humor, sadness, or dramatic tension. everything was like a postcard: the views were stunning, but it was two-dimensional and there wasn't much beneath it. there were thai people, but they could have been stage props brought in by the island's management. my lost tribe of merry pranksters was nowhere to be found.

the problem i found in koh tao is similar to the problem i found with thailand in general. in a few words, amateur hour. bush league. off-off-off-off-off broadway. not the thai people, of course. any fault i attribute to them is the fact that their wonderful nature created a troubling predicament. like mexico, thailand suffers from a perfect storm of perfection that bleeps big on the sonar of the less sophisticated. i am referring to bros, bro. the country has a major international airport, fantastic beaches, cheap prices, great food, easy transport, a lax policy to alcohol consumption, and super friendly people. it is, with great reason, a fantastic travel destination, and the shame of it all is that this has not gone unnoticed.

i am trying not to sound like i'm drinking perrier, using a silk kerchief to clear caviar from my beard and scoffing at the proletariat. what i'm trying to articulate is that there is a certain type of traveler, a type i became accustomed to traveling with over the years. this person does nothing extraordinary; they simply store some basic local language greetings in their head and visit a couple local places. they smile and/or acknowledge the other human beings in their presence. they do and behave in a manner commensurate with that which one would reasonably define as "nice." basically, that whole when-in-rome thing. there are those in thailand, for sure, but there was an overwhelming feeling that i was a visitor at the sigma chi house's annual thai fiesta (because they would call it that.) you take your beverage in a bucket and make sure your muscles are flexed as you drink it to better showcase your tribal tattoos. there is a full-moon party tonight in koh phangan, don't dare ask me if i'm going.

so it was a relief when my travel plans were diverted to singapore and an even greater relief to arrive in malaysia. i hadn't really given the country much consideration and after half a day i am already scheming on how to get back. i am walking around an island that is the love-child of every major eastern and western naval power of the past millenium. i had dim sum for breakfast, will have indian for lunch, and then hit two or three street carts offering a melange of tastes for dinner. and the best part? it's all local. i have already had three endearing, genuine conversations with locals and foresee several more in the days remaining.

so i know i'm contradicting everything i wrote two posts ago. i swear i thought i was telling the truth. i thought i wanted to drop my pack for good. i thought i was fine with spending us$15 on lodging, sitting still or alternating my position beneath the palm trees depending on the whim for sun or shade. i thought i was ready for unapologetic relaxation. turns out, i was relaxed enough.

i will say that the spirit of that post remains intact. one should conclude their trip doing what they want and, if i may dare say so, what makes them happy. for me, that will include three days of five-plus hour train trips with the days in between dedicated to walking with my camera, pausing for street food. if it must be reduced: eating good, in the neighborhood.

standby

chumphon, thailand

of a myriad of childhood influences, the fact that my mom worked for a major airline may have been the greatest. the job, from my vantage point, was far from great. the commute was long, management sounded to be aloof at best, and humanity rarely gets uglier than when someone is upset at an airport (if you want to see an asshole personified, look no further than the customers queued at an airline kiosk next time there's a delay.) of course, i didn't have to endure any of that. i just got to enjoy a perk that makes the company car look like, well, peanuts (sorry for the obvious in-flight reference.)

i am speaking of free or extremely reduced-cost air travel, but i'm sure you already picked up on that. after the paying passengers have boarded, there will typically be a handful of empty seats distributed to the standby list, the end of which is comprised of airline employees and their companions. usually, there are enough leftover seats that you will get to where you want to go. it may not be the first flight and may entail an out-of-the-way connection (or four), but the odds are in your favor.

because of this benefit, we had season tickets to university of washington football, even though we lived in denver. more than once, we flew into lax in the morning, spent the day at disneyland, and flew back at night. when a good friend moved to cleveland, i could visit him for a week every summer. for one long weekend holiday my senior year, mom took me to australia for a few days. i also saw my grandparents as frequently as if they were neighbors, even though they lived in seattle.

it was as great as it sounds, but it also instilled some heavy doses of humility. it didn't matter if we had a week marked off the calendar and hotel reservations; if flights to honolulu were full, we weren't going. we had to dress well and sit upright and be on our best behavior, otherwise "our" seats could be passed on to someone down the list (though i think my mom exaggerated that part.) it takes two hands to count the number of times i have slept inside chicago o'hare's airport and there have been multiple holidays that were this close to being spent in a food court.

the big takeaway, as far as i see it, is that my modus operandi was entirely molded on the concourses of this great world's airports: the world is yours, so long as you'll fit. or: you can go anywhere you want to go, just don't be a dick about it. however you wish to phrase it, i owe an astronomical debt to the cosmos for granting access to the globe and front-row seats at seminars on patience, hard work, entitlement, and humility at the school of hard knocks. the end result may not be receiving any awards, but, hey, i'm in thailand right now. and i'm not being a dick about it.

this present trip is a result of several serendipitous blessings, none greater than the reinstatement of flight priveleges this year. you probably don't want to hear what the flight portion does or does not cost, and you certainly don't want to hear that i went over the water both times in business class. what is more relevant is that the time to return is nearing and my eyes in the sky have suggested that bangkok is looking a little tough to get out of. there's one flight a day and it looks to be a photo finish each and every one. what could happen? i could catch the first flight out. i could also spend a week riding back and forth on the sky train on polar ends of unsuccessful attempts to fly the friendly skies.

so i'm going to singapore. flights are looking pretty good for early next week and since i'm only a few train rides away from the bottom of the peninsula, i reckon i'll just take the rails down. i'll get a malaysia stamp in the passport and introduce some new street food to the system. vacation was nice and lovely, but i've got to catch a flight in about a week. until then, the world is still mine.

vacation

koh tao, thailand

there is a stark difference between travel and vacation. the former is the thinking (wo)man's foray into the foreign, a search within and without for some sort of meaning. vacation is putting on the blinders to all the stresses and worries of the world over there, a chance to forget and recharge. the participants in both activities, like it or not, are tourists.

a traveler will tell you that someone on vacation is entirely oblivious of their surroundings and only looking to massage their id. the average person on vacation does not know who a traveler is or what they do, only that they do not want them near. the traveler is typically identified by wearing pants or shorts that look like they were cut from some sort of florid, indigenous tapestry. the vacationer typically sports a tank top with a logo or cartoon strip advertising that they do, in fact, enjoy drinking alcohol. the advantage of the traveler, and i would add obligation, is to end their wanderings with a vacation. i am doing so right now.

if the key to travel is a submission to spontaneity, the secret sauce in a vacation is advanced planning and rigid inertia during the period in question. i have known all along that i would vacation in southern thailand and had the benefit of traveling in the same region. most of the farang on the banana pancake trail have come from here or are likewise on their way, so there has been no shortage of advice over the past few months. there were a few who recommended koh tao, sure. more important were the endorsements of other islands and beaches along the way. at the risk of sounding as i am, which in this case is extremely judgmental, i have to say that an understanding of the messenger was vital in understanding the message. i admit that there have been numerous occasions where i've asked an unsuspecting twenty-something which places they or their kind enjoy going so that i can cross it off my list. this process, more scientific and kind that it sounds, brought me to koh tao.

i've got a few days of diving under the belt. my allegiance to inactivity has kept me on the main strip in town, sairee beach, spelling breaks from spy novels by cooling off in the sea or quick jaunts to order coffee shakes. at sunset, i have several options for restaurants with padded seating and a chillout soundtrack. after washing off the day's accumulated salt, i hit one of a handful of trusty pad thai carts and log some critical people-watching time. once dinner is through, i could go to any number of the bars associated with the flyers i've accumulated in my evening walk. for no reason in particular, i've preferred a leisurely stroll back and an earlier hour for sleep.

part of that is to say that sairee beach was good for my diving oxygen supply but has not been quite as aligned with my spirit. not that it is a bad place, just one that suggests that i could find better on this island. so i will, tomorrow. i will rent an eyesore of a motorbike and ride around the hills and peninsulas of this island until i find that eden worthy of my final days. there will be sand to dig in my toes, a modest hill for climbing, and something soft to lean on or swing in for the three hours i will dedicate to the sunset. and the right guest house will announce itself to me clearly. no sooner than i step off my motorbike will a pair of bearded gentlemen with the potential for good conversation relieve me of my heavy bag and take it directly to my modestly-priced bungalow, the last vacancy remaining. two sylphlike local women will hand me a cold chang and a kebab with large, freshly grilled prawns and lead me arm-in-arm down to a large bonfire on the beach below. upon my arrival, the small, friendly congregation will break out, in unison, "it's about time. we've been waiting for you."

and i will not think about my return, my reintegration, my acquiescence to wearing shoes and a belt. i will just be here, now, and be now, here. i will do all that a proper vacation entails, and not a damn thing more.

under the sea

koh tao, thailand

the subject is scuba diving. pressed for metaphors, i would go with human flight. not in the roger-victor-you're-cleared-for-takeoff sense, more in the donning a cape and looking on the hamlet below with benevolent or nefarious vigilance, case depending. on the mechanics alone, the metaphor suits. up here on terra firma, we're a bit constrained by gravity and an extra dimension in our movements; a bit like those limitations imposed upon early era nintendo video game protagonists. but down below (and as the movies suggest, up above), one's body can move up, down, and side-to-side with scant limitation save for physical conditioning and oxygen supply. but that's not the reason for the metaphor (or was this a simile?)

i've gone deep, real deep, five times over the past forty-eight hours per the requirements of my advanced certification course. there was one dive that involved a one meter square and my best impression of a performing seal. another had a compass on my wrist with a little obstacle course and the third found a flashlight in my left hand as we searched the coral after sunset. both of my dives today bottomed out at thirty meters and that was the "lesson" in its entirety.

the reason behind all of it, and i'm getting back to the flying thing mentioned above, is that scuba diving is fun. it is surreal. it is one of those rare activities that can literally transport you into another world (if you do not classify the bottom of the ocean as another world, then we are in complete disagreement.) to know barracuda in its grilled form is to know a delicacy; to see a school of hundreds of them slice by above you is to have an experience. to hear ringo sing about an octopus' garden is to appreciate the quantity of drugs he must have ingested; to see one hovering under the coral is to understand that he could have been dead sober and padi certified. it is easy enough to dismiss the clipboard-toting and hairy-legged girl accosting you to save the coral reef outside whole foods or your favorite bookstore, but to see tens of thousands of inch-long fish hover and sway within inches of a massive submerged outcropping is to understand that the coral respires. it breathes and lives like any of us, though it's far more beautiful and supports infinitesimally more life.

and that's still only part of it. looking up to see the sun cut through deep, azure waters? yeah. hearing your breath come in sounding like you're on life support and then expelling a thousand clear bubbles that come out sounding like currency in a bubbly kingdom. seeing that this fish could kill you but it won't; you could kill that one but you could never; all the while this one is rubbing against your leg and another is inches from your mask and you think yourself better for all of it combined.

at some point, i realized that the best comparison is travel. both experiences involve a displacement from the norm and an immersion into the foreign. you drop into a different world to which you can never truly belong. even if you memorize the lay of the land, find a way to know and communicate with the inhabitants, find yourself a never exhaustive supply of clean air and nourishment, there will always be at least one thing you will never know because you're not from there. you never could be and you never will be and you must accept the fact that you are there to learn and love and embrace as much as possible to take back in your heart and mind, because there is no other way it can go with you. at least, at the end of this trip, i will have another degree of certification for one of them.

border run

chumphon, thailand

not more than ten hours ago, i was sitting on a wooden bench overlooking a roundabout for the vehicles of a high-end resort, listening to britney spears sing a missive "from the bottom of [her] broken heart." a bit incongruous, one might conclude, the image of my bearded, bohemian self waiting for a shuttle at a luxury casino/golf course complex. still probably not as odd as the fact that the background for this setting was none other than one the world's poorest and most isolated nations, myanmar.

the how and why are simple enough to explain. thailand grants foreigners from most countries fifteen days' stay when they cross in by land. one can stay beyond that, but the daily surcharge comes in at close to us$20 and for some of us that sounds like a whole lot more than "twenty bucks." of course, one could always just "go home," but that doesn't sound like too much fun now, does it? this means that those wishing to stay longer need to make a dash for one of several borders before returning. the free market disciple will say that the market is there to fulfill the need. i would be more likely to say that this creates an opportunity for someone to make a buck while adding no value to the world. potato/potahto.

so, i had to go to myanmar. and, technically, i did. i made a beeline from chiang mai to ranong over the course of 29 hours and found one of several services in town offering 'visa runs.' my boat left at 8:30 this morning. we crossed in a high-speed ferry (mr. thein sein: tear down this andaman sea) and disembarked at the concrete steps for andaman club, the aforementioned resort and casino. i followed a group of four russians exhibiting early morning malaise through their tepid dubaduh dubaduh plazita blazita plazita blazitas through a quick passport stamping and onto a hotel shuttle. from there, to the hotel lobby, where we turned around so that i could be serenaded by a melancholy ms. spears and eventually shuttled back to the boat.

it's been a day of my life that has not made me a better man. the fresh-inked and well-pressed myanmar stamp in my passport will serve as a flipbook reminder of how i haven't really been to the country. the images of the casino and its obeisant staff will be the ones playing through my mind each time i read about the very real people having very real struggles in the very real part of that country. and me, i lost 1000 baht on the tour and one day on the beach. i guess if i put it in the context of the myanmar i didn't see today (but will someday), i really have no basis for complaint.

fight night

chiang mai, thailand

it's somewhat easy to forget that things are a bit different over here. there are the temples and a different alphabet, but after a while the signage and aesthetics blend into the background. if laos served consistent reminders that i was not in kansas anymore, thailand has been far more subtle. roads are paved and often have more than one lane going in the same direction(!). wifi is ubiquitous and ronald mcdonald is frequently winking in collusion at the starbucks mermaid. again with the seven-elevens.

last night was unmistakeably a step back into the land of yore. if not culturally, then at least with regard to western ethical notions of what should and should not be classified as entertainment. i, along with some few hundred people, paid about twenty dollars to watch shirtless thai adolescents punch and kick each other for sport. and it made all the difference.

we arrived too late to place a proper wager on the girls' fight. by my guess, we entered while they were in the second or third round, as evidenced by the accumulated sweat and slightly swollen eyes. the fight came to a decision and i was left with deep-seeded concerns about the corruption of the thai state. was i questioning how any country would deem it legal for young girls to harm themselves for exhibition while profiteers sold tickets and beer? that too, but mostly how any judge could have given the decision to the girl in the blue corner. she done got beat, and everyone saw it.

the fighting took a more straightforward course for the next couple bouts. the two of us alternated choosing fighters and shadowboxed in our seats alongside them. the boys wore traditional head wear resembling stringless badminton rackets and gave some sort of buddhist devotion to each corner before the bout. the bell would ring and the three-piece band played cobra charming music behind us. the boys squared off and tried to make their fathers proud. us too. we were glad that nobody got hurt and savored the victories when they came. i'll forever cherish that moment when geng chayyaigym's knee went up and pataek sitkruood went down and i found myself the new owner of a tall chang beer. these are moments in life.

there was a moment of dubious moral levity during the king-of-the-hill sequence. six boys were paraded into the ring, blindfolded, and the farang in the audience questioned if we were really about to see what we were about to see. we were, but at least kicking was not allowed. the kids blindly felt their way around the ring until making contact with someone else and then wailed away. on more than one occasion, the referee was dodging a barrage of attacks. the five minutes allowed the combatants to endear themselves to us. we felt like we truly knew them. there was tornado kid, spinning around in 720s with the hopes of delivering the lethal blow to someone. mostly, he fell into the opposite corner and one or two others would trip over his body. windmill kid was vicious. he softly felt around until finding someone, then reached back like he was pitching a softball and coming down hard on their back. i probably would have fallen just like all the others did; if that kid eats less than two dozen egg rolls a day, count me in the surprised column.

the night closed with a three-round exhibition between a guy from california and a local fighter past his prime. the american held himself well in both fight and sportsmanship, even if he fell victim to a biased decision. he was grateful for the call-and-response i started during the fight from team america and really wished he could have stayed to talk a bit longer. unfortunately, he was gassed and regretting the beer he had before the fight. we hung around for a photo shoot on the canvas and the opportunity for a game of pool. the sounds gone and the lights turning off in the complex, we left and stepped back into the more recognizable world, grateful for the detour.

seeing hands

chiang mai, thailand

they say that familiarity breeds contempt, and that would be taking it too far. in southeast asia's particular case, familiarity breeds familiarity, or, at least begets a law of diminishing returns for various stimuli and phenomena. approaching two weeks until departure, i'm starting to open my eyes once more to my surroundings, very much aware of the upcoming transition from life moment to lifetime memory. this manifests itself in various ways. there has been a spike in strawberry shake consumption. i've embarked on this strange activity referred to as "shopping." and i've begun to read the writing on the wall. that's where they have the prices listed for massages.

they're cheap and they're offered everywhere. in my experience, they're so ubiquitous that after two weeks i hardly noticed someone was willing to relieve my body's accumulated stress for us$5 per hour. it was just par for the course. my own massage visits have come in spurts, if you'll permit me one unintended, inappropriate double entendre. my first visit was on my first day in bangkok. it was a godsend after arriving from winter and seemed like a fantastic way to kill an hour while waiting for the lsu-alabama kickoff. i crossed a border and briefly continued the trend in cambodia. the country has a fantastic concept where they train the blind to give massages, thus allowing a respectable trade and wage to the handicapped. i had two myself, calling it quits after the second confirmed that their mentor's teachings were a little too heavy on the death grip. not only did i pay to feel like i was in guantanamo, i also got the opportunity to complain to a blind man. i should have kicked a legless orphan just to keep that high going.

save for one post-trek visit in sapa, there was nothing until this dimaggio-streak i've had going for the past week. the thais have the best practice, in my opinion, and the weather has turned so that there is really no point in being aggressive with sightseeing during the day's hottest hours. letting someone knead your muscles and crack your bones is a great way to give your book an hour or two of intermission.

and the atmosphere has been fantastic. spending the real money yields the scented candles and soundtracks inspired by sounds of the forest or waves crashing. that whole thing strikes me as an intimacy i simply cannot associate with stretching my tendons. what i've found so far in the north is the equivalent of a korean nail salon. older ladies chat away in open rooms with several foam mattresses and spinning fans. i have my eyes closed while one of them eases the tension from the kilometers of walking and hours of compression in planes, trains, and automobiles. she gets to catch up on gossip with her friends while letting my lanky frame redefine the potential of just what a limb could be.

all the while, i get comfort in the security that i'm not going into one of those other massage parlors. i'm pleased to report that i haven't even been offered a happy ending. many people come to this part of the world specifically for that additional service, so it is a potential hazard. there are concerns about the objectification of women and the health risks of solicitation, but i'm afraid that my reason for not partaking is far simpler: it would just feel weird (not literally, of course; one could argue that it would actually feel quite good.) i should probably be more vehemently opposed to the practice on moral grounds, but i've met enough people who do or have done it and it really is far more nuanced than the larger dialogue cedes. if the masseuse is willing and of a certain age, how you spend your money is really none of my business.

which all feels refreshing. what, you ask, feels refreshing? why, the relief at being able to come clean about how i'm not coming dirty (okay, sorry, two double entendres) during this trip. it's something that is often wondered whenever you meet a solo male traveler above a certain age and it's always good to dispel. of course, i could just be dispelling it publicly to hide my shame at having done the practice privately. but then again, why would i write about the topic if i had done it? wouldn't that just be drawing attention to the whole matter, attention that i would be looking to avoid? then again, you counter, maybe i am soliciting and using this forum to take control of the dialogue and shape it with my lies (inspired by the republican primaries, of course)?

listen, i only have two things to say before closing this out: 1) i am not paying for sexual relations, and 2) i should have just written about the strawberry shakes.

into the hills

pai, thailand

there have been better nights' sleep. with several gaps between the bamboo reeds comprising the wall and my placement right beside it, the cool night air was a formidable obstacle. though the reeds were woven tighter on the floor beneath, their firmness eliminated several potential sleeping positions. in the window between howling dogs and singing cocks, there was maybe an hour's worth of sleep to be found. the next morning, i was tired but not alone. between the eight of us trekking for a night with a hill tribe, we could probably combine for the doctor-recommended night's rest of one individual. not that we were complaining.

we didn't sign up for comfort, though that's not to say we registered for discomfort, either. it came with the territory and the territory, we were told, came with the indigenous people to whom it has belonged for over a century. we spent the night with the lahu and finished by going in a karen village (the karen are a people. had it been singular, there would have been fewer photographs and we, most assuredly, would have worn protection.) if my trek into the past in sapa was real if not authentic, then the past two days made up for whatever local snap, crackle, and pop was lacking in the prior. no, there was no indigenous dancing. no animal sacrifice or primal incantations. there would be no exotic wardrobe.

what we did receive was a warm welcome, plenty of tea, and a room large enough that each farang could have their spread for the night. if we were not given sleep numbers and teddy bears, then our soft, pampered western bodies were better for it. the local children in the village stared at us as if we were foreigners, something not always felt on treks into cultural hinterlands. the town was without a shop, nor any other opportunity for us to shill out our baht into the local economy. it was a town, and we could stay there. we had a great guide, so we were able to learn a thing or two.

our overnight village was near inaccessible on account of the fires. it is the dry season around these parts, a time when locals burn the forest to clear and prepare valuable land for the upcoming planting season. if it sounds a bit narrow-minded to destroy something that benefits all of us (the forest) because of individual needs, you might be on to something. if you saw that it all comes back to us, you'd be getting warmer still.

they didn't always need so much land. the local people throughout northern thailand and the area known as the golden triangle have not always been subsistence farmers. they used to cultivate opium poppies, something that required a percentage of the labor and netted one more zero in their income than the present tense. we in the west decided that we didn't want opium in our backyard, so they couldn't have it in their front. nevermind that it was the cash crop for entire populations for generations. nevermind that it was going to show up on our shores and in our veins nonetheless. nevermind that it's the substance of the problem, not the substances we use to hide behind, that is the real issue.

they continue to work and not complain, because only one of those pays the bills. they'll keep the present rotation of burn, plant, harvest and add the occasional supplement provided by a visit from the farang. i'll just wish that we in the west could humanize our drug laws so that both users and primary growers are not the ones punished. it's always the middlemen that create the problems; the rest of us are just trying to get something to help us sleep.

life of pai

pai, thailand

one would be forgiven for confusing this town with boulder, co. there are mountains looming, a meandering creek, courses for yoga and massage, an abundance of thai food, and not all of the long-hairs are posers. there is even a buffalo exchange.

the town has the feel of being the right place to be for me, right now. wifi is abundant and i've been able to get good audio feeds for the ncaa basketball tournament (my bracket is looking pretty tough, btw [raises and holds hand in air, waiting for monster high five.]) plus, i'm sick. nothing bad, just seems like the mucus factory got a stimulus grant and my slight cough comes with textures. i did just spend three consecutive days of at least eleven hours in moving vessels with dozens of others, so being sedentary in a relaxed town is as good a prescription as any. a relaxed town that sells ginger tea on every corner, i might add.

still, i'm a bit bored by it all. the "illness" is not confining; i could very well keep pushing the proverbial tempo if i wanted. actually, if some dutch couple did not want to ride elephants today, i would be cooking with bamboo and sleeping near the myanmar border right now. instead, i'll have to wait until tomorrow. the meantime has been filled with hammocks and tea and earnest attempts at breaking through the poor writing in a tesla biography. the number of fresh fruit smoothies is approaching double digits. and i'm not relaxed.

what i thought would be an exercise in recovery has actually been a test of patience. this is week number twelve (more or less) of get-up-and-go. riding from dawn to dusk to pack all the travel into one day, allowing the next for whatever temple/beach/historical site is at the end of the road. i've parked myself for four or five days here or there, but even that felt methodical. those who know me would be loathe to use such pejoratives as "planner" and "restless" in my description. somehow, some way, that's kind of what i become out here.

it's a good approach for this life. spending six weeks on ecstasy in ko phi phi may work for some, but the better call is to actually, ya know, see a place. ergo, transporting oneself like a cliche '80s song title. but that day will come when the bag gets put down and there's no more guidebook necessary. get-up-and-go will come from the alarm clock and some expectant combination of boss and client. coffee will be taken in motion and the ability to put something off for another day will provide the true reward. the key, i'm thinking, is how to balance the two.

this is the part where i say that i have found it and, truth be told, i think i have. for me. that's why i do/did this. it involves a little more movement and a high degree of uncertainty, a combination that i'm slowly realizing brings out the best in me. so i still have a bit more time to plan. a bit more time to think of logistics. i suppose it'd be a good hour to get some more tea, maybe even a little rest. this town is suitable for the night, but there's a jungle waiting for me out there tomorrow.

a simple statement

pai, thailand

an objective statement, really, but even the most benign and general is subject to so many caveats. there are any number of prejudices and biases, whether they be known or unknown. even if i self-assess as clear and absolved of any of the aforementioned, maybe the doubt will remain in the minds of others. in an effort to inoculate against any such skepticism, a few qualifications and clarifications must precede.

there are sociocultural biases. it is necessary to acknowledge the lens of the "other" through which one regards another culture or any tangible/intangible byproducts of said perceived alien. even if the decolonization of the mind is not, ipso facto, possible in deed, it can at least be acknowledged as an inhibitor of pure objective reason. so too with every one of a wide range of lenses. the framework of paternalism most definitely applies, as do any number of historical antecedents ranging from "the white man's burden" to orientalism to the westphalian construct of the nation-state and the impressions these created/exploited. it need not be explained, though certainly bears mentioning, that though the self perceives, its inclusion as a part in a larger whole (i.e. regional/national/cultural biases and frameworks) inherently suggests at least a minimum of conscious/sub-conscious inculcation.

the cultural-historical framework dovetails in concert with biological and genetic preferences vis-a-vis ethnocentrism and xenophobia, depending on definition and manifestation. intrinsic physical preferences for similarity to the self (ex. face structure, skin tone, height/weight, etc) are deductive, individual preferences rendered from the larger, anthropological preference of the people to which said individual belongs. of course, those points heretofore stated do not take into account the fetishization of the foreign, but then that is a long, windy path with freudian and jungian tangents that, again, do not need description so much as acknowledgment.

then there is the subjectivity of experience, i.e. the formulation of opinions based on experience and the cumulative effect of the self-protagonizing window through which we regard external stimuli internally. all of which, really, is simply the inherent and prejudicial trust assigned to our own inductive and deductive reasoning for no other reason than that they are our own (i.e. self-fulfilling prophecy.) at which point, if we're truly going to acknowledge these disparities, it bears mentioning that perception and awareness are dictated by those of self-consciousness alone, those only seen by the other, that which is seen by both, and that which shall forever remain outside the doors of perception of both parties (e.g. johari window.) remember, these are just the influences, with scant mention of the opinions thereby derived, something that shall, again, be mentioned without superfluous explanation.

of course, there remain the larger existential factors which must, inter alia, be presented if not fully dissected. whereby tangible, baryotic objects are not, in and of themselves, necessarily existent (i.e. a grain of sand is only a grain of sand until it is perceived as a grain of sand, whereby it becomes subject to the biases heretofore described, etc), further questions remain for the existential nature of intangible concepts (i.e. culture, customs, etc.) it, at least, bears mentioning that such intangibility becomes subject to existential dilemmas primarily and teleological factors (intrinsic and extrinsic finality) even if such digression were to fall beyond the purview of this examination.

so, if we take all of that into consideration, then i'd simply like to say:

asia's pretty fuckin' weird, man

slow boat

huay sai, laos

a month before this trip began, a friend and i attended the secret science club at the bell house in brooklyn. they showed a nova video and had some quirky little astrophysicist give a funny talk about dark matter. the next day at the farmers market, a man affectionately known as mr. science dropped by my tent and ten minutes later was lecturing about a dozen passersby on the basics of the universe. it was a funny scene and i was thinking about it today. why? i was looking at the river go against us and i started thinking about spacetime, that fourth dimension of physics that explains, well, time and how it passes and its interaction with baryonic matter. it made sense to think about at the time.

you see, i'm a thinker. i try not to talk about it too much, but if i told you the thoughts and their tenuous chains and the way they flash through my mind, you'd probably classify me as neurotic. not like the thoughts are bad. okay, sometimes they are, not usually. if anything, they're random. what's distinctive for me is that speech and language do something so cruel to thought and a favorite pastime of mine is a good stare. take those eyes of mine, put something aesthetically pleasing in front of 'em, let the mind back up its software. sometimes i fear that nobody will ever no me better than the passing terrain behind a dirty glass window. i comfort myself in knowing that its pretty harmless and i don't feel right if it's not done.

i've covered the bases by now. i mean, here i have. all that emotional, professional, personal baggage that comes with the 'participant' medal from the field day of life. there's no shortage of mind fodder for that life, but i've been traveling for long enough to feel away from a lot of that. feeling a little bit more here, now. that doesn't mean i don't still like a good think, it's just that now i can get a little bit more random, kick it a little more freestyle, and it's all good.

which is all to say that the past two days have been like spiritual porn for the thinker within me. a two-day boat ride. a slow boat ride. going against the million-ish liters of water per minute that comprise the proverbial grain of the mekhong. a boat no wider than two meters, a wooden roof the same, and about twenty to thirty meters long.

no windows, but a movie was playing for me between the wooden posts on the starboard side. a movie starring water, showing its range in a gritty performance filled with everything from placid calm to white-capped rapids. rolling mountains and verdant palms appeared in noteworthy supporting roles. small villages and villagers and limestone outcroppings were but a handful of the stellar guest appearances and sun killed it with the cinematography. i've reached the destination, so i guess that ruins the ending. i recommend your own personal screening nonetheless.

it's getting to be time now. tomorrow i cross into thailand and the next stamp will happen at an airport. trust me, i'm not whining. i still have more time remaining than most americans take for their annual holiday. i'm just saying that this splendid boat ride felt like the beginning of the, not end, but of the return. a content counterpart to the trail of tears. enough time remains that i don't have to think about imminent reintegration and the stresses of the other life i supposedly lead. but i could start. the pressures not on, as i'm sure i'll be able to think of more random topics, be they in physics or otherwise.

another thing i was thinking: the larger, cultural equivalent of this boat ride. we were going against the river, so i initially thought about apocalypse now, what with the whole being in laos thing. but that wasn't it. i had an a-ha moment at some later point i can't remember and realized it was the great gatsby. as the big boy wrote, i felt like i myself was beating on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

thirty-two

luang prabang, laos

today is a day like any other day, except that it happens to be the day that i turn thirty-two years old.

[can i get a little piano, for the background? just a little rolling of the fingers soft and light over the high keys. the tone should be soothing with the slight undertone of an edge. something reflective. yes. just like that. turn up the bass on the vocal]

as i've written before on this forum, there is nothing remarkable or monumental about the age. this morning was no different from any five years ago and likely the same for anything within the next five. society tells me that i should procreate and pay my taxes, and i remain within that lucrative demographic that's easy prey for anything from doritos to oldsmobiles.

[at this point, i'd like to add some cello. let's get some looooooong and broooooooad strokes to accompany the piano. several octaves lower, of course. just take that bow slowly, deeply baaaaaaaack and fooooooooooorth. just like that]

we assign all the landmarks to the formative and final years; the sunrise and sunset. if you're able to find someone who can tolerate you, there's a wedding that can be thrown in for good measure. other than that, it seems like it's the starting gun and the finish line. but if you're truly paying attention, you'll notice that there will be indicators, if not the rewards of the bookend ages. they may not be handing out the medals, but they're the ones cheering you on in word and deed. it's still your own race and it always will be. i guess i'm just saying that i'm far enough out there to gauge how well i'm doing.

[let's get the tenor sax to gently edge its way in there. trailed ever so slightly by the oboe. i want the tenor to take the lead, as it were, but the oboe should be complimenting the sax in particular and the whole ensemble in general. keep up those broad strokes, cellist]

and to be even more specific, i would add that i have a great vantage point on the life in motion. i may not exactly know which direction i might be traveling in, but i know that it's forward. i may not know the destination, but i think i'm on course for a good one. it's step-by-step plodding and i can't say that each moment is necessarily getting better, even though the years clearly are.

[time for the percussion. let's get some soft, padded mallets to gently cascade up a pair of tom-toms to a gentle, rainy cymbal. nothing too sharp. just like each note is an echo of soft, distant thunder]

nobody said it would be easy. life is hard, hard work and trying to live it honestly is even harder. everybody's keeping score and they're not keen on sharing the point spread. you try to take something good and leave something better and not always sure that you're succeeding. you get to the point where you'll just settle for a good night's sleep.

[add the other hand for the lower keys, pianist. everyone: we're changing over to the bridge, lower it an octave]

i've been through the hard times, we all have. i've taken the punches and it's not always felt good, even when you believe in that makes-you-stronger adage. i've hurt and been hurt and felt like the headgear on tyson's sparring partner.

[back up an octave]

but i've gotten back up each time and stood taller. i didn't let the cheap shots distract me, those side swipes that try to pull you back down with the troglodytes. i know where my battle lies and i've stared steely-eyed forward through the rivulets of my own blood in pursuit of what matters.

[come in here, trumpet. blare out like a triumphant bugle with your dun-da-da-da-duuuuun. hold us together, piano]

and it may not be showing up on the scoreboard. i may not be on the cover of time and i certainly haven't discovered some breakthrough microbe. but i can already look back on more than a decade of tenacious, humble pursuit of a good life.

[drums!]

a life that might not be the ideal for the masses, but one that suits me just fine. a life a little less centered on stopping on other's toes and a little more focused on a good walk and whistle. and maybe that's what i should be looking for all along.

[trumpet!]

so i don't know where i'll be when i'm sixty-four. i don't know where the world will be and certainly not my place in it. but i can look back on the past thirty-two and see some good photos, some wonderful people, and already a lifetime of memories from chasing down my own quixotic dreams.

[trumpet!]

and if nothing else,

[stay with us, piano!]

i can say that from myself,

[drums!]

i have already learned the formula

[cowbell!]

for a life well-lived.

[trumpet!]

vang vieng

vang vieng, laos

a little something i picked up at the farmers' markets for those hot summer days: take a plastic bag (the clearer, the better), partially fill it with water, and hang it within reach of the sun's rays. it won't have much of an effect on you. all you need to really know is that all that stuff you forgot from the light unit in ninth grade science will be occurring above your head. it's okay if you don't really notice. what matters to you is that each time that bag turns or rotates or budges to a trace of wind, it will have every fly in the micro-district mesmerized. they'll be buzzing around that thing like it was giving away phish tickets, while you can sell that goat cheese without having to wave your hand.

it follows the same logic whereby i am delighted that places like new jersey, orange county, and colorado springs exist. without such refracting and prismatic locales, those people could potentially be at whatever here i happen to be at. so too must the mitt romneys of the world be grateful for the vang viengs. this place captures a professional slacker demographic with one notch more ambition than the audience at a san diego blink-182 concert. not only does the principle activity involve sitting in an inner tube and getting drunk, but one in three is actually wearing the tank top to prove it.

a pass through the town inspires a couple good laughs. there are at least a dozen bars with episodes of "friends" on a constant loop; a handful of others do the same with "family guy." it's interesting to watch skinny british kids in tank tops dancing and rhyming along with an american rapper who would likely quit the mic for good were they to ever see the scene. but the whole thing can be a bit disgusting. seventeen farang died here last year. i take a darwinist approach to any mourning for them, but can't help but feel a pang for their families. they lost a child, that hurts. to lose one and have to identify the body here and realize what a shithead they were must be that much more painful. while i'm sure there's the occasional latent coronary condition or freak accident, the smart money rides on ketamine and an overturned tube.

the locals are culpable in the same fashion that mexico should be blamed for the drug cartels: they're simply fulfilling a niche in the market (told you romney would love this place.) if they start getting vigilant about 'no diving' and giving breathalyzers before handing over inflatables, there's not exactly another industry that the town can turn to. we are, after all, four hours of terrible roads north of vientiane, laos. this will never exactly be the next silicon valley. westerners need to give yard time to their demons and someone has to provide the lenient warden. the local cost is having their fairly modest culture insulted each evening as some sotted farang treats their home like it's a weekend at the sigma chi house.

all of which i expected to think, expected to write, all of which i have seen. much of which is, i am happy to report, anomalous in what is really an enchanting town. i have to admit that i practiced my i'm-not-with/like-them face before i arrived. fortunately, it's still in the bag. there were a few stumblers on the streets last night and, apparently, there was a fall down the stairs at my guest house as well. the majority didn't see or hear because they were in their beds, recovering from biking to the blue lagoon, hiking a limestone cliff, or kayaking down this pristine river. and even within that subgroup that came here to have that type of good time, i saw today as i floated past that nearly all were just doing what young people do all the world over: drinking too much, listening to their music too loud, probably saying very stupid things at very high decibels. basically, all that stuff that would bother you in a neighbor, but is really none of your business otherwise.

as for me? i certainly enjoy tilting 'em back from time to time and this trip has already seen a couple big nights (hello again, hoi an.) for some reason, it's been a little bit more fun to be a fly on the wall than one buzzing around the bag this time. i can actually count on one hand the number of beerlaos i've had these past few days. good thing too: i needed that other hand to hold the mushroom shake.

query letter

vientiane, laos

or, the one in which i reveal my bitter, bitter soul. or, the one in which i bite the hand that feeds.

i know i'm in laos. other side of the world, right? out of sight, out of mind. maybe it's just me, maybe it would be any of us, but if i spend enough time staring out bus or train windows (taking the past week into account, i'm averaging about four hours per day), thoughts inevitably return to whatever great existential dilemmas exist over there. of course, the small stuff too.

thoughts, i've had a few. the phases of our lives are never so distinct as we imagine, the asian ones included. as i stare out at palm trees and rice paddies contextualizing the present, it comes into focus as the lumpy, delicious chunk of the otherwise-blended dragon fruit smoothie that includes past and future. i am speaking of ambition and/or self-entitlement, depending on one's point of view.

there are three literary agents with a full copy of my manuscript. in total, they've had twenty-five months to review the "project" and hit the reply button. somehow i feel that today will also not be the day. the first one took something resembling interest two years ago and was the first to receive it early last winter. sometime last summer, there was an apology for not getting back sooner and the assurance that i was their "priority numero uno." whenever i see a placid body of still water, i squeeze a tear onto a clenched fist and say a silent prayer as a gesture of solidarity with whomever happens to be "numero ocho." the second agent asked for a copy based upon the recommendation of a reader and friend of mine. i still, however, have not received a reply from the brief email asking for confirmation that she received the manuscript. it's really not that big of a deal as the forty dollar postage was easy to cover: at the time, i was raking it in from working five jobs. with the third, i could tell the interest was tepid from the start. i don't think he expected me to attend that reading and he probably solicited the manuscript because it was the quickest means to the end of being free to go home with that blonde. i honestly don't blame him.

it's sobering to realize that it's not what you know, but who you know, and that your cupboard doesn't have a whole lot of who. to my relief, i can at least bait up a couple hooks and toss out some query letters. in case you're unfamiliar, the query letter is the equivalent of a cover letter for writers to submit to agents. it's formulaic and incumbent upon the writer to prepare one that both captures the agent's attention and adheres to professional standards. it's like aspiring to be the best at coloring within the lines. i've submitted fewer than a couple dozen, embarrassingly because i had faith in the aforementioned to, ya know, get back to me. in all honesty, the most uplifting have been the two or three anonymous agents who responded briefly and with their own fingers on the keyboard. they were unequivocal rejections, but each bore the sentiment to keep going laced with that element of human sincerity that seems to be so lacking elsewhere. to them, i am grateful.

and to everyone else, i will say that sharing is caring. for those in the writing clergy, consider the following to be a cliffs notes for how to make it in america. for everyone else, this is what i will be writing and submitting upon my return. i introduce, the query letter:

dear graduate of prestigious liberal arts college/ivy league institution:

[paragraph one] this is where you have your "hook." it all begins with one sentence that both encapsulates your novel and seizes the attention of the potential agent. of course, your hook could say that you have written a "heartwarming/heartfelt" tale dealing with topics such as apartheid, hiv/aids, and poverty, but be careful: the agent will know that there are writers capable of such a feat, but they are published and you are [see paragraph three.] it is also advisable to mention in this paragraph how you came across the agent. if they owe your father a favor, put that down. that's gold. if you found their name on a database of literary agents, the rest of your query should be targeted to their unpaid intern.

[paragraph two] this is a brief synopsis of your novel. it is advisable that you give this aspect consideration well before undertaking the writing process. remember: an agent has to know what is "trending." if your opus does not align with the demands of the marketplace, yours is already an uphill battle. i'd suggest writing about teenage virgin vampires. swedish murder mystery with a tinge of rape is also hot at the moment. if you're the one who pens the raping-scandinavian-teenage-virgin-vampire saga, the world will beat a path to your door. of course, not all have to fit under the auspices of the trend. established wordsmiths can write as they please. [see paragraph three] should adhere to the guidelines mentioned above.

[paragraph three] this is your opportunity to say who you are. child or reality star? consider the contract in the mail. have you written a business tome featuring a number (seven ways to sell shit to shepherds, nine traits of the remarkably self-indulgent, et al)? start planning the book tour. if you are a former child/reality/sports star who has lost more than twenty pounds, welcome back to the klieg lights. for everyone else, the seas are choppy. if you, say, come from a middle-class family anywhere between the coasts, your vessel likely does not have what it takes to navigate. if you're white, bearded, christened john and live in brooklyn, the tough news is that your demographic is already well-represented. your best hope is that the query letter reader is not left with the impression you live in your gradma's basement, spending your days in tin foil and feverishly masturbating to stave off the panic attacks resulting from too much acne medication.

[paragraph #4] a nice salutation. tradition holds that you should reiterate that your work is finished and ready to submit. the final word count should be mentioned and is not entirely important for those already isbn'd. if it's more than 110,000, this could pose a problem for [see paragraph #3.] thank them for their consideration.

sincerely,

[see paragraph #3]

blowin' in the wind

tha kaek, laos

regional saying: the vietnamese plant the rice, the cambodians watch it grow, and the lao listen to it blowin' in the wind. having gotten my toes wet in each of the these countries, i will attest to the statement's accuracy with whatever limited credibility i may have. with regard to the latter country, there is room for a potato/potahto disagreement. to some, this evokes the attribute of laziness. to others, like myself, this suggests that the people in question are "chilled out." however, to the first group, anyone who employs "chilled out" in their vocabulary is nothing if not lazy and then we're right back where we started.

the point is that there are certain places where we say some derivative of "island time" and laos is one of them. if the siesta were an internationally-recognized sport, there would be a lot of these polysyllabic names floating around dinner tables during the upcoming london games [and the siesta would definitely be a part of the summer olympiad rather than the winter.] drivers set up hammocks within their tuk tuks. one bus driver prolonged a rest stop fuelup for ten minutes so he could watch the rest of a kickboxing match. an inevitable part of any meal is standing up to fetch your own water or beer. sometimes, this is because the staff is so engrossed in whatever music video or soap opera is pixellating on their television screen. usually, it's because the bartender/server is eight years old (and most certainly does not know how to make a proper old-fashioned.)

what is so surprising about this phenomenon is that it does not make sense, at least regionally. china's directly north and it's hard to characterize them as passive when they're presently blowing the dust off the triangular trade playbook. to the east is vietnam, home to people who spent weeks in tunnels fighting the world's superpower and still tended their fields. cambodia is to the south and they certainly share the blithe disposition, but they're also a couple grains of time's sands after a genocide and can be granted leniency for not wanting to take life too seriously. geographically and culturally, laos seems to be spooning thailand to the west and they're also known to be sunnier than a detergent commercial. but not so fast: thailand is experiencing massive economic growth and occasional political unrest, so they're a tiger (raaaarr!) in disguise.

when we look inside the borders, it's almost more baffling. for one, it's inland. the heartland of any continent is home to the milk-drinkers and sun-up-to-sun-down type crowd that frequently appear in car commercials. the people on the coasts are the ones wearing sunglasses and using words like, "bummer." furthermore, this place is pretty far from ethnic homogeneity. there is a dominant group (you guessed it: they're called lao), but the country is comprised of over forty ethnic groups with a population of only six million. they were colonized by the french almost as an afterthought, so it's not as if there is some unifying experience to tie all the groups together. when you factor in that it's one of the planet's poorest countries, it seems an almost perfect recipe for divisiveness and chaos. instead, it's.....

imagine going to a wedding where bride and groom are each other's respective third marriage and each of their parents is on their second spouse with several kids from each union. everyone is invited, everyone attends. the sound system breaks, the caterer only has rice cakes, and the officiate is slurring his words early into his very long, disjointed, and borderline offensive sermon. the tents collapse and grandma soils herself and still, at the end of the evening, everybody links up with arms around each others' shoulders and sings "(i've had) the time of my life" with full projection and mean every single bar and word of that song. put some palm trees and a slow river in the background, and that's laos.

i have a feeling i'm going to like it here.

that's local

pakse, laos

it was a late lunch following the first day of touring the dmz in vietnam. the four of us tourees all ordered our standard fare, the driver joined us at the table and had his own. ours arrived and looked familiar. his arrived and was recognizable as something we would never demand. seated next to the driver, my travel partner accepted the invitation and snagged a piece of pork from his plate, giving it a quick dunk in the red paste. how was it? "that's local," he said with a smile, thus telling everything i needed to know and beginning an idioglossic catchphrase that lasted through his stay.

"that's local" is more than a statement, it's an attitude. [yes, as a matter of fact, i do hate myself for having written that sentence. it felt like the best way to describe it and i am truly sorry.] it is the way in which we acknowledge that a particular foodstuff both does taste terrible and that we are glad we tried it; that a particular leg of transport will leave us sore the next morning but forever remain warm in our hearts; that we really wish we did not see the cockroaches, but who are we to complain when the room saved us a dollar? in short, it captures the mindset one must maintain to enjoy traveling. try everything? yes. acknowledge that something is not viscerally enjoyable or does, in fact, suck? that too. maintaining a sense of humor about the whole thing is what makes these moments of lucky charms so magically delicious.

none of this is new, and i might be making such pithy observations tired and weary through this forum alone. still, it's germane. as mentioned, our bitter-tasting (literally) and sweet-remembered introduction of a catchphrase served us two weeks of inside jokes. we began saying it more as the trip progressed and it took a while to realize that it was not that the joke was getting funnier, we were simply presented with more opportunities for local experiences.

the reason? an international border. it's not that laos is more authentic than vietnam so much as that the demands of the previous month of travel negated some of these "local" opportunities. i want to yoke up a buffalo and mush my way around as much as the next guy, but going between hanoi and ho chi minh on a flight costing less than $50 was too much to resist. i could have really pushed myself to embed in the farthest-flung and least-served communities, it just would not have been as much fun as pulling up the proverbial stool at the cheers bar known as hoa's.

which is all to say that you play it as it lies and what lies before me is a golden opportunity to get to know a place in a way that has eluded me of late. there are no trains here. the distances and prices seem to eliminate the want of tray table- and packaged peanut-travel. perhaps most importantly, southern laos appears to be serendipitously overlooked looked by those (like me) trodding along the banana pancake trail. on the not-too-distant horizon are copious interactions with marauding bands of aimless members of the lady gaga generation. the ones who come to thailand to "find themselves" through spending four weeks on the same island experimenting with the human tolerance for ecstasy and methamphetamines.

not that all are good here and all bad there. some wonderful people pass through thailand and some insufferable "bros" find themselves here. still, bangkok and its surroundings seem to suffer from the deadly combination of having an efficient airport, cheap booze with no drinking age, world-class beaches, and international recognition. the hangover sequel will likely only exacerbate the situation. but that is then and this is now. i have a precious window of time to eat under tarps and use the empty plastic chair at my table to scare away the nearby rats. i can still walk into any local barber and blow their minds by asking to trim my gnarly beard. it's time for a little more sawngthaew and a little less bus. a bit less ipod and, [gulp], a little more of the asian power ballad.

i don't know how long it will last and i'm not undertaking an oath of self-torture. i'm simply saying that now provides a unique opportunity to be here, and that the whole thing is no laughing matter.

savanakhet to don det

don det, laos

luckily, we really couldn't do too much after the lady with the home depot-esque apron knocked us out with that rich food in that public square the night before. sleep would come early and easily, the ensuing 7 a.m. wakeup the same.

through either serendipity or prearrangement with the guest house owner, a tuk tuk was present and ready to carry us two kilometers to the bus station on the outskirts of town. we could stare out at the quiet early morning streets and try to figure out which trees were bougainvillea. the 8 o'clock bus was going to leave at 9, giving us time to take a baguette with scrambled eggs and a coffee. i was about to order a second round, but my travel partner passed the rest of his over to me. he had time for a couple round-trips to the toilet (1000 kip) because he was coming down with the shits. there would be a later bus, but he said he would be good to go.

good thing too. a six-hour bus ride will call your bluff, especially this one. he had a good view from his window seat, but just so happened to be right behind the only broken chair on the bus. my legroom was ample, but the aisles soon filled as we picked up passengers every kilometer or so. they had a plastic stool that they could sit on. the guy in the aisle beside me had a black shirt that read, "memory of a time: america" and had a big bald eagle on it. i spent a fair amount of time thinking about the designer.

it got hot. a dry, stanky kind of hot. we were all crammed in comfortably (travel partner the exception) and the trickles of sweat on the forehead and pools on the stomach actually felt good. i felt like i was earning each drop. the girl in the broken seat was wearing a pink parka (with one inch teddy bears) and wool gloves. she kept them on the entire trip.

there were a number of other westerners aboard and we all got off when we got to pakse. somebody just said that, "pakse" and we disembarked. it was some nameless street and there were a pair of tuk tuks waiting. we were skeptical that we had to get off but everyone else was, so we did. the tuk tuk charged us 40,000 kip for the ride to the bus station because it was eight kilometers. we arrived at the bus station a good ten minutes before the bus we were just on arrived.

there would be no more buses down to the landing for don det. there was a sawngthaew that would leave so soon as there were enough passengers. if you don't know what a sawngthaew is, just look at the word and that should tell you enough. we had time to get some soup soup at the bus station, next to a stall selling a t-shirt featuring abe lincoln in a g-unit hat, among other wares. the soup was delicious.

it only took an hour for the sawngthaew to fill to capacity. we were in the covered back bed while the warm, late afternoon wind rushed through us from the open sides. we went probably 300 meters before stopping to fill up on gas. then it was time to hit the road. or, rather, to backtrack 100 meters to pick up another passenger. then it was time to turn around and hit the road. and stop about six kilometers later at some roadside market for a still unknown reason. i bought a pair of doughy pastry things instead of the grilled chicken on a stick. the lady who went to buy oranges came back soon enough. we had to wait ten minutes and then drive another five minutes around the market to find the other missing passenger. she came back with a watermelon and some vegetables.

it was comical and i was delirious. i reasoned that at the present rate of travel, we would be halfway toward our destination by nightfall. but the early stops were the aberration. we had two, maybe three stops through the rest of the trip south. we couldn't see the sunset, but we could feel it. not only in the dimming of the light in the world around us, but also on the local faces relaxing into sleep or rest. passengers turned from conversation to idly staring out at the passing terrain. the cute five-year-old girl staring at me throughout the trip eventually returned my goofy smiles.

we arrived. it was pitch black and we were told to follow the girl in the green shirt. the driver pointed at her, looked to us, and said, "don det." why stop trusting now, we reasoned. we carried our bags and each grabbed one of her watermelons and stepped into the darkness. there was a landing below and we could see at least two steps in front of us by grace of the starlight. there were some distant lights and somewhere between here and there was a big body of water. the boats came into view.

the lady in the green shirt approached the "captain" and we got into a small, four-bench wooden boat with a cover and a motor. we pushed back and were out in the mekong. my ass was sore, body covered in congealed sweat and grime, mosquitoes and various insects flying in my face throughout. i was more than a little bit tired. but there was something about that water. the ride couldn't have been more than ten minutes, really just skipping over a pond.

but it was the moment that had the moment. every now and then, these moments come through where the past, present, and future all align within me for a very poignant, brief period of time. it's really hard to explain. i'll just say that we were pushing out in the warm, dark, tranquil water of a place i had been yearning to be, and everything made sense. everything. it was that feeling that you're returning to some special place you've never been to, one to which your soul has always found itself attached. and it's like all those days of longing converge upon that one sweet memory that just so happens to be right exactly now.

p.o.w./m.i.a.

dong ha, vietnam

one of my high school history teachers was an all right-enough guy. he too liked the colorado buffaloes and said that everyone who took his class was "touching grace." he had a buzzcut and coached one of the lower levels of scholastic baseball and i remember him as being a bit of a benign tool. his classroom was the first place i had ever seen a p.o.w./m.i.a. flag.

it was hung above the door. you probably know what it looks like. it's white on black with the silhouette of a young man and some military camp with barbed wire in the background. it spells out the initialism, "prisoner of war, missing in action" and says something akin to "gone, but not forgotten." when taken with a certain chuck norris series, i looked at this flag and thought that there were still american soldiers being held captive in vietnam. if you presently find yourself having the same thought, i would like like to gently cut in and have this proverbial dance.

let's say you want to find the lost camps where the captive american soldiers are still being held forty years later. you're clearly not as amazed as i am that a developing country would spare the food and manpower to continue such an operation, but i'll leave that aside for now. it sounds like you need an audacious search party and some big guns. you could lease an aircraft carrier and have some helicopters on standby, ready for the cover of night and fog to get the job done. or, maybe it would be more cost effective just to fly into vietnam. you'll need a visa, but you can get that in washington d.c. (or have it mail-ordered or even fill out the paperwork online) then you can take united or delta or any number of airlines into ho chi minh city. or hanoi. as you prefer. you'll get fed a couple times going over the water.

then, once in vietnam, you could organize the cavalry, get some tanks ready upon arrival, right? or maybe you should just take a flight up to danang. or the train. or the bus. again, as you prefer. that way, you could have your forward operations base closer to where the soldiers, the missing soldiers, that is, are. now that you're in danang, you can organize the assault. or go a little further north to hue, maybe dong ha. it might even be a good idea to book one of the dmz tours, you can even organize a specific one for yourself (like we did.)

of course, the tours will only take you so many places because they don't want you to see where the prisoners are, right? if you test that theory, you'll find that the real reason certain territory is not shown is because it is: 1) jungle and/or 2) littered with unexploded ordnance that could still explode. if you still believe vietnam is holding americans captive, i invite you to test this theory for yourself.

i hate to be the bearer of bad news, but since noone else will tell you: those soldiers are dead. i have no idea as to how, i just know that 30 days in this country has shown me that vietnam has moved on, even if you haven't. for some in denial, this is a bitter pill to swallow, as those six letters represent someone very near and dear to them. you have both right and reason to experience whatever range of emotions tinge your waking hours and dreams. for a few others, you are wasting your goddamn time. take up a new hobby. talk to a girl (the internet does not count.) yours is part and parcel the denial and ignorance that has left every american generation for over a century depositing some of its best blood in foreign soil.

i'll admit that, before arriving, i was prepared to rekindle my american guilt (hello, old friend.) i was sure i would encounter some bitter sentiment from the fact that we, you know, bombed the ever living shit out of their country because of something called "containment." i've spent the past month seeking conversations about the war and looking for any form of physical evidence forty years after the fact. what i've found is hard to classify. the ubiquitous craters in certain parts of the country still bring a shutter. it was definitely not fun to be sworn out at that petrol station near the my son ruins nor to be told that americans had to pay five times the rate for one moto ride in hoi an. i don't know what they have seen or what happened to their families, so i am in no position to judge.

but what if i told you that those were the only two instances of backlash? what if i told you about the veteran i spoke with who returned to the village he fought in and was told to leave his western guilt behind because that was not his war? what if i told you that even the museums here are able to draw a distinction between the young kids on the ground and the robert mcnamaras? what if i told you that the vietnamese people have forgiven and are ready to move on? i, for one, would not have believed such proclamations.

but it's true. and so is the truth that none of it had to happen. i could only shake my head in conversations with u.s. veterans. for one, i couldn't believe what they endured, both in combat and in the subsuming guilt that many experience even today. for another, i couldn't help but feel so proud to be in their presence. mostly, it was just an utterly wrenching sensation to listen as they spoke about their experiences and wondered what they were fighting for. the security of the united states? vietnam posed no threat whatsoever. so that even if the war in vietnam was a mistake, at least the next generation would not have to relearn the lesson? i need not remind you of iraq and afghanistan.

and so i leave the country at a crossroads. on one hand, i come away with an enormous respect for the fighters on both sides of the conflict here. they gave their all for something they believed in and that is more than i will ever do in my life. i also come away with a stronger disdain for the trumper-blowers and jingoists whom i call my fellow citizens. if they could stand on the foggy hilltop that was khe san combat base and tell me that all the neckless dogtags, the empty helmets, the names that were subsequently etched on to a wall in d.c.; if they could do that and tell me that some barren plateau on another continent was worth all that valor and sacrifice, i would consider them worthy of being committed.

do you care about the troops? i mean, truly care about them? do you shake their hands in an airport or have a bumper sticker or did you start a facebook page? congratulations, you haven't done a fuckin' thing.

if you truly cared about the young men and women serving the armed forces, you would march in a protest the next time somebody proclaims some bogus reason for conflict. you would go visit a wounded warrior at a hospital. you would spit in a lying politician's face and do everything in your power so that these young souls would be the ones inventing the cure for cancer or the solution to oil dependency instead of putting their lives on the line for something they'll be regretting for the rest of their lives so soon as they get home.

if that's what we can do for our own, there's also something we can do from the comfort of our couch: leave the vietnamese out of it. leave them alone, even if it's only in our minds. we can start by not flying those stupid p.o.w./m.i.a. flags and wearing those stupid t-shirts. i am truly sorry for every soldier who died and every family that has an absence, but the blame does not lie here. the fear factory in washington carelessly sent those boys into slaughter, as it did again and is probably trying to once more. the vietnamese defended their homeland and they defended it well, as anyone would do. they earned their sovereignty and our respect. let's give them both. we can then free ourselves to let their fighting inspire our own. we can elect the alternatives to the aggressors, grieve for our departed, tend to the wounded, and otherwise free ourselves from unmerited victimhood.

i have more work to do. we all do. since i've put my words down, you can hold me accountable. and since this is my platform, i would like to issue you a challenge:

come to vietnam. eat this delicious food. relax on these pristine beaches. tour the museums that will surely make you uncomfortable and challenge your identity. but mostly, speak with the people. learn the basic greetings. smile til your face melts. take it on the chin when someone offers a mildly acerbic comment. relearn forgiveness from the most resilient people i have ever had the pleasure to meet.