The Mis-Adventures of a Girl in a Gorilla Suit

Back in Business....Almost

2011-04-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

After a year-long hiatus, Gorilla Bits is back. New and Improved as they say in the dish detergent business.

I finally finished posting the South East Asia chronicles. For handy reference, you simply need to click on the tab to the right that says, "Six Weeks in SE Asia".

And soon, I'll post a couple more entries of Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists. I've got a couple doozies including the man who peed on a dog not once, but twice, and the guy who loudly proclaimed to an entire restaurant that he was suffering from Mad Cow Disease (in case you are concerned...he wasn't).

They'll be good.

And you'll enjoy them.

The gorilla is back.

-cb

Flying the Frustrating Skies

2010-04-30T19:19:00.001-07:00

Maybe it’s my fault. I suppose it could be. As I was walking through the airport before my flight, I started thinking and laughing to myself about the local news anchors in Sacramento lamenting their woes of air travel. Well, it wasn’t so much the lamenting, but the fear-mongering that irritated me and led me to find it so ridiculous that it provided humor a day later as I was about to have my own flying woes (unbeknownst to me).

The news story was about the new Air Traveler’s Bill of Rights. Now I know this subject (specifically the subject of people feeling slighted by airlines) really gets people going. In some instances it creates the same ire that Arizona’s SB 1060 does, but, in my humble opinion, it’s a little far-reaching for newscasters to discuss how terrified they are of flying, not because they feel it’s dangerous, but because they are afraid that they might get stuck on the tarmac for awhile and that the plane might run out of food before they get any and feel that paying to check a bag is highway robbery (which, it kind of is…but how much stuff do you REALLY need to take on your weekend trip to Palm Springs?). They went so far as to say that it was easier and cheaper to drive. Now, this may be the case if you’re going a short distance, but I beg to differ on anything further than 200 miles. Seriously. It’s WAY cheaper for me to fly down to LA than it is to drive. Sure they were bringing up baggage fees and having to pay for your food, but let’s be honest. Was airline food ever good? How much of it was wasted? And what they offer for sale? Still not great. You may as well bring your own. And really, is the lack of crappy food a reason to be “terrified” of flying? But anyway, I was busy scoffing at the laughable memory of the newscast, and then minutes later, I found myself in H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks.

It was supposed to be simple flight. Straight-forward. Nothing special. Just a no-nonsense, three-and-a-half hour, straight-shot, direct flight to Dallas. Easy, right? Wrong.

At first there was nothing exceptional about the flight. They called out the boarding groups, I got on with mine—4. As I stood in the line waiting to board, I noticed a girl a couple people ahead of me, bobbing her head as though she were really into the beat of the music she would have been listening to had she been listening to any. She seemed a little odd, but I felt confident that I wouldn’t be anywhere near her. I did change my seat from the very back row to row 17 after all. And that means something. I had no idea it was going to mean sitting in the most annoying seat on the plane, though. Had the website given me that piece of information, I would have happily stuck with 24A.

So, at long last, I got on the plane, and who should be holding up traffic at seat 16? Bobbing Head, that’s who. And, oh wait…some old lady was standing in front of my seat (17D—the aisle for those that aren’t plane savvy) with her bag on my seat. Bobbing
Head slowly shoved her belongings into the overhead compartment. She even moved into row 16 a little in what seemed like a gesture to allow me to pass; however, I soon discovered that was not her intention. I saw the approaching crowd behind me, and I pointed to my seat.

“Excuse me, I’m in that seat.”

The old lady looked down and looked at me. “Oh, okay. This is my seat. I’m waiting for her to finish putting her things away. She’s in this row too”

Just letting it go, I said, “Uh, okay.”

Bobbing Head finally finished putting her things away, and I turned to her and said, “Hi, are you going to sit down? I need to get to my seat. I’m in 17D.”

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I’m in the middle seat.”

“Okay, well, I’m on the aisle, so I need you to sit down first.” Then I looked at the old lady.

“Ma’am, are you going to take your seat? We need to sit down so we aren’t blocking the aisle.”

“Well, this is my seat. I’m always on the aisle.”

“Not this time. I have 17D.” Feeling the need to move things along, I tried to use my crowd control skills to my advantage.

“Oh,” The old lady looked at her ticket. “I’m in the window.”

“Okay, well, then can you take your seat, so she can sit down, and I can then sit down?”

Bobbing Head cut in. “Would you prefer the aisle?”

“Of course.” The Old Lady replied. “I usually have the aisle.”

“I’m sure,” Bobbing Head shot me glance. “Someone would be willing to let you sit in the aisle seat.”

Unable to let this frustrating conversation continue, I started directing them. “Okay, well, I’m sure we can work something out, but right now we all need to remove ourselves from the aisle itself as there is a plane full of people trying to get to their seats. So, why don’t you move into the seats and we’ll sort it out.”

The old lady then sat down in the middle seat. “But this isn’t my seat.”

“You’re absolutely right, but at this moment we need to fix the real problem and that is blocking the aisle. How about we all move into a seat, let him pass, and then we can sort out the issue.”

The guy behind me started laughing. He passed us and smiled at me.

“Well, I always sit in the aisle.” The woman wasn’t budging from the middle seat.”

“Okay, ma’am. Would you like to sit in the aisle?” I asked the woman.

“Yes, I would.”

“Then stand up, and let us in the row. You can have it.”

Bobbing Head just stood there doing nothing. I turned to her. “Would you like the window?”

“Yeah.”

“Then take it.” I presented the seat with my hand.

“Okay, but…”

“Look, we just need to sit down. I don’t care.” (Oh, but I SHOULD have cared!)

We all finally took our seats, and I did what I could to clearly define my space in the middle seat of misery. Within seconds of sitting down, Bobbing Head made a phone call. A loud phone call. A loud complaint-filled phone call about all of her friends who have ever done her wrong. She then moved onto loudly cursing and talking about sex. And that’s when I decided that if the FAA ever allows cell phone use on a plane, I’m investing in a private jet.

She finally completed her phone call, then turned her iPod on, after slamming it against the plane window a few times. Now, when she turned her iPod on, she opted to turn it up so loud that I felt as though I were wearing the earbuds. Then she started drumming…and singing. (I feel I should also mention that prior to her turning the iPod on, she was loudly singing, leading me to regret leaving MY earbuds on the kitchen counter.)

While all of that was going on, the old lady started tugging at her dentures. At one point she pulled them out. Then she started picking at them. And I wasn’t even in a bad place yet. This was just the beginning of the AnnoyingLand Adventure Park.

As soon as the dentures were securely in the old lady’s mouth, I was made aware of the infant sitting across the aisle from me—not because he was crying, but because his parents decided to “soothe” him by incessantly shaking maracas. Now, when I say incessantly, I’m not exaggerating. They shook the very LOUD rattle for a half an hour without stopping. A half an hour! And I was worried (rightfully so) that they would keep it up for the entire three-and-a-half hour flight. Did I mention that we hadn’t left the jet-way yet?

Oh yeah, I said it. We hadn’t left the jet-way. Why? Because we were delayed due to a mechanical problem. We sat on the plane for an hour and a half with promises of leaving soon. The whole time we waited, the people around me continued to be noisy, annoying, and gross (in that order). Then the announcements started, asking for our patience. Then, they informed us that we would be delayed at least another half an hour. Then they told us that we might change planes. Then they told us that the flight might get canceled. And finally, they told us that we may as well get off of the plane because we definitely were not leaving for at least an hour (if at all).

The whole time these announcements were being made, Bobbing Head was busy being a little noise box. Without fail, two minutes after every announcement, she would loudly yell, “What the fuck?! Why aren’t we going anywhere?” And then I’d have to explain the situation as I understood it from the announcements that had JUST been made. When the final announcement was made, people started exiting the plane. Bobbing Head then turned to me and yelled, “What the hell? Do we all have to get off the plane? This is BULLSHIT!”

“Well, you are welcome to stay on board, but we might not be leaving for an hour or so.” I calmly replied.

“They can’t do this!” She screamed, throwing in f-bombs here and there. She then got on her phone to start yelling to her friends about this gross injustice, exclaiming that, “I better get a fucking refund. You don’t pay this much money for a flight to be two hours late. I’m raising hell. This is bullshit. Those motherfuckers better not fuck with me.”

Right. And that attitude (and mouth) is definitely going to win you some friends over at customer service. Is this your first time on a plane? In public? Outside of your cave or barn? While I have no doubt you spent some cash on this flight because Dallas hasn’t been on the cheap destination list for awhile, I can’t help but notice that you’re sitting in coach, which tells me you didn’t pay as much as the fools up in first class. I’m afraid your argument won’t get you very far, since the airline WILL get you to Dallas eventually.

And then I exited the plane, secretly hoping that when I returned my cute-as-a-button seatmate would have received her walking papers.

After spending an hour in the airport, we re-boarded the plane, and I was dismayed to see that my little friend was still there (and that she had staked a claim on the entire row in my absence (claim jumping space hog!)). She moved over, whilst continuing yet another loud conversation on the phone. The old lady sat back down in MY seat (which I REALLY wanted to take back, but realized what kind of jerk I’d be if I suddenly took it back), and I sat awaiting my terrible fate.

But wait! What did I see across the aisle? Empty seats. No baby and a whole empty row. To top it off, no one else seemed to be boarding the plane. A flight attendant walked by, and I quickly asked her if anyone else was expected to board.

“No, this is it. Those people probably got on other flights. Would you like to sit there?”

Do I even need to answer that?!

The old lady was overjoyed for me. I was overjoyed for me, and I moved over. Once I found my new little area, all was right with the world. I was friendlier, and Bobbing Head was suddenly pleasant and lacked a foul mouth, leading me to wonder if I brought out the crazy.

Whatever the case, my plane nightmare was over, and I’m still not terrified of planes. I am, however, not interested in being nice anymore.

---------------------------
Addendum:

When we finally got into Dallas, everyone was ready to bail from the plane--especially Bobbing Head. So much so, that she physically climbed OVER the old lady to get into the aisle and grab her things. It was imperative that she get off of that plane because she had plans. Important plans.

I exited the plane much later than her AND visited the bathroom...AND left the airport before she did because she was still waiting around for her luggage as I waltzed out. So maybe it does pay to be nice after all.

Putting the Fun in Fundamentalism: Dodging Dubious DC

2010-03-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

Washington DC. The capital city of this great nation we call the US of A. It’s grand. It’s glorious. It’s everything you could possibly want in a shrine to the ideals upon which our forefathers founded this country. It’s filled with reminders of the past and hope for the future. It’s a center for not just government, but education, touting some of the best museums in the country--museums that are (free and) filled with fantastic exhibits of art, science, and culture from all over America and the world. People flock from the four corners of the globe to experience what this city has to offer.

And as it turns out, despite all of this wonder and beauty, DC is a dirty, dirty place. No, I’m not referring to the ghetto or the urban poverty that crowds the outer corners of the city. I’m talking about the blatant disregard for religious conservativism that our forefathers and the city architects exercised in the planning of this city’s sights and contents. Let’s face it, the gays aren’t the only ones chipping away at America’s core puritanical values what with their insistence on equal rights under the law. No way! This epidemic of indecency goes way back to Thomas Jefferson and his insistence on the separation of Church and State. It’s true. Do you have any idea how many naked statues are out on the streets of our nation’s capital? Do you? If it weren’t for John Ashcroft demanding that federal money be used to cover up the vulgar breast of lady Justice ten years ago, we would all be living like devilish savages right now. And don’t even get me started on the cockamamie propaganda those “science” museums are touting as theories. And…and!!! Can you believe that museums would strive for historical accuracy when building dioramas of Native American scenes? Or that they would be so bold as to display world-famous and internationally-treasured paintings portraying naked people in the National Gallery of Art? This is our nation’s capital, people. This is the center of our government and culture, and I don’t know about you, but last time I checked I was living in the USA--a land of freedom, a land of God-fearing, hard-working, body-shaming puritans. Take one step into Washington DC with the eyes of a far-right fundamentalist, and you may as well be walking into the final throw-down of good and evil.

And that’s exactly what I had to do over the last three days.

We left New York City, well, technically New Jersey as that’s where our hotel was located, and started the long drive down to DC. Sifting through my DVD collection which is, I can only hope, appropriate for middle-schoolers, I decided that National Treasure was the right choice for a bus movie. Much like the minutes before and during Mary Poppins, I scanned my memory for any elements of the movie that might be offensive to the lead teacher. Thankfully, I couldn’t think of any, and there weren’t any (to which I was alerted at least).

The drive was fine. The students mostly slept. As we neared our destination, I started talking about DC and the Smithsonian, and I was admittedly very encouraging of the Natural History Museum (one of my personal favorites). Who doesn’t love dinosaurs? Right? No one. Everyone likes dinosaurs ‘cuz they’re awesome.

We rolled into town around noon, and I delivered us all to our lunch stop. As I was eating my mediocre salad, I suddenly realized that there might be something offensive about the Natural History Museum and instantly regretted my pro-dinosaur stance. What could possibly be offensive, you ask? Evo-freakin’-lution. Yeah, not only does the museum regularly have exhibits on evolution (because, well, it’s a science museum about the origins of life on our planet), but it has a NEW exhibit specifically focused on…HUMAN evolution.

I immediately lost my appetite, knowing that I would have to break the news to the group leader. Granted, this time I was cutting them off at the pass, but the realization of how much damage control I needed to do before and after anything and everything potentially offensive was overwhelming. I finished up my salad then wandered the food court looking for the group leader and her chaperone cronies. Luckily they were pretty easy to spot.

“Hi there! How’s everything going?”

“Great. I think we want to go to the Air and Space Museum and the Natural History Museum. The students are excited about seeing the dinosaurs.”

Smiling, I replied, “Oh good. There is one thing I thought of that you should know before going to the Natural History Museum. There is an exhibit on evolution.”

She gave me a silenced stare then turned her head saying, “Oh. No. That won’t do. We can’t have that.”

One of the chaperones, who happened to be the uncle to one of the students and was my age, asked, “What?”

The teacher responded. “Evolution.”

Then the whole table of parents was up in arms. “No, we can’t have that.”

The group leader turned to me. “That’s such a shame. The students were so excited. Why do they have to ruin things like that?”

“Well,” I tried to come up with a solution. “The exhibit is only in one section of the museum. You could go in, get the map and direct everyone over to the dinosaur exhibit. That way you could avoid it altogether.” As I said this I realized that there is an enormous banner outside the museum advertising the human evolution exhibit and was pretty sure that would be an issue.

“That might work.” She stopped talking for a few seconds. “No. That won’t. They’ll see those bones, and then they’ll start to think. And that’s going to start the discussion. I just can’t have that.”

And with that, I was silenced. Really? You can’t have the students thinking? You can’t even let these young adults know that there is a theory about how the life on Earth came to be that may be in contradiction to the Bible? Do you think they’re never going to see it? And you can’t risk them seeing dinosaur bones at all?

“Well, what can we do?” she asked.

“There are plenty of other museums.” I quickly tried to come up with a good one. Art Museum—out (too much risk of seeing nudity). American History—maybe (but what if there IS something in there that’s offensive…Dorothy’s slippers? Archie Bunker’s chair? Trains?) “What about the Native American Museum?”

“Oh! That might be good. They’ve learned about Native Americans. Yes. Let’s do that.” She seemed relieved.

Having resolved that situation, I walked outside to call my boss and give her the scoop on all that was happening. As I was discussing the decision to go to the Native American Museum, she said, “Uhh….you know the mannequins are going to be dressed in traditional clothing. You know…loin cloths.”

“Crap!!”

About this time, the group was emerging from the food court. I quickly approached the group leader and mentioned the bit about loin cloths.

“Oh,” Her face expressed disgust and frustration. “Well, that won’t do. They HAVE learned about them, and that IS appropriate for the time being depicted… But I just don’t think we should risk it. I don’t think it’s anything they should see.”

Got that people? Half-nude mannequins are also offensive. I can only imagine if they had seen the diorama of the Neanderthal family burial in the Natural History Museum.

The teacher gave an exasperated sigh. “What can we do?”

“I think you will have a great experience if you go to the National Archives to see the Constitution and Bill of Rights. They also have the Declaration of Independence and the Magna Carta. After that, you can head over to the Air and Space Museum.”

“Yes,” she replied. “That does sound much better. Surely the documents won’t contain immoral elements”

And with that, I was relieved. The only thing I could possibly think of that would be offensive in the Archives is the fact that the Constitution calls for the separation of Church and State. I’m guessing they’ve been circumventing that little bit of policy for so long that surely a visit to the actual document wouldn’t be too damaging to the children’s fragile sensibilities.

We drove them over to the Archives, where I gave them thorough instructions on exactly how to get from there to the Air and Space Museum, complete with pointing to the building (which was two blocks away). Once they were on their way, we dropped off the other group at the Holocaust Museum and I apprised my driver of the drama within. Upon finishing my tale, he mentioned that I couldn’t take them in front of the Library of Congress. It took me a minute to realize why he said that, then…DAMMIT! There’s a HUGE statue of Neptune…and he’s NAKED, along with other naked statues. Is nothing sacred here?

After that conversation, I decided to take my free time to wander the Mall and ponder what other sites I would have to avoid with my group. What I found was alarming. Did you know the Department of Justice is basically a Roman bathhouse? It’s true! Naked statues flock around every entrance. And Union Station? Yeah, those centurions…they’re naked behind their shields. The Washington Monument may as well be an enormous phallus, and don’t even get me started on the dirty words that are emblazoned on the Jefferson Memorial defending his stance on the separation of Church and State, “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."

As I wandered and thought about all the things I’d have to avoid, I became sad. I was sad that these kids are being sheltered to the point that they are discouraged from thinking for themselves. They are not getting the full story on the foundation of America. They are being given a very narrow point of view, and they probably aren’t the only ones. They are being taught that all nudity is evil, yet they’re clearly engaged in sexual relationships. One couple, in particular, was, most likely, doing it on the trip…and I wouldn’t be surprised if the girl was pregnant considering her morning nausea. Protecting them to the point of smothering doesn’t help them grow. Hiding the world around them doesn’t help them own their faith. It doesn’t help them make well-informed decisions. It doesn’t help them become productive members of society. It just holds them back.

Call me a bleeding-heart liberal if you want, but I think it’s wrong to shield students (especially young adults) from the truth. You can’t pretend that the Europeans did not mistreat the Indians and take their land. You can’t pretend that slavery didn’t happen. And you definitely shouldn’t live under some belief that the Holocaust was created in the imagination of disgruntled Jews. All of these things happened. All of these things should be taught. Why? So it doesn’t happen again. I just came back from Cambodia where I saw the after-effects of a recent genocide (where they government controlled the population by outlawing education and killing anyone who had one). This shit shouldn’t happen. And the only way to prevent it is through education for it is the only way to empower the population. Knowledge is power, end of story.

But enough of that rant…

While I was on the Mall, I received a frantic phone call from the group leader. Guess what?! They were lost. All they had to do was walk down 7^th street toward the grass. Did they? No. They walked down Constitution Ave. I asked if they could see the grass. Their answer? No. I asked if they were next to the National Gallery of Art. Their answer? No. The true answer? Yes. I asked them to read the street signs (which apparently don’t exist in San Antonio because this group NEVER seemed to read street signs in their attempt to get found). Finally, I was able to locate them based on the limited information they were giving and sent them to the Air and Space Museum. Later, as I was walking over to the bus to meet them, I found half of the group walking toward me. They said hello and passed me. When I inquired as to where they were headed, they told me, “The bus.” I then pointed them in the direction I was heading (which was in the direction of the bus and asked who told them to walk away from the bus. The answer? The group leader. She had already been to the bus and STILL didn’t know where it was.

Once we were back on the bus, the group looked nothing short of angry. Apparently the trip to the National Archives and Air and Space were not as exciting as the dinosaurs they originally set out to see. That night I gave them a tour of the monuments and we headed to the hotel.

The next day we had an exciting day of touring Arlington National Cemetery where the group leader inquired about why Jewish graves have stones on top of them. When I offered to call up one of my Jewish friends to learn the answer, she asked in a rather surprised tone, “You know Jewish people? Do you just have them around as a resource?”

And how exactly does one answer that question? The thing that kills me about it is that she was a smart person. She was educated, and she had lived in places other than Texas--foreign places. Yes, she lived in Germany for twelve years. How is it possible that an educated person is so naïve? My answer was simply that I have all kinds of friends. I chose not to mention that I know gay people too. That usually goes without saying once people learn that I live in San Francisco (and see my striking resemblance to Barbra Streisand...under the gorilla suite of course). Oh Lord! Can you imagine if they went to San Francisco? DC has nothing on this haven of sin.

Our day was to be capped off with the ghost tour of Alexandria. Now, the teacher had been given an itinerary of the tour months ago. She knew we were going on a ghost tour. She also was a present and contributing member to a conversation about the ghost tour way back on the first day (which at this point felt like three weeks ago). And yet, she still seemed shocked and dismayed when I approached the subject with her. Being that I was a little nervous about it, I didn’t even mention the fact that we had a tour that night. Then, as we were leaving Mt. Vernon, the teacher from the other group (which, I should mention, consisted of 6^th-8^th graders from Colorado who were much better behaved and less problematic than the seniors from Texas) made a mention of the ghost tour. And that’s when I had to start the conversation.

Once we were back on the bus, I turned to the group leader. “I guess we should talk about this evening’s activity. Is the ghost tour going to be a problem?”

Exasperated she replied, “Well of course it is.” She threw her hands up in the air. “But the damage is already done. What can I do now?”

“Well, I could find another activity for you all to do while the other group goes on the tour.”

“No. It’s fine. I’ll just have to deal with it. We’ll have to make sure that they know these stories are pure fiction. I’ve already had students approaching me, fearfully asking me if the stories are real. I can’t have them thinking ghosts exist.”

As she was saying this, I caught the eye of the other group leader who was totally and completely disgusted at this point. “Okay. I’m sorry this is a problem.”

“I know. It’s not your fault. I should have done more research.”

And with that, we were off, and I was over it. It’s appalling that this woman couldn’t trust these young adults to be able to decipher fact from fiction for themselves. How does she (and the school and church it's associated with) expect them to survive on their own? How are they supposed to be able to do ANYTHING without being told exactly what to do? Appalling.

So what did I do when they were hearing ghost stories? I went to a bar. I had ceased to care.

The next morning was our final day in DC. We went to the Capitol where I just pretended there wasn’t a half-naked George Washington painting in the Rotunda. We went to the Library of Congress where, through a little bit of luck, I managed to NOT walk by Neptune. And we concluded our Capitol Hill jaunt at the Supreme Court where the anti-abortion protestors stood silently with tape over their mouths, like they do every day. Being that abortion is always a hot button issue, I did my best to avoid the conversation and simply answered the student’s questions by explaining what they were protesting and informing them that one of the great liberties we have in America is our right to free speech and to voice our opinions. I simply pretended to be deaf when the 34-year-old male chaperone attempted to incite a fight by making claims that conservative America is always ignored. I realize the irony in that response, but my job is to show them the sights, not to take a political stance.

The end was near, and I could feel the glee welling up inside of me. We loaded the bus, and drove them out of the modern-day Sodom and Gomorra. I said my goodbyes at the airport and left with a feeling of relief and exhaustion.

I’ve come away from that week with new insight into what it must be like to search for immorality at every turn. Living for the Lord is never easy, but forcing irrational ideals upon unwitting youth must be exhausting. How does one travel through the world, finding offense in everything they pass? Where is the line?

I think my line is dotted, and I like it that way.

Putting the Fun in Fundamentalism: Naked in New York

2010-03-29T20:40:00.000-07:00

When I noticed I was leading a tour with a group from a small Christian school in Texas, I thought, “Okay, I’ll have to be careful about what I say.” I didn’t think, “Hmm…what potentially offensive things await us in New York City and Washington, DC.” Apparently, I shouldn’t have been so happy-go-lucky because things got ugly—fast.

Now before I go any further, I cannot stress enough how NICE these people were. We’re talking sweet, salt-of-the-earth types. Really, really nice. So nice that it makes me feel bad even writing about them, except that it simply needs to be done.

At first, I wasn’t so sure how nice the lead teacher was, considering her voice mail message was so abrupt. (To be read in a harsh, annoyed tone as if you really had just interrupted her in the middle of doing something important.) “I am busy. Leave a message. I will call you back when I have time. God bless.”

Well, upon finally speaking to her, I discovered that she was perfectly lovely. Then, upon meeting her, I thought we’d get along swimmingly. And we did….even through all of the trouble that followed. Now one thing I will say is that the woman (and apparently everyone with whom she was traveling) had the worst sense of direction that I have EVER witnessed. For instance, once I picked them up from the airport, we drove them into Manhattan and dropped them off at Lexington and 49^th Street. Being uber-prepared, I had printed off a map and highlighted the route they needed to take to get to Rockefeller Center and Times Square, which, from where we were, was STRAIGHT DOWN 49^th Street. I really thought I had covered all of my bases before getting back on the bus to pick up the other group. I even went to the trouble to walk them to the corner of Lexington and 49^th and physically point down 49^th Street to the 30 Rockefeller Plaza building saying, “Walk down this street to that building with the ‘GE’ symbol on top”.

Apparently that wasn’t enough.

When I returned a couple hours later to Rockefeller Center, I ran into a couple of the kids and asked if they had fun. I was met with a frown. Thinking that odd, I approached the lead teacher’s husband who told me they never found Times Square. In fact, they had JUST found Rockefeller Center. Wondering how it took them two and a half hours to walk five blocks, I asked how they got lost.

“We walked down Lexington for seven blocks before we realized we were going the wrong way.”

“Oh,” I said. “Was the map not helpful?”

“Not really. We finally had a nice New Yorker point us in the right direction. This map marks the wrong church as St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

Still baffled, I answered “No, that’s St. Patrick’s. I can see the spires from here.”

“Well, we found a church down Lexington, and that wasn’t St. Patrick’s.” He challenged me.

“Okay, that’s because St. Patrick’s is on 5^th Ave. and 51^st. It’s nowhere near Lexington and , where were you? 42^nd?”

“Right, that’s what the guy told us.”

With slight sarcasm, I asked, “So, the map wasn’t helpful at all then, huh?”

He shook his head. “Not when you’re on the wrong street.”

“I see. Were there no street signs?”

“There were, but none of them said 49^th.”

And with that I decided to drop the conversation because, and I know I don’t even need to say this, who thinks they’re on 49^th Street when all of the street signs say differently? Seriously. Have you NEVER walked down a street before? Have you never DRIVEN down a street before? Have you never left your house?

Once the disappointment of walking around Manhattan for two and a half hours without ever once managing to find ANY of the major sights (which are kinda hard to miss), the group seemed to have a good time. We had dinner in Chinatown. We went up the Empire State Building, then I succumbed to the other group leader’s wishes to take them to Ellen’s Stardust Diner (which was a HUGE mistake since the Texas group didn’t want to be there and only went along for the ride…and because the other teacher was a bit of a bully, thus leading me to walk the Texas group down to Times Square where we got caught in a torrential downpour without umbrellas…and I ran into a trash can while turning my head to say something, which turned into a trip highlight for all who were with me at the time). Then, we made it to the hotel in Jersey for a good night’s sleep.

The next day we went to the Statue of Liberty, checked out the WTC site, and then I took them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A place that the Texas lead teacher’s husband could not stop talking about. I thought I had it made. Then, after I got their tickets and sent everyone on their way, I got an angry phone call from the Texas teacher.

“We have a problem. I don’t mean to be offensive to you, but this place isn’t for children. I am just so shocked and upset right now, I don’t know what to do. We have to leave immediately. I have called all of the chaperones, and the children are being brought down right now. We have to go. I just didn’t know that these sort of obscene things would be in here. This is just completely inappropriate. Had I known that we were going to a place that had this sort of thing, then I never would have allowed us to even walk through the door. This is just unacceptable.”

Confused as to what the problem was at what is the greatest museum in the United States and probably one of the top three museums in the entire world with the largest collection of genuine ancient antiquities around (on par with and, in some cases, better than the British Museum and the Louvre), I simply started apologizing. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea. I’ll come meet you immediately.”

“Well, it’s not your fault. How would you have known? But this is just disgusting. I can’t have the children here. It is against our faith.”

“I understand that, and I am very sorry. Let me get to where you are, and we’ll figure out a second plan.”

“Don’t get me wrong. If it were just my husband and I, this wouldn’t be a problem. But with the children…” She trailed off a bit. “This is just wrong. I can’t expose them to this. My principal was opposed to this trip because he felt they’d get exposed to things that were immoral and wrong, and this is exactly the kind of thing he was worried about.”

“Well, I just can’t apologize enough.”

She continued. “I don’t blame you or the company. This is my fault. I should have done more research on this place. I just thought it was going to be paintings. And I know I could steer the children away from what I saw, but who knows what else is in here. Who knows what other disgusting, obscene things they might run into.”

With that, I told her I was on my way. I took the elevator up to the group entrance and popped out in…a room full of Greek statues. Ancient, Greek statues. Naked, Ancient Greek statues. And that’s when it all became clear. And that’s when I knew I was in trouble, because, really? You went to the website of the Met, and, at no point, did you consider that there might be nudity in the art? Have you never seen art? Have you never seen religious art? Do you not realize that the people that sculpted these statues or painted these pictures were probably even MORE religious than most Christians today? Uhhh…Michelangelo anyone? Was he not essentially an indentured servant to the Church when he painted the Sistene Chapel? Is Rome (and the Vatican City) not covered with nude statues? And it’s not as if the Met is covered in paintings or sculptures depicting one of Caligula’s orgies. They’re just naked people, standing there, doing nothing. And they’re not even people. They’re marble statues.

But, despite my personal feelings that naked art does not always equal porn, I found the teacher, and I apologized up and down. As all of the students made their way to the entrance with their chaperones, they all seemed disappointed. None of them were fazed by the statues, but the lead teacher was beyond offended.

As we waited for everyone, I was standing next to a couple of the students out of earshot of the lead teacher, shook my fist and said, “Those Greeks!”

“Yeah,” said one girl. “Why’d they have to ruin the museum for everyone. If only they weren’t so weirdly obsessed with God’s masterpiece of the human form.”

And as much as I would have liked to point out the irony in her statement and the current situation, I just smiled.

We gathered everyone together and walked to the bus…and they were all peeved (And I really felt like I was getting dirty looks from the lead teacher’s husband as if I somehow were a disgusting pervert with no moral foundation). I walked the few that wanted to do something OTHER than sit on the bus through Central Park, and then the other group emerged from the museum, and we went to dinner.

After dinner, we went to see the family musical, Mary Poppins. And, really, what could be MORE family-friendly than a spoon full of sugar? As I would learn…plenty. And here I thought I was in the clear. It’s Mary f-ing Poppins, for crying out loud!

Now I’ve seen the musical before, and I couldn’t think of anything all that offensive, especially considering it’s a Disney production. The only thing that I thought MIGHT be a red flag is the scene where all of the toys come to life and talk about how they want revenge on the children that mistreat them (because it’s more than a little disturbing). Unfortunately, I failed to remember the scene where they jump into the painting.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. What could POSSIBLY have happened in the painting scene that was so offensive. I discovered that “thing” when I awoke from my brief snooze about twenty minutes into the production and saw the statue come to life. The Greek statue. The Greek statue with a fig leaf over his junk. My eyelids flew open, and I leaned over, hissing, “Shit.” Then, I scanned the seats for the lead teacher, who was sitting with her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in disgust.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in a theater, even when I went to the ping pong show in Bangkok (mostly because that was more creepy and sad than anything). I split my viewing time between the scene and the teacher. More statues danced into the scene, and the look on her face became more concerning to me. Finally, after what felt like three hours, the scene ended, and I scanned my brain trying to remember if the statue made another appearance, hoping he wouldn’t.

The show continued. Intermission came around. Nothing was said. The second act started, and about twenty minutes before it was over, the statue made his encore, and the entire row of students from Texas made their exit. I jumped up immediately and ran to find the teacher. She just shook her head at me with a grave look in her eye.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know. It’s not your fault. This is just disgusting. It’s appalling. We have to go. I can’t condone this. It’s just pornographic, and they’ve tarnished what WAS a children’s show. They made it into something disgusting and obscene. It’s just not appropriate for children. I’m shocked that so many children were in the audience. You shouldn’t expose them to this. We just can’t be here anymore. I shouldn’t have stayed after the first scene, but I knew I had to do something when it happened again, otherwise the students wouldn’t respect me and they wouldn’t be able to know what is appropriate and what is wrong.”

With that, I sent her off to the bus.

The other teacher from the other group that was traveling with me was utterly appalled, and that became even worse when we got to the bus and the Texas teacher and all of the chaperones were off shopping in Times Square.

I didn’t bother asking anyone how anyone liked the play for fear that I would get in trouble. Instead, I listened to 45 minutes of complaints over the perversion of Broadway and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was just glad we were heading to DC the next day because New York was obviously the bastion of all things evil in the world, and is DEFINITELY not the sort of place that you should bring a group of high school seniors that range in age from 17-20. That may be the most impressionable age of all.

For All You Texans...

2010-03-19T16:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I led a wine tour, and I was on fire (especially after being a such a dud on my Tuesday wine tour--my first wine tour in a year). The people on my tour were very nice, and there were several Texans. I don't know what's going on around here, but the Texans are definitely invading. No joke, 50% of my guests were from Texas--both days. And, being that I come from a long line of proud Texans, despite my Oklahoma upbringing, I found this little story amusing.

One of the Texan couples on my tour were newlyweds from Austin. Well, I should say that he was from Austin, and she grew up in Vegas. So, she was new to Texas (and marvels at the state pride instilled in all Texans). They recently married and decided to move to Austin where she is a math teacher. Occasionally she likes to share a little bit about her home state, so she told them about Nevada Day. Apparently, Nevada has a state-specific holiday on October 31, where school is out in honor of...wait for it...Nevada Day.

Last fall, she told her students that this was the first time she had ever been in school on October 31 because where she was from they celebrated Nevada Day, to which she got this response:

Kid #1: That's not fair! We don't get Texas Day!
Kid #2: (Without skipping a beat.) That's because EVERY day is Texas Day.
(Roll to a classroom of cheering kids.)

So, happy Texas Day, my dear Texas family. Stay proud.

Pardon Me While I Introduce Myself

2010-03-06T00:48:00.000-08:00

After months of complaining, the day finally arrived. I got my new phone and am now part of the new century. Wait! We can go further. I am on the cutting-edge of technology, and I'm NEVER that chic.

It's true. The blackberry brick is a thing of the past (as soon as I ensure that I've taken all of the information I need from it and erase it completely). That's right. The phone that erased itself on an hourly basis for eight months is now retired. Sure everyone said I should have just thrown in the towel and bought a new phone a long time ago, but I'm just not the kind of person who is willing to pay over $500 just to get out of a contract and into a new phone. No. I'm the kind of person who pays $475 for that sort of thing (just kidding...I didn't do that).

I waited patiently. I plotted and planned. I did a little research, and I fretted over whether to go with the herd and get an iPhone or go with the Droid. As a luddite (at least when it comes to phones), I was afraid of making the wrong choice. I've never had a phone with a camera. I've never had a phone that had a properly functioning web interface (and the 3rd generation blackberry that was out-of-date when I got it may have had internet capabilities, but it couldn't open most websites, so I was essentially living in the Smart Phone Dark Ages). I went on my trip knowing that February 19 was my day--the day of reckoning for my phone.

When I returned on February 18, I smiled at the thought of the quickly approaching "New Phone Day"...then I got lazy and took my sweet time until I woke up in cold sweats a few days ago. Why? Because I had a dream that my blackberry caught on fire. And quite honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if that DID happen. So I decided that I'd put off "New Phone Day" long enough, and I needed to take action.

After an informal and highly unscientific poll, and yet another web search, I bit the bullet. I made my choice, and the winner came in the mail today.

You are reading the words of the owner of.................................

A brand new Nexus One!!!!!!

And I love it.

It's really pretty.

And it does all sorts of things. I think it might even do the windows.

Time to Come Home

2010-03-05T21:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Self Control,

I hope you are enjoying your vacation. I don't remember discussing your decision stay in SE Asia after I returned home, but I hope it's been fun. However, you are needed back at the ranch. Pronto.

Without you, I am becoming a shadow of my former self. You are what helps me plan a day and follow through on it. You're the one that forces me to get out of bed even though I'd prefer to stay in it until late in the afternoon. It is you that would encourage me to unpack my bags and put everything away (as well as do the dishes and pick up the plastic ware that dumped all over the floor earlier this week, and put the art supplies back in the closet instead of leaving them scattered on the kitchen table). Things just aren't the same without you. I've gone to the crappy taqueria three times this week. Three times! If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

There is a little good news. I found my robe. To celebrate, I wore it instead of my pajamas today. I also got a new phone, which gave me the excuse to not leave the house again (making it a full 48 hours of never setting foot outside of my apartment...even to check the mail). Oh, and I DID lose 12 pounds while we were together on our trip, but since you're not around, it's creeping back on...at the speed of light. I already made one batch of brownies this week, and I'm seriously considering a second. So, you really need to come back, if for no other reason than to make me go the gym.

Now, I realize that this plea may seem a little harsh, and I know that the responsibility isn't yours alone. I'm not working, and nobody seems to want to hire me which is certainly taking its toll. But I feel like if you come back, I might be a little more productive (especially since I can't in good conscience claim that catching the entire NBC daytime line-up on a daily basis as being a productive activity).

So that's that. I'm glad you're off on your own, but I need you back. Don't make me start singing sappy love songs. This is serious.

Yours in Temporary Slobitude,

Little Miss Messy

You Know What I Should Do More Of?

2010-03-05T00:50:00.000-08:00

Huh? Do Ya?

Sleep. At night. It's not that I'm not sleeping. It's that I apparently prefer sleeping during the day. At first it was jet lag, but now it's become sheer laziness. And it's starting to become a problem. Why? Because people are starting to think that the weird text messages I send them at night demanding that they give me my gorilla suit are drunken text messages. And I wasn't drunk. But I really want my gorilla suit.

Oh, what? You want to know why I want the gorilla suit? That's top secret gorilla business that I dreamed up in my head while I was busy not sleeping last night. I can't tell you about it yet. Nor can I tell you why someone else has my gorilla suit. That's other top secret gorilla business.

So yeah. I really should make an effort to..uhh....sleep at normal sleeping hours for the pacific standard time zone. I probably should also unpack my bags. It's been over two weeks after all.

And maybe, just maybe...

No.

Sleeping at appropriate times is enough to tackle.

Good night.

Late night at Taqueria Cancun

2010-02-21T02:51:00.000-08:00

When you're at Taqueria Cancun at 2 o'clock in the morning, and you've decided to make a last ditch attempt to find a girl for the night, don't moan and groan behind her. Seriously, if you are hungry, keep that business to yourself. No one is at Taqueria Cancun because they like the atmosphere. They are there because they had too much to drink and need a little something to soak up the a-a-a-a-a-alocohol. So the girl in front of you that is most likely 10 years your senior doesn't care to listen to you moan. She doesn't want to hear you groan. She just wants her super quesadilla. The only way that you can be of help is to give her the 53 cents she's short..but you didn't. And you had it. You were just selfish. Luckily the guy behind the counter either believed that she'd make it right the next day or over-charged you for her lack of funds. Nevertheless, your offer to allow her to sit at your booth with the rest of your friends was futile because all she wanted to do was take her food home and sit in front of the tv, shoving it in her mouth just before retiring for the night...'cause that's how she rolls.

Let this be a lesson to you. No one at the late-night taqueria is looking for love. They're just looking for food. And there is nothing attractive about a man moaning at random before he's even ordered.

Ya hear?

And Bangkok, I'll Never Forget How You Smell

2010-02-16T11:11:00.000-08:00

Well, today is my last day in Thailand. When I woke up this morning, it didn't seem like such a big deal, but now that I'm a thte airport trying to spend the last of my baht I misguidedly exchanged hoping to buy one last article of clothing, I'm a little sad. I could stay here. In fact, there was a moment when I thought I might blow off my flight.

The majority of my day was pretty run-of-the-mill last day material--mani/pedi, leg waxing, massage. The usual. Then I made the fatal error of exchanging $10 with the intent to buy a shirt. Unfortunately for me, said shirt didn't fit. Even after six weeks in SE Asia, I am still too big for the one size fits all clothing they sell on the street.

Having failed that mission, I had no choice but to spend my 400 baht at a bar. While at the bar, I made a new British friend (who happened to live in the south of France). We were having such a good time that I could have come close to missing my bus to the airport. Alas, my sense of responsibility came out for a visit, and I left. Too bad for me, the bus, which was actually a shuttle, did not share my sense of responsibility. Not only was it late, but it was overbooked. What could have been a disaster, ended up being a stroke of luck for me a couple Japanese guys.

While eighteen smelly travelers squeezed into the van with all of their luggage, the two Japanese guys and I luxuriated in an air-conditioned taxi. As we drove down the highway, we passed the van and congratulated ourselves on being so lucky, for to say the van looked uncomfortable would have been an understatement. We chatted all the way to the airport having quickly made friends with each other, making me feel, once again, that this past six weeks has been my best travel experience yet.

Once at the airport, we parted ways, I changed clothes, checked in and found a place to spend the rest of my baht. My airport dinner made me cry, just like every other meal I had in Thailand (because of my insistence on eating spicy food, not because I blubber every time I eat), making it a fitting end to a wonderful trip.

Farewell Thailand!

And, Bangkok, I'll always remember how you smell.

Lao Airlines: You Are Safe With Us

2010-02-16T10:57:00.000-08:00

Dear Lao Airlines,

I am writing to say that I am impressed. Yes, I was somewhat afraid to get on your plane, seeing as you are known to have a bad safety record (although that can all be chocked up to speculation since you don't publish it in the first place). And well, your fleet mostly consists of the Old Chinese planes that have a penchant for engine failure...but you seem okay. Sure the first flight was bumpy, and I'm not sure if it was the air, the plane, or the pilot who was responsible. The take-offs were rough, and the landings were, by far, the worst, most jerky, and hardest landings I've ever experienced. That aside, your service was excellent. You do all the things US carriers stopped doing. You serve food and drinks (without charge). The flight attendants were friendly. You pass out handi-wipes. And, when you cancel a flight, you don't stop at putting the stranded passengers up in a decent hotel, you also provide them with dinner and entertainment for the night. Also, my second flight was far less eventful and on a new plane, so it really made me question all the fear-mongering I had drilled into my own mind.

I appreciate what you are trying to accomplish with the "You're Safe With Us" slogan, but you have a ways to go to reverse the negative public image. It's a nice start regardless. Safety aside, your customer service is excellent, so kudos to you.

Bravo, Lao Airlines! I made it to my destination, twice in a row.

Yay for small victories.

Sincerely,

Cardelia Boardeaux

Luang Prabang, You Make Everything Better

2010-02-15T10:25:00.000-08:00

I probably could have rolled in Sarajevo during the Bosnian war and would have been just as relieved to get off that bus. Yowza! That may have been the most uncomfortable seven hours I've ever spent, and that's saying something. I've had plenty of uncomfortable moments that stretched on for far too long.

We shared a tuk-tuk into town with some of our other harried travelers and started the process of finding a place in which to rest our weary heads. The beginning of our quest felt annoyingly similar to our first couple of hours in Vientiane, though in a much nicer and more quaint town (there's a reason it's a UNESCO World Heritage Site). As usual, the prices in Lonely Planet were WAY out of date (and my Scottish friend was not adept at putting a damper on his disappointment. After a quick survey, we found a nice enough spot for a reasonable price (which, quite frankly, almost anything was a step up in class and comfort from the treehouse we called home in Vang Vieng). It was close to the center of town, and just as we finished getting our keys, the English guys who sat in front of us on the bus grabbed the last two rooms as their original plan completely fell through.

Our night consisted of wandering around town, visiting the night market, and eating in an alley. It was lovely. What was even better was that I was finally starting to appreciate Laos in the way I had hoped I would. Success. As we discussed our plans for the next day, we both agreed that renting bicycles was the way to go. We thought we would ride them to the waterfall that was 35 kilometers out of town. And we would have...had the bike rental place been equipped with mountain bikes. Rather, they only offered up beach cruisers, and, being that I AM a skilled triathlete (and have ridden on the wrong kind of bike far too many times), I knew that no mountain would be climbed in single-gear beach cruiser. Instead we decided to sign up with a tour that would drive us to the waterfall. We ended our night with a little HBO (see, this guesthouse was fancy) and a can of Pringles.

The next morning, we took a pleasant stroll around town, visiting the monasteries and enjoying some tea at a local coffee shop. In the afternoon, we joined our group and rode to the waterfall. Fifteen minutes into the ride, the Scot gave me a knowing look. We never would have made it to the waterfall. I can only imagine that he too had found the spot where I (and possibly he) would start lashing out at the world because the ride was far too difficult. The waterfalls were beautiful, and we swam at every level. It was a great day.

Upon returning to town, we showered and got dressed for our last night out on the town. Once again, alley food was on the menu, and we enjoyed a little last-minute night market shopping. Since I had to meet my English friend across the hall at 5:00am to catch our tuk-tuk ride to the airport (as he was the only member of his group brave enough to fly on Lao Airlines. His other friends were planning to take the bus all the way down to Vientiane...and then take a boat, and then a train...all in the name of fear and caution), I ended up falling asleep at the late hour of 8:30pm.

The next morning, my English friend and I commended ourselves on our bravery and enjoyed a perfectly average flight (in a new plane, leading me to believe that Lao Airlines was making some positive changes). We both arrived in Bangkok without incident, and we wished each other happy travels.

And that, my friends, is how you turn lemons into lemonade.

Bumpin'

2010-02-14T01:23:00.000-08:00

Alas, the day arrived when it was time to bid adieu to Vang Vieng. I have to admit that I was a little sad to go. I would have enjoyed a day of tubing, and despite the fact I kept running into obnoxious Americans who make it hard for me to travel because they give others such a bad impression, there were plenty of fun, tame people as well.

We booked the VIP bus to Luang Prabang the night before after toying with the idea of taking the night bus. The guy from the tour office seemed to think the day bus was better, and the Scot was keen to see the countryside. So, just before 10am, the van came to pick us up. Twenty people crammed in and two Israeli girls held up the whole van because they wanted to get baguettes (and apparently one wanted extra time with the love of her life that she had just met at the river).

We finally got to the bus and were the last load of people, leaving some terrible seating options. The Scot and I ended up having to sit in the very back of the bus, squashed next to two of the Israeli girls. As we pulled out, it became immediately apparent that the air-con wasn’t much more than a weak fan, lightly blowing hot air. Then after two minutes of serious driving, the bus stopped. One of the Israeli girls ran back, frantically shouting at her friends. She ran off the bus. No one knew what was happening. All five girls were on and off the bus. Then the girl sitting next to us told us that her friend left her passport at the guesthouse. The English guys in front of us asked, “Is that the same girl that held us up before?”

The answer? YES.

Ugh.

A tuk-tuk came and took them away. Their friend said that they were going to get on the bus tomorrow, but our bus never moved. It just stayed there…for forty-five minutes until they came back. The bus ride was already too long, and we had only driven two kilometers.

Over the next seven hours, the bus bumped, rattled, and swayed through the mountains. I clung to the handle on the seat in front of me the entire ride because we were bumped out of our seats so much. I even had to close my eyes numerous times to avoid seeing how close we came to the edge of the narrow road as we passed large trucks on the curves.

The Scot questioned our choice to take the day bus because it was so terribly uncomfortable and unbelievably hot. I, on the other hand, believe that daylight made it the better choice. I’m not sure I’d want to be on that bus at night with the narrow road and the sharp turns…and the lack of light.

After what felt like an eternity, we made it to Luang Prabang. Everyone was relieved. We piled out of the bus faster than any bus load of kids I’ve ever witnessed (and I make them race off of my bus). It was such a relief to be somewhere NOT on that bus…and that’s when our housing adventure began.

Tubing in the Vang Vieng

2010-02-13T00:51:00.000-08:00

Oh Vang Vieng, I had you all wrong! My first impression was such a bad one (but can you really blame me?). Today was fantastic! Tubing in a cave? Driving through the beautiful countryside! Kayaking down the river with limestone mountains surrounding us. It was magic.

And the tubing bars? So much fun. Sure I kayaked over, but I see the appeal. Hanging out on the river at the make-shift bar of your choice? Hard to beat. Add to the zip-line swings operated by 8-year-old boys, and you’ve got a blast on your hands. Yes, I was fully aware that two 8-year-olds were in charge of my safety, and yes, I did feel a little leery of it. But it all worked out. I’m alive. Besides, it not like I went on the death slide. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. I had you all wrong. Well, not completely. You have to admit that there are a bunch of douchebags here, and they all seem to be Americans—specifically the a-holes that annoyed everyone in the Friends bar tonight as they loudly questioned where they could find some weed, discussed the assets of all the girls they planned to poke tonight, and complained about all the food they ordered, as well as the quality of the waitstaff…but that’s not your fault.

I guess I'm just trying to say...Vang Vieng, you're alright with me.

MTV Spring Break Laos: Vang Vieng Edition

2010-02-12T00:48:00.000-08:00

A few weeks before my trip to Laos, we were in the Golden Triangle, which is the area where Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar (Burma) meet. It also was the place where opium was grown and smuggled for decades. While there, I read an article about the budding tourist market that was Laos about ten years ago. What did I learn? That people went to Laos (Vang Vieng in particular) for cheap drugs—specifically for opium. Visions of seedy opium dens danced in my head and made this goody-two-shoes slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of coming to this place alone (or at all for that matter).

Also while on that little jaunt to the Golden Triangle, we took a quick boat trip over to the Laos border where Diane and I enjoyed a beer and checked out a poster given to the bar by the Laos Ministry of Tourism to help educate foreigners on appropriate behavior in Laos. It was covered with somewhat satirical, yet alarming, cartoons depicting inappropriate behavior while in Laos. The poster covered such topics as conservative dress, no touching monks, feet belong on the ground (which is something I might want to include on my tours, and the always necessary cartoon depicting a guy overdosing on heroin while his girlfriend stumbled around with a huge bong in her hand. Just say no, kids.

I couldn’t help but ask myself what I was getting myself into. I did my best to shrug it off and convince myself that things had changed and laws had strengthened in the country over the last decade, but I was still concerned. One saving grace so far in my journey was that the three people I had encountered on my way to Laos shared my feelings, giving me reason to believe that I wasn’t going to walk into Marki Post’s Lifetime Movie, “Chasing The Dragon”.

The day came (not quickly enough, I might add) for us to hop on the bus to Vang Vieng. We waited dutifully at our guesthouse, waiting to be picked up, but no one came. We asked the owner, and he assured us that the van would be there to pick us up very soon. Finally, at thirty minutes past the bus departure time, the van came to pick us up. The Scot and I loaded our stuff and settled in for what we thought would be a long journey. Suffice it to say that we were a mixture of surprise and shock (and a tiny bit embarrassed) when the van drove half a block away to the bus that was waiting right around the corner.

Seriously? The bust was fifty feet away from us the entire time, and no one bothered to fill us in on that little fact? We held up the entire bus because the bus company needed to ensure that the van driver had a job?

We boarded the bus and found a seat. As we settled in for our five-hour ride, I looked around the bus and immediately felt out of place. Not only was I probably the oldest person on board, I was probably the most square (next to my teetotaling Scottish friend, of course). At our first break, the Scot struck up a conversation with an Australian girl who was returning to Vang Vieng after a quick visa run. Apparently she loved the place so much, she had been there for two months. You may be asking yourself, what did this lovely girl do with her time? Enjoy the stunning scenery? Hike the limestone mountains? No, don’t be silly. She got trashed every day at the river, and she was on a mission to make sure she had time to do it again today.

Upon discovering that I was an American, she quickly started quizzing me on schools. She was planning on a semester abroad and couldn’t decide between University of Florida in Miami or Gainesville. When I asked her course of study, she informed me that all she was really looking for was a good party scene and some beach time. She purposely chose spring semester because it was essential that she be there for spring break. For a brief second, she expressed interest in Boston, but I crushed that dream when I explained that Boston is cold and the beach isn’t a welcoming place until July.

And she is just an example of the many people with whom I was sharing this ride. I have to admit that while I never enjoyed a spring break experience at the beach, I’m not sure that I would have wanted to be there in the first place. And, in that moment, I was pretty sure that I was on my way to my own personal version of hell.

The bus pulled into town around 3pm, and we ended up sharing a tuk-tuk with our Aussie friend and a group of very spoiled American youths (and I know this makes me sound old, but I am…what is up with the entitlement?). The Scot and I quickly escaped our companions and searched for a place to stay, preferably on the quiet side of the river. We ended up choosing a very basic bungalow for a very cheap price.

Once in our new home, we quickly changed clothes, as our plan was to go tubing. On our way to rent tubes, we got sidetracked by the possibility of taking a tubing/hiking/kayaking trip the next day. Since we only had an hour and a half for tubing that afternoon, we decided to can the idea altogether and wander around town. While out and about, I was the victim of a scornful look from a local woman. Although I was wearing a swimsuit under a sarong, my shoulders were bare, and this was apparently unacceptable to her. I have to admit I was a little surprised by her horror, considering there were girls where string bikinis, out of which their assets were hanging. Compared to them, I was a nun.

That night, we found ourselves in one of the many bars that plays endless reruns of Friends. I camped out there until I was tired and made my way back to the bungalow. As I was walking down the street, I saw a local family enjoying a night of karaoke. It took all I had to not ask if I might join in (and continue with my quest to sing karaoke in every Asian country I visit), but I got shy…and that turned out to be my only opportunity.

The journey home continued, and as soon as we got into our bungalow, we discovered the reason for the cheap accommodations. We had unwittingly found ourselves on the noisy side of the river. Dance music blasted from several different bars all night long. The party didn’t stop until 5am, and I was never so happy for that hour of sleep. Thank you Vang Vieng.

Take A Step Back Into Laos

2010-02-11T23:47:00.000-08:00

With all of the random craziness surrounding my departure from Cambodia (which easily could have been avoided, or at least expected, had I made a second confirmation call and believed what Lonely Planet said about Lao Airline’s propensity for canceling flights at the last minute), I didn’t have a chance to truly digest the adventure that was now upon me. Well, actually I tried to ignore the part where I was knowingly putting my life at risk.

See, as I may have mentioned before, I was flying on Lao Airlines, and that simple fact should give anyone a reason to pause and take a quick inventory of their life’s achievements…and maybe call all of their loved ones before boarding the plane. Why? Well, if you are the sort of traveler who is interested in safety records, good luck finding one. This particular airline doesn’t bother to publish them, so no one really knows the statistics. In fact, all anyone knows is that the majority of their fleet are old Chinese planes that have a tendency to not stay in the air…and most foreign government agencies opt for other transportation options. But I don’t work for the UN, so I’m in a totally different league here (and Lao Airlines was my only flight choice from Siem Reap to Vientiane). Besides that, I like to believe that I’m invincible and my number is nowhere near the top of the pile…and I REALLY didn’t want to take my other option which involved a nine hour bus-ride to Bangkok, followed by an overnight train to Chiang Mai, followed by another four hour bus ride and a five hour boat ride. While this option would have cost me a third of what I paid to fly, I felt that the emotional toll of 27 hours of traveling was far worse than a quick ride on a rickety old plane. So it was with great trepidation that I boarded the plane, but I knew I had to take this flight if for no other reason than to be in Laos…so I could turn around and jump on another Lao Airlines flight a few days later. I know, I’m a big fat ball of bravery. There’s no shame in being impressed by my sheer disdain for self-preservation in the name of convenience.

As we boarded the 70-seater propeller plane, I did what I could to set my mind at ease. After all, I’d been on much smaller planes than this particular one (and how was I to know that just six months later, I’d be on a plane that was literally falling apart in the air as my guests and I flew over the Yukon Territory into Dawson City where the plane was then grounded for a week because of mechanical failure—not to mention a failure of the ceiling panels to stay on the ceiling). Upon entering the cabin, my eyes darted around, taking in everything. Colorful seats? Nice touch. Wall-sized photographs of the sights of Laos on the front wall? Well done. Safety speech? Check. Pleasant flight crew? Bingo. Suspicion that this just might be one of the older Chinese planes with the lackluster safety record? You betcha.

There were only about twelve passengers, but that didn’t stop the airline from squeezing us all together in the middle of the plane. I was seated next to a chatty Filipino guy who was really nice (and also feared for his life). Normally, when I’m faced with a situation where I’m nervous, having a friendly person to whom I can talk non-stop is a good thing, but on this day when I had a nasty hangover while flying on a small plane…all I wanted to do was to breathe in blue and breathe out pink while gripping the armrests. Such activities were not in the cards for me, so I talked to my seatmate (while occasionally glancing back at my Australian friends who snickered at my unfortunate luck).

As the plane took off from the runway, my new friend and I silently gripped our armrests (and he offered to hold my hand should I get nervous). To say the take-off was rough doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m just glad I was wearing a seatbelt; otherwise, I would have been in a different row. Once we reached cruising altitude, I felt a wave of relief (despite the fact that the turbulence never let up—which was, in no way, the fault of the plane or the crew).

The flight attendants eagerly distributed food and drinks to all the nervous flyers. As I watched them, I wondered how they must feel about working on these planes every day. Are they aware of the reported risks? And is there a chance that the risks aren’t as great as we had all been led to believe?

After an hour in the air, we made a very bumpy, roller-coaster style landing into a town in Southern Laos called Savannakhet. Unbeknownst to me and almost everyone else, this was not a direct flight to Vientiane. We all had to exit the plane, where we were corralled into a tiny two-room airport and sent through passport control. None of us had visas, so we had to purchase them one at a time from the officers at passport control. For whatever reason (though I suspect the reason was corruption), the price of the visa was different for every passenger. Canadians were charged $42, while US citizens skated by with $36. The EU (with the exception of the UK who were charged $38) managed an easy $31 for their visas. We all found it rather suspicious (the Canadian in particular who wondered out loud if they assumed Canadians were too nice to complain and were thus charged more than Americans), especially when my Australian friends managed to barter down the cost of their visas from $35 to $31. It also didn’t help our suspicions as we witnessed the immigration officers laugh as we all questioned the sliding scale price.

Once our visas were in hand, we were all shuffled into the other room of the airport where we waited for a half an hour before we were allowed back on the plane to continue our journey to Vientiane. While in the waiting area, I befriended a nice, young Scottish kid who was traveling solo for five months. He was in search of a travel buddy for his week in Laos, and while I was dead-set on my solo voyage, I did like the idea of a little company. So I took the second plane ride to mull over the possibility while chatting with the chattiest man alive, gripping my seat, and trying not to vomit as the plane bounced and skidded down the runway in Laos’ capitol city.

As I waited for my bag, the Scot asked if I wanted to share a tuk-tuk with him into town. I decided to go for it, so once we had our things, we headed out into the world, searching for a cheap ride. The Scot was a much harder bargainer than I. Following his lead, we utilized the “walk away” strategy in getting the price we wanted. It took time and tenacity, but was effective in the end.

The taxi driver that accepted our low bid drove us to the guesthouse we requested. As we drove he inquired about our budget for the hotel. When we arrived, he motioned to the girl at the desk, and I realized then that he was expecting a kickback from the guesthouse for delivering customers. Unfortunately for us (and the driver) the guesthouse only had one room, and that one room had a double bed…and it cost three times the price quoted in Lonely Planet. Being adamant about not sharing a bed (and preferring separate rooms), we left. The taxi driver drove off in a huff, and we had to start the process all over with a tuk-tuk driver who was demanding a ridiculous fare to drive a half mile down the road. Unwilling to back down, we strapped our backpacks on and started to walk when he suddenly decided to accept our original offer.

We got to the second guesthouse, and I sent the Scot in to check it out. He walked out in a few minutes to tell me that their prices had climbed and the only had two rooms left: one with a fan and one with an air conditioner (which was considerably more money). They showed us the fan room, and much to our disappointment, it only had one double bed. At that point, I was willing to pay more for the air conditioned room and let the Scot pay half the price for the fan room, but in the spirit of information-gathering, I opted to go on a quick search for the guesthouse I originally planned to use. Too bad for me, I got totally lost and walked down the wrong street (which, I’d like to add, is very uncommon…I have anything, it’s an excellent sense of direction).

I returned after twenty minutes to the chimes of lies from the tuk-tuk driver who was sitting outside the guesthouse. “You were gone twenty minutes, and after you left, two people came in and took the last rooms. It’s full. I’ll drive you somewhere else, and you’ll have to pay me.” I just glared at him, knowing that he was lying. “Don’t bother going in there. Your friend left. He went somewhere else.”

“Really? He left? Did he take my bag with him too? You’re lying.”

I walked in, and much to my non-surprise, the Scot was standing by the desk. “ Did anyone come in here and take the rooms?”

“No. No one has been here.”

“That liar!”

I regaled him with the tale of my fruitless search and offered to take the more expensive room, since it was getting late in the afternoon. As we worked out the payment with the owner, he decided to take that opportunity to mention that the air-conditioned room had two twin beds.

The Scot looked at me. “Hey, I know we just met, but…”

Without hesitating, I said, “Yes. Let’s share it.”

And the deal was done. And I had a roommate—a very young, polite, and respectful one at that who reminded me of my brother and treated me like I was his sister (so it worked out pretty well).

After we settled into our room, we found another tuk-tuk driver to take us to a couple of the main sights in the capitol city before they closed. We paid far too much for the ride then wandered along the waterfront until we found a steal of a deal on dinner.

Vientiane was okay. I didn’t find myself overly impressed, and I hoped that the rest of Laos would be better, since my first few hours centered around arguing with lazy, yet opportunistic scam artists. (And I have my own opinion as to why this is the case, but I'll keep my trap shut.)

We bid the day adieu and waited to see what morning would bring.

Leaving Cambodia...Or At Least Trying To

2010-02-10T22:23:00.000-08:00

You have to pay more to leave Cambodia than you do to get in the first place…in more ways than one.

Departure day was upon us, and Diane was the first to go. Our tuk-tuk driver came by at 11am to pick her up, leaving me all alone with a free afternoon and a nasty bout of…let’s call them stomach issues. I decided to partake of a foot massage (notice the correct usage of the term “to partake of” unlike an aforementioned incident of the obscene overuse and incorrect use of the phrase) and a leisurely lunch (of none other than my favorite Khmer dish, larp (pronounced “lahp”) which would have been even better with a delicious pomelo salad, but my stomach simply couldn’t handle too much that day). Once I completed those grueling tasks and wandered around the Bar Street area (yes, you read that correctly…and…it is as advertised), I slowly found my way back to the guesthouse to wait for my tuk-tuk driver.

Fifteen minutes prior to my departure, a driver came by and told me he was taking me to the airport. Confused, since he wasn’t the driver with whom Diane and I had been working (and because Diane didn’t pay for her trip to the airport in our attempt to ensure that I got a ride to the airport that afternoon), I explained that Leoung Sei was my driver. The guys at the guesthouse insisted that this driver was sent in his place and pushed me out of the courtyard. I got in, the whole time feeling like something wasn’t right and worrying that I had found myself in the middle of some bizarre scam, but I didn’t know what else to do. When we arrived, I handed over the money for both trips to the airport and attempted to make my way inside—and that’s when the trouble really began.

Four officers guarded the front door. As I approached, they created a human barricade and demanded proof of my flight details before allowing me inside. I showed them my itinerary and was met with suspicious looks and whispers. One of the guards told me that they wouldn’t usually let me in given the circumstances but were willing to make an exception. Not knowing of what circumstances they were speaking, I just shrugged it off and walked into the building. A quick survey of the twelve ticketing booths was far from reassuring. Why? Because Lao Airlines was nowhere to be seen. Being the eternal optimist, I figured that I had arrived too early for my flight check-in time (and that assumption was correct as I arrived four hours earlier, rather than the two that they require).

I decided to find a bench and settle in until Lao Airlines set up for business. It’s not like I had anything better to do, and when you’re nervous about flying on an airline with such a sketchy safety record that even the UN won’t allow their people to fly on their planes, who doesn’t want a couple extra hours to come up with fifty terrifying scenarios right before boarding a flight headed for what was the poorest country in the world up until two years ago?

So, I sat. I waited. I watched people check in for their flights to Vietnam. After an hour and a half, I started to get a little concerned that there were still no signs of Lao Airlines in the terminal. It was at that point that I decided to ask an expert. Okay, that might be taking it a little too far. I decided to ask someone that might know more than me. A young army officer was walking by, so I asked for his assistance. The confused look on his face after reading my itinerary didn’t make me feel any better. Being the helpful lad that he was, he went to talk to someone else. Armed with new information (and of course a semi-automatic assault rifle), he proudly told me that I could check in for my flight in a half an hour. He also told me how pretty I was…repeatedly. In fact, he swung by several times to let me know that he thought I was REALLY attractive and offered to sit with me until Lao Airlines opened up their booth. Unfortunately for him, his superior officer informed him that he had to guard the airport rather than just me.

At last, the final half an hour passed. I anxiously looked over at the booths, but Lao Airlines was still a no-show. I watched another couple approach the counter that I suspected to be the future home of a Lao Airlines agent, just to see them turn around angrily. My officer friend ran over to them, then scurried over to me to inform me that the flight had been canceled. He was so apologetic and so flattering as he expressed his appreciation for my immense beauty once again before directing me to the airline offices in the building next door, that I almost didn’t want to leave the terminal area.

I joined up with the couple, a delightful pair of newlyweds from Australia, and we hunted down the offices as a team. Once we got inside the building, we split up and roamed the halls until (about 20 seconds later) we found the Lao Airlines office. As you might expect, it was closed. A woman from another airline came running down the hall offering her help. Sadly for us, she was far from helpful. The only help she was willing to offer was to tell us that Lao Airlines was closed—a fact we were already well-aware of. She also mentioned that we would have to go to their offices downtown. Being that we had no idea where “downtown” Siem Reap was located, that piece of information was useless. We asked for a phone, but were shut down. She claimed that there were no phones in any of the offices. Really? None? How do you people get anything done around here?

After much frustrating back and forth (during which the woman gave me a clue as to the whereabouts of this downtown office), the Australian husband walked into the Air Asia office and managed to convince them (quite easily) to allow us to use their phone to call Lao Airlines. I suppose now would be a good time to explain why the phone call was so important. It was 4:55pm. All of the airline offices (including the already closed Lao Airlines offices) closed at 5:00pm. Had we not phoned the Lao Airlines people, they never would have waited for us at the other office (which did exist after all). The Lao Airlines folks instructed us to come to their downtown office, insisting that EVERYONE knows where they are located, so an address was totally unnecessary.

We three brave travelers hailed a tuk-tuk, explained where we wanted to go and agreed on a price (all this after getting a guarantee from the driver that he knew exactly where we wanted to go). The tuk tuk pulled out of the airport and we traveled about a mile or so down the road when the driver pulled over next to a field. He turned to us and said, “I’m sorry. I lied to you. I don’t know where the office is. I think it is back at the airport. I’ll drive you back, and I won’t charge you more for it.”

All three of us lost it. Why? Why lie? And why would we have to pay you MORE money for taking us nowhere? Before the man of our group totally lost his top, I pulled out a helpful piece of information given to me by the very UNhelpful woman at the airline offices. “Do you know where the Vietnam Airlines office is downtown on the main street?” The driver nodded. “You aren’t lying this time? This is important. The Lao Airlines offices are next door. Can you get us there?” He agreed, and we were off once again with nothing but a hope and a prayer that we would get there.

Ten very tense minutes later, we pulled into the Lao Airlines office. At that point, we decided to dismiss our tuk-tuk driver altogether. We walked into the office, and they were quite accommodating. They claimed that they canceled the flight a couple days prior but couldn’t reach us. The only problem with this scenario was that I had called about the flight the day before and it wasn’t canceled, but I’m not one to split hairs.

The three of us were transferred to a flight the next morning. The airline put us up in a decent hotel (which was nicer than anywhere else I had stayed in the country during my week), they bought us dinner, a show, breakfast, and provided transportation to the hotel and to the airport the next morning. Not bad for a tiny budget airline with a not-so-favorable reputation (and far better than what any US carrier would do for you in the same circumstance). The night ended up being a little too enjoyable as was evidenced the next morning by our throbbing headaches when we met up in the morning to make our second attempt at leaving Cambodia.

Take two was a breeze. We were able to check our bags without incident. The boarding passes were handed over without hesitation. Everything was going swimmingly until we walked toward security. Just before security, travelers have to pay a tariff. It’s called a departure tax, and for whatever reason, the airline doesn’t bundle into the price of the ticket, which would really make more sense. Rather, everyone has to pay $25 to fly out of Siem Reap. Twenty-five dollars. Why am I so insulted? Because it only cost me $20 to get INTO Cambodia (for my visa). Why must it cost $5 more to leave? Despite my inner protestations, I paid my tariff and went through security.

Once through security, we sought out a coffee shop to purchase water in hopes that it might help our aching heads. As we walked in, an irate French woman was busy screaming at the severely underpaid cashier about the price of coffee. Her argument was that $2.50 was an outrageous and downright criminal price to pay for a cup of coffee. According to her, the coffee at the Siem Reap airport was more expensive than any cup of coffee one might purchase in the entire city of Paris (she obviously doesn’t frequent Starbucks). As she was screaming and making failed attempts to barter down the price, some American girl popped out of thin air commenting on how ridiculous food prices were at the Siem Reap airport as compared to anywhere else in the world.

Now I don’t know where these two bargain hunters usually go when they are purchasing food and beverages at the airport, but in my experience, all airports are expensive. And, really? While coffee at the Siem Reap airport costs more than coffee in the city itself, the airport coffee is still far cheaper than any other airport coffee you might stumble upon in an industrialized nation. You know, the kind of place these two weirdo complainers call home. The screaming and complaining persisted, even after the French woman had made her purchase, and then just as mysteriously as she had arrived the annoying American commenter whose only true purpose was to further fuel the eternal flame of anger in the French woman just vanished.

And that’s when I decided to board my flight because it was finally time to leave Cambodia.

Toilet Talk: Cambodian Edition

2010-02-09T14:58:00.000-08:00

For a country that is portrayed as being backwards, Cambodia goes all out on their toilets. We found “6’s” everywhere. Everywhere. At first we assumed it was the result of using WC’s in foreign-friendly restaurants. Then we went on the bus to Siem Reap and stopped in a roadside restaurant where the toilet was…a “6”, though I took off half a point for inconvenience since the toilet paper was by the sink and nowhere near the toilet. Once we arrived in Siem Reap, the toilets continued with their perfect 6.0 rating. That is, until I went to Angkor Wat. Somehow I managed to find the only toilet in all of Cambodia (or at least the places where I went in Cambodia, which were, admittedly, tourist centers) that was not a “6”.

We were still in the temple area, and I was struck with a sudden and urgent need, so I followed the signs to the toilets. Upon reaching it, I could tell from a distance that I had found a traditional toilet. For 2000 riel (50 cents), I bought three squares of tissue. Without that tissue, the toilet would have been a “0” (for a reminder of the toilet ranking system, refer to this post). I’m quite content using whatever toilet is available, so the whole affair with manual flushing, tossing the tissue in the bin outside, and not washing my hands didn’t phase me in the least, that is, until Diane went to a different toilet and returned to triumphantly inform me that it was, in fact, a “6”. Not only was it a “6”, it was absolutely free. Damn the luck! I figured she deserved a break since she bartered a woman down to $10 for a book, and then, once the transaction was complete, was swarmed with at least eight other people offering to sell her the same book for a dollar.

We went on our merry way and only encountered bathrooms with perfect scores from that point forward. Now that I have regaled other travelers with my tale, it seems that there is a consensus, and I AM the ONLY person that found a “1”…or at least, the only person that was willing to pay for the privilege.

Siem Reap: Temples, Tuk-Tuks, and Karaoke

2010-02-08T14:56:00.000-08:00

Our third day in Cambodia found us boarding a deluxe bus headed to Siem Reap. What made it deluxe? I think it was the free water and the TV. And what did they play on TV? Cambodian karaoke videos. No lie. I was wondering how I’d get my karaoke fix in Cambodia, especially since I made no effort to go to the place I saw as we were driving around Phnom Penh. But then, with this stroke of luck, I decided (at Diane’s suggestion) that five hours of karaoke videos could count (especially since the videos were graphic depictions love stories gone awry complete with alcoholism and suicide).

However, fate decided to step in and make the deal even sweeter. On our first night, we went out on the town to enjoy a bucket of gin and tonic (which included a free t-shirt—score!), and we started talking to the young Australian couple seated next to us. As it turned out, they loved karaoke too. So after a few beers and a couple games of pool, we found a tuk-tuk driver that new of a karaoke joint, and we were off.

We drove through the night, clueless as to where we were going, and then…we arrived. Where? Well, none of us had any clue (though I managed to find it two days later on my way to the airport). We got out of the tuk-tuk, and I instantly knew what kind of establishment we were about to patronize. In the parking lot, there were a few pairs of Western men, hesitatingly getting out of their tuk-tuks, vocalizing their misgivings about going into the brightly-lit building. My group exchanged looks, and we decided, “We’re here. Let’s just do it.”

A man greeted us outside the door and walked us into the first room. An aisle was created in the middle of the room, lined on both sides with about four rows of chairs, filled with girls. Girls dressed in short, tight-fitting dresses, high heels, and loads of make-up. We turned to the man and said, “We just want to sing.”

He took us to a room that cost $15/hour and included its own bathroom complete with shower. I know what you’re thinking, they thought of everything! Who doesn’t need a shower after a killer karaoke performance of Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart”? Yeah, they totally thought of everything. The man hung out in our room with us for quite awhile (and I like to think it was because we were entertaining since we really were at the karaoke place for the purpose of singing karaoke). He started to bring in some ladies, but determined that we really weren’t interested, so we were merely accompanied by one girl whose job it was to operate the machine. She was quite friendly and made song requests for us, so it felt like she was part of the group.

We sang for two glorious hours and paid ridiculous amounts of money for the alcohol that was served. When we left the building, there were far fewer girls seated in the “display” room. Those that were there appeared to be miserably unhappy, and we suspected that our presence probably didn’t help matters. Our tuk-tuk awaited us outside. We jumped on board and headed back to town, laughing the whole way about our innocent adventure to a prostitution front. And THAT is what counted for karaoke in Cambodia.

The next day we met our tuk-tuk driver and went on a tour of three of the temples: Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, and Ta Prohm. Simply put, it was awe-inspiring. As always, I started feeling like I should be more impressed as we walked through Angkor Wat. It IS a UNESCO World Heritage site after all! Then we drove to Angkor Thom. As our vehicle rounded the corner, both Diane and I stopped speaking. Impressive indeed.

We wandered the temples in 90-degree head until our hangovers couldn’t take it anymore. I will admit that I regret not taking another day to explore the temples. They were spectacular. So I guess that means there’s always next time.

Bug Dreams Lost

2010-02-07T14:24:00.000-08:00

Well, I came all the way to Cambodia with a single objective—to eat a tarantula. Did I succeed? No. We got to Phnom Penh, and I saw the carts of bugs: worms, crickets, snakes on a stick, and I was IN! …just not at that particular moment. I declared night 2 to be Cardelia’s Bug-Eating Bonanza, but once I ate my lok lak (which is similar to Vietnamese Shaking Beef, and is delicious and my favorite Cambodian meal), I was too full. It was decided that the bugs would have to wait until Siem Reap.

Once there, I was on a quest…albeit a casual one. Unfortunately, all I found was a grilled frog (and it was delicious…tasted like chicken and was even better than the fried frog legs I ate at Anchor and Hope when they first opened). I also found snails, but I had no real interest in those. So, my dream was lost. I will have to return home having only eaten grubs and large waterbugs.

Tis a pity.

Pig in a Poke

2010-02-07T14:17:00.000-08:00

Now I’m not squeamish. Nope. Not at all. Seriously. I’m not…for the most part anyway. I’ve been to local markets all over the place, and I’ve seen pig heads, cow heads, animal legs, chickens being killed along a river…you know, the usual. I’ve meandered through stalls of skinned frogs and dead bugs. A quick walk through any Chinatown brings you face to face with hanging ducks, snakes, and other weirdly gross things that people like to eat. None of those things bother me. I recognize that in America, we have become separated from our food so much that we sometimes fail to associate meat with its origins. I understand why some people have a problem seeing all of this, but I don’t find it shocking in the least. Smelly, yes. Shocking and unexpected, no.

I will tell you what I didn’t expect to see though, but first you have to read about my day. On our second day in Phnom Penh, Diane and I took the full tour, including a trip to the Royal Palace, the Russian Market, and then to the gruesome Tuol Sleng Prison and the Killing Fields at Cheong Ek. The first half of our day was, by far, the most pleasant. The second half was horrifying and eye-opening as we wandered through the former school turned prison where thousands of Cambodians were tortured by their own government and then to the farm where even more people were slaughtered and left for dead.

I’ve been to Auschwitz, and I was only able to take it for a finite period of time. The thing that made me sick was the room full of human hair left from the victims after their bodies were burned (and having to exit the camp via the gas chamber pretty much sold me on never going to another concentration camp again). Even today, when I go to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, I have to walk away from the photo of that room full of hair.

So what freaked me out and instantly made me sick and full of pain at the Killing Fields? It wasn’t the tower of human bones. It wasn’t knowing that I was walking on a mass grave still filled with thousands of corpses. It wasn’t seeing the speaker system that they set up in the trees to drown out the cries and moans of the people who were beaten and tossed into the pits, left to die underneath the weight of other lifeless bodies. It was a tree. The children’s tree, so-named because it was the tree that the Khmer Rouge used to crush the skulls of babies before throwing them into the pits. And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore (and was somewhat relieved to have a little macabre laugh at the sign reminding people that grenades should be left at the door before entering the museum (because where else would people be carrying grenades as if it is a normal accessory?)). With that said, I have no regrets about going. As hard as it was to see it, genocide is something that people should see and should know about. It just isn’t right, so there is a reason that these places are left as memorials to the horror that once took place there.

When we finished our solemn tour of the Killing Fields of Cheong Ek, we loaded back into our tuk-tuk, doing what we could to avoid the throngs of children begging us to buy them a coke and headed back toward town. We traveled down the road for several miles, passing motorbikes loaded with families, farm trucks loaded with equipment (and usually housing a couple workers on top), and even a motorbike with an attached grill (that was in use as it was in motion). After awhile, a pickup truck approached us from the rear (and this was not the unusual part seeing as we were tapping out at 25 mph). As they passed us, the six passengers in the cab (you read that right) stared at us as though we were aliens. We smiled and waved, and then we saw something that instantly made our jaws drop wide open. What could possibly have been so shocking and unexpected after the day we’d had? Well, I’ll tell you. The back of their truck was loaded with the bodies of at least fifteen dead pigs, piled on top of each other and practically bursting out of the ropes that tied them down. Diane made a funny and described the scene as being literally hog-tied. And THAT was what I never saw coming.

Cambodia: Kingdom of Wonder

2010-02-07T00:51:00.000-08:00

Whoever came up with Cambodia’s slogan, “Kingdom of Wonder” knew what they were talking about. So far, having just seen Phnom Penh, all I can say is…as advertised!

For starters, US Dollars are the preferred currency, so much so, that ATM machines only dispense USD. The only way you get Cambodian riel is if you require change under one dollar. And speaking of riel, Cambodians aren’t interested in receiving it (it’s kind of like the smaller Chinese coins that all merchants freely hand out but none are willing to take as payment). For the most part, prices are presented in USD, so it’s not as if this is Soviet Russia where everybody wants USD, so they engage in under-the-table transactions. The Cambodian national bank only deals in the currency of another nation. Tres bizarre!

Phnom Penh is nothing like I expected, yet it is everything I thought it would be all at the same time. It is deservedly known as the “Tarnished Pearl of Asia”. The streets are lined with crumbling French colonial buildings, some of which probably should be condemned (and perhaps are, but that doesn’t stop the impoverished masses from needing a place to live and calling it home regardless). Occasionally you might see some guy walking around with a machine gun. Yeah, you read the right, average, everyday, non-law-enforcement types pack serious heat out in the open for all to see. The roads are cluttered with thousands of motorcycles carrying up to five (count ‘em!) full-grown adults at once. Paved streets intersect with dirt roads at random. You can’t walk on the sidewalk because there are at least five motorcycle repair shops on every block, making the sidewalk a parking lot and the street a pedestrian walkway, albeit a dangerous one since you have to dodge cars, bikes, and motorcycles (and Lexus SUV’s that have the name “Lexus” emblazoned on the side, so no one has any doubt as to what kind of car the person is driving).

I’m fairly sure that there are only three traffic lights in the entire city, turning transportation into a chaotic, yet well-choreographed dance. The streets are filthy; the air is full of dirt. Beggars are scattered along the waterfront. Many are mothers with small children. Some of the children are severely deformed with a disease similar to elefantitus. Many beggars are missing or have deformed, unusable limbs (most likely from land mine injuries or resulting from malnutrition and a tainted food supply—all preventable in industrialized nations). Children run from restaurant to restaurant trying to sell books and postcards to tourists, armed with tenacity and clever senses of humor. At first it surprised me that the restaurant staff didn’t shoo them away, but after spending some time here I realized that, perhaps, Cambodians have a strong sense that whatever their station in life, it could always be taken away without warning. And because of that, I think they are understanding and sympathetic of struggle—because no one lives without struggle and fear.

Despite all of the dirt, grime, poverty, and sadness, Phnom Penh has a charm to it that is unmatched so far in my travels. The people are lovely. Everyone we encountered spoke excellent English (including and especially the kids trying to sell their wares to the tourists), and people were happy to chat. The streets are alive at night. Despite the prevalence of beggars, I never felt overwhelmed or under siege.

It feels like a smile goes a long way here. I have no doubt that being generally pleasant helped us get personal attention and good service while we were out on the town. I know that this all may sound naïve because I was a tourist, so obviously people wanted my money, leading them to be nice to me…but I really think the people are genuine. There are plenty of places that rely on tourism for their income, yet are terrible to the tourists—you know, like a touristy restaurant in Paris…or, say the Russell Stover’s Factory store in Corsicana, Texas. I didn’t find the Cambodians that I encountered to be resentful of the tourists (though as my trip continued to even more touristy areas, it became clear that everyone did want a piece of me…but still it wasn’t as bad as the whole of China).

When it comes to service, Cambodia is all that and a platter of escargot. The attention to detail, service, and presentation at the restaurants was something to be admired. Our first stop was at a lovely restaurant we found in our guidebook. Our mission: Eat Khmer food. Mission accomplished and then some (including a bathroom worthy of a “6” rating, which seems to be the norm around these parts)! Our waiter was a very funny, slightly flirty, handsome young man. He directed us to a few dishes that were delicious and was very attentive. When we finished our meal, he chatted with us for twenty minutes or so, telling us about his hometown (which happens to be where the Irawaddy Dolphins are, and I regret that I didn’t have enough time to go up there and see them for myself). As much as he wanted to tell us about where he came from, he wanted to know about America. His questions made him all the more endearing. He wanted to know what kind of animals we had—specifically, if elephants and tigers roam in the wild. I have never met anyone that truly didn’t know much about my country, so it was fun to tell him about it.

He also asked me a question that I still think about. “Is it easy to live in your country?” How do you answer that? My initial reaction was to say no. Of course it’s not easy to live in my country. It’s not easy to live anywhere. But then, as I thought about the reasons why it’s not easy to live in my country, they all revolve around it being a wealthy nation. Our problems are problems of wealth. It’s expensive. It’s a pain in the ass to get health insurance if you don’t work for a company that provides it, and even when you do have it, you have to pay an arm and a leg to get anything done. The US is huge, so if you move away from your family, you have to put money, time, and effort into seeing them. If you live in a place like San Francisco, you probably can’t afford to buy property if you’re making the median income. We have crime. We have drugs. We have racism and sexism. We have a huge homeless population (and members of that population might answer this question differently than me). We have a public school system that could definitely use improvement…if only we could afford it. Hell, we have enemies that want all of us to be blown to oblivion. We have problems. But as I started to answer his question with my cries of woe, I looked at him, and I realized that my problems weren’t as bad as the ones he probably faces. I flew halfway across the world to go on vacation for two months because I was bored and unemployed, and he probably can’t afford to travel the eight hours by bus to see his family on a regular basis. I am able to support myself, and I haven’t worked in months. My half of our $20 meal would have taken him two days of work to buy. Just for the sake of comparison, I’m not in the habit of spending the equivalent (let’s say $200 a meal) on my own dinners on a nightly basis when I’m at home (I’m not saying I haven’t…but it isn’t something I do with any regularity…or when it isn’t being paid for by an expense account). I don’t fear my government. I may not always agree with them, but I have no reason to believe that they might kill me and everyone I know. I don’t have a fear of anyone taking away my life, my livelihood, my everything. And that’s why I answered, yes. Yes, it is easy to live in my country. We have our problems, but I am very lucky to have been born in America because I have so many opportunities at my feet.

We bid our waiter friend adieu and took a walk around the waterfront. The park was filled with families spending the evening together, picnicking, playing games, and just enjoying one another’s company. I felt completely safe, and I appreciated how tightly knit the families and neighbors seemed to be. I can only imagine that it is partly a reaction to all of the horrors they faced during Pol Pot’s reign when whole families were slaughtered. The median age in Cambodia is something like 27, and it’s not because people had a bunch of babies 27 years ago. It’s because the government killed one-third of the population. That kind of terror must live on for generations, and I really think the Cambodians appreciate what they do have as they re-build their country.

I must say that I was totally blown away by Phnom Penh. Everything about is beguiling from the juxtaposition of crumbling buildings and luxury vehicles to the resilience of the people and their seemingly happy demeanor despite the obvious struggles they face. Here I thought I was going to walk into a war zone, filled with chaos and fear, but I went to a place that is unlike any other. Sure it’s rundown, but the feeling you get from the city itself and people who live here makes it well worth the visit.

Flyin' (Faux) First Class

2010-02-06T23:15:00.000-08:00

You never know when or how good fortune will strike, but you should always snatch it up, savor it, and keep your trap shut when it does. On our last day in Bangkok, Diane and I indulged in full body treatments at a spa, then packed our belongings, and boarded the airport bus. The ride was a long one, mostly because I was struck with an immediate and urgent need to visit the nearest facility (regardless of its rating on our 5 point scale) and had the misfortune to wait until AFTER we checked into our flight to take care of said business. Perhaps the girl at the check-in counter sensed my “situation” and took pity on us with our seat assignments. Or, maybe it was just luck. Whatever the case, we soon discovered that we were part of an elite group of flyers on Air Asia. We may as well have been the stars of Real World MCXVII because we were playing in a totally different field than all those other suckers.

Once through security, we cruised the duty-free shops, enjoyed a refreshing beverage (and I purchased those aforementioned Goldfish crackers), and then headed to our gate. The staff looked at our tickets and ushered us over to the seating lounge closest to the doors. After sitting there awhile, we noted that only seven people were in the section. Our first assumption was that it was going to be a sparsely populated flight. Upon making such a comment, we then directed our eyes toward the hordes of people gathered behind the customer service desk—standing. Diane and I looked at each other with wonder and surprise. Did we get first class? Is it even possible to get first class when you paid $100 for a ticket? With giddy anticipation, we awaited the boarding process.

They called the first five rows (of which we barely made the cut in row 5). We walked down the ramp on to the plane and discovered, much to our dismay, that there was no first class, at least not in the way you’d expect to see it (you know, with larger seats and a partition that prevented the peasants from spying on your and largess up in first class).

Odd. We shrugged our shoulders and settled into our seats, ready to watch the parade of plebeians pile onto the plane. Being that we were completely separated from everyone in a very spacious seating area, I was surprised to see the number of people on the flight. It was practically full behind me. However, the first five rows remained empty save for us seven lottery winners that were sitting there. As we taxied on the runway, the flight attendants clearly told everyone to remain in the assigned seats. Just as we were about to take off, some guy from row 10, who looked like he came straight from a cockfight, infiltrated row 3. Within seconds he was booted from the seat, though he apparently could have stayed had he been willing to pay an additional 250 baht ($8, a far cry from the $40+ you pay for the roomier economy seats on American carriers).

The plane took off, the fasten seat belts sign dimmed, and my friend from the monster car rally snuck over to row 4 just as the food and drink service started (of which Diane and I were curious to find out if our faux first class benefits extended to free food and beverages…it didn’t, by the way). The flight attendant again told the man he couldn’t sit there unless he paid her 250 baht, and he started yelling about how unfair it was that he was stuck in row 10 when there were plenty of empty seats up front. For the first time in Asia, I saw a Thai person raise her voice and demand cooperation. The man angrily left the seat; huffing and puffing all the way back to row 10.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, leaving us to wonder what the benefit of the first five rows was that anyone would pay extra for the privilege. It wasn’t for the same lack of legroom and food for purchase that you got in rows 6 and beyond. So what could it possibly have been? And why were we sitting there? We saw the light once we landed in Phnom Penh and it was time to exit the plane.

I was busy gathering my stuff when the angry villagers attempted to storm my castle. Three of them made it through before I stood up and blocked traffic, allowing my fellow aristocrats a chance to get out of their seats. We all shared a laugh and exited the plane. Being that we were among the first ten people in line, we breezed through immigration (despite the fact that we had to pay them extra money in both Thai baht and US Dollars in order to obtain our visas). As we walked away from the immigration desk and over to the baggage carousel where our bags were front and center, we glanced back at the massive line behind us. And that’s when it all became clear. I’d totally pay an extra eight bucks to avoid standing in that line for a half an hour. Who cares about free food and drinks or extra legroom when you can enjoy the convenience of entering a country in under three minutes?

The stars were shining on us that afternoon, and all we could hope was to have that luck follow us into town.

Airport Goldfish Strike Again!!

2010-02-06T22:06:00.000-08:00

With four glorious weeks in Thailand, Diane and I headed to the airport to fly out to Cambodia. At first this little adventure was to be a solo voyage, but after experiencing a week’s worth of Bangkok (which is equivalent to anything over 48 hours in Vegas), Diane decided to switch up her plans and change her flight to see Cambodia, Kingdom of Wonder.

Once at the airport, we headed over to the always tasty Black Canyon Coffee Company, and what did I find?

GOLDFISH CRACKERS!!!!

I haven’t had goldfish since I paid $6 for a bag of them at SFO. I couldn’t pass up a chance like this. They were only $4, which is still highway robbery in both Thailand AND the United States, but I just had to have ‘em. Diane tried to save me from myself, but I was pretty convincing. That, and I wanted to get the pizza-flavored ones because I hadn’t eaten those since the third grade.

And just in case you were wondering….delicious. And…I made them last two whole days.

Licky Licky Bang Bang

2010-02-05T22:04:00.000-08:00

The first time I learned of ping-pong shows was when I saw Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in the theater. It was the scene where they end up befriending the town outcast and find that he has a Thai wife who runs off to the local bar and shoots ping-pong balls out her, well, hoo-ha. At the time I didn’t understand what the scene referenced. I got the part about the man marrying a woman from Thailand, and I figured out that she was a prostitute of some sort. I just didn’t understand the bit about the ping-pong balls.

Now I do. Well, to be fair, I was enlightened prior to my 34th year, but now that I’ve spent more than one night in Bangkok, I know first-hand what it’s like to witness a ping-pong show. And to be honest, it’s far from pretty and closer to horrifying.

I don’t know what you think of when you think of ping-pong shows, but I thought razzle dazzle—seriously. I was thinking it would be more like a kitschy drag show and less like a sad den of sex slavery. And because I was so optimistic about the potential entertainment that awaited me, I was pro-ping-pong-show from the get-go.

Now I did keep this goal of mine under wraps for quite some time. Even when the Canadians regaled us with stories of all the ping-pong show options in Phuket (which, much to my surprise, I learned included much more than ping-pong balls), I just laughed and acted put-off. But really, I wanted to see one for myself. I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to drag anyone with me on my little perverted adventure.

After four glorious weeks in the land that was once Siam, our final night was upon us. You can imagine my excitement when our guide mentioned that he was taking us to Patpong. That’s, right, Pat-friggin-pong. The red light district. Ping-pong pogo sticks, I was gonna see a show! Well, I didn’t know that, but I had a feeling. I asked Sam if he was going to take us to a ping-pong show, and he was coy. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one that asked. All five us were down, and our man, Sam, made it happen.

We taxied over to a fancy 5-star hotel next to Patpong (uh-huh, that’s where the nice hotels are) and had dinner. After our deliciously fishy meal, we walked over to the main drag of Patpong where the streets are lined with go-go bars, and the sidewalks are filled with night market stalls catering only to the tacky taste of tourists. Sam searched for a specific establishment because he didn’t want us to get ripped off, as is often the case at such places. Many times, you have to pay a hefty cover, then are forced to buy drinks, and in some cases, they’ll lock you inside the bar for a few hours until they are satisfied with the amount of money you spent in their bar. I know, it sounds like the sort of place I should frequent on a more regular basis.

At last, Sam found his spot, which had moved locations and changed its name to Super Pussy. He negotiated with the doorman, and walked out to inform us that we all had to buy a drink (alcoholic or not) for 200 baht (around $6). He then told us that he would not go inside with us and was very concerned that we were all definitely okay with going into the ping-pong show. You see, it was against company policy for him to take us there, so he was trying to cover his own ass (and I can’t say that I blame him). We all assured him that if we went inside and were offended and hurt, we would only have ourselves to blame. He told us he’d meet us at the hotel in a half an hour, and I was the first to pipe up and say, “We need more time than that!” I re-negotiated and gave us 45 minutes to an hour.

We girls traipsed into the bar (because our one male traveler was off to the ATM) following the bouncer to our seats. The whole bar was empty except for the strippers. They seated us directly in front of the stage, giving us the best possible view of the “equipment”. Within a minute, someone came over to take our drink orders. Seconds later, a gaggle of girls crowded in on us asking us our names and wanting to become besties. They also wanted us to buy cocaine. How do I know? Because they kept asking me, “Coca, lady? Coca?” while touching their noses. My Dutch friend was under the impression they really liked Coca-Cola. I had to explain that they really just wanted to get high on her dime and that cocaine in Thailand is actually pure heroin. Yeah. Nice.

While we were bombarded with these girls, our drinks came and the bar madam came over demanding immediate payment (and I have to admit she was a little scary…and she was fully prepared to tell us how much the girls would cost us should be interested in a little "licky licky bang bang"). We handed over our money, and the girls kept insisting on getting up close and personal with us. My negative stance on “coca” and socializing made them lose interest in me fairly quickly. The girl from New Zealand was a different story. From the day she set foot in Thailand, poor little NZ was spotted from miles away by anyone that wanted to sell her some piece of crap for far too much money. These girls knew a sucker when they saw one and would not leave her alone. She eventually got away from them, but it took some doing. What she really needed to learn was to just not be nice and accommodating because sometimes the polite smile and “no thank you” doesn’t translate into other cultures. But, I guess it’s easy to get into these jams when you’re 20-years-old and think you know everything about the world.

With the girls moving on to some other unwitting tourist (which happened to be the male member of our group who finally wandered in), we were able to sit back and watch the show. As we walked in, a girl was shooting ping-pong balls out of her hoo-ha, then she stood up and started pulling out a chain of…razors. Yeah, you read that right. Razors. Now ask yourself, did she do this with pizzazz? Did she seem like an engaged performer? No. No would be the correct answer. She was totally dead behind the eyes. This woman who was probably very young, but looked very old and was totally stoned. Stoned beyond the point of being human. She was nothing, and felt like I was watching someone slowly kill herself.

Behind her stood six girls who would dance (and when I say ”dance”, think strip club dancing where they really just stand there and maybe sway in a very disinterested way). Much like in a strip club, there was absolutely nothing sexy or campy about the scene (and if you’ve never been to a strip club, it’s nothing like Demi Moore’s Striptease. It’s really just bored, naked ladies strutting around a small area, and you quickly become desensitized to it—at least if you’re me). The girls, who did have mad skills with their “no-no” zone, and the lifeless back-up dancers were not the intriguing spectacle that I had envisioned. Rather, they seemed like lost souls who were trapped in a hellish existence. And to be quite honest, I would not be surprised if they had an owner.

After the razor woman left the stage (which required a handler as she was too far-gone to figure out how to exit the stage), we saw someone empty a water bottle and refill another one, we saw another draw a picture, and we saw yet another woman pop balloons with darts. And by that time, a half an hour had passed. Much like Sam had anticipated, we were done. The five of us looked at each other at the same time and knew it was time to leave.

So we did. And we all wanted to take a shower because we felt even dirtier than we did after hiking for three days in the hills of Northern Thailand or camping for two nights on a deserted island.

Now I know that I never need to go to a ping-pong show again. I may not be part of the solution, but I don’t think I can continue to be part of the problem.

Full Moon Madness

2010-01-31T19:21:00.000-08:00

You know about the infamous Thai Full Moon parties right? You know, every month 50,000 people gather to drink and do drugs under the moonlight? Oh yeah, they’re all the rage. Everybody goes. Everybody.

Okay, well, not me. Prior to going to Thailand, I knew about the Full Moon parties. I also knew that I never went to any sort of Spring Break at the beach deal. No. I was L-A-M-E, and I continue to B-E. My friend who had gone to a Full Moon party told me to avoid it at all costs as it was essentially Spring Break for Swedes. And as much as I like the Swedes (mostly because they aren’t Norwegian, and we all know that I don’t get along with our Nordic brethren), I didn’t want any part of it.

However, can you really pass up the opportunity to go out on the night of the brightest full moon of the year? No way. You can’t. And even though I was nowhere near any of the islands where the true Full Moon parties are held, local bars did what they could to cash in on the action. So our little troupe of harried travelers went to our very own Full Moon Party, and it was something else. And by something else, I mean…it wasn’t exactly a party. It was really just a night at a bar that included severed toes, home movies, prostitutes, and quadruple-patty-burger-eating Canadians. What more could you want?

After watching a magnificent sunset from Railey Beach, we took our taxi boat back to Ao Nang, piled into a tuk-tuk, had a delicious dinner, and went back to the hotel to change. I decided take that opportunity to wow everyone on Facebook with the “fact” that I was going to a Full Moon Party, knowing full well that I was full of poo. At nine o-clock, Diane and I and our crew headed down to the main drag in Ao Nang to hit up the Chang Bar. Why the Chang Bar? Because it was A) a good bar, B) did not allow prostitutes, C) had a pool table, and D) was hosting a Full Moon Party (which basically meant that they re-named their nightly drink special which was a free shot of your choice of tequila or Sambucca).

We were ready. We were pumped. Okay, maybe I was the only one that was pumped, but I was excited to go out to a bar. I don’t know why exactly since I go to bars regularly, but I just was. Maybe it was the moon.

We walked into the bar, which was down an alley filled with shops selling clothes and sunglasses, and found a table. Upon sitting down, Diane caught my attention and asked me for some help. Not knowing what she needed I turned to her.

“Can you get me a band-aid? I think I cut my toe.”

I looked down at her toe, and it was bleeding profusely. “Uhh, yeah. Sure thing.”

I ran over to the bar manned by a lady boy, of which I would learn later was not the Chang bar but a completely different bar altogether (despite the fact that it was located ten feet away from our table) and asked if he had a band-aid. Unfortunately for me, he had no idea what I was requesting, so I ran over to the pharmacy a few doors down. I quickly made my purchase and returned.

Being that I AM First-Aid Certified, I felt confident that I could handle this little cut toe issue. I asked Diane how she was feeling. She responded by telling me she couldn’t feel her toe. I opened up a band-aid and leaned over to doctor her toe when I noticed that I couldn’t actually see her toe. No, all I could see was a mountain of blood, and the more I looked at it, the more I feared that she hadn’t just cut her toe, but cut her toe off.

Not wanting to tell her what I feared, I informed her that we would need to go to the bathroom to clean it off. Her flip-flop was covered in coagulated blood and was too strappy for her to put back on, so I sacrificed my own foot and shoe for her benefit (and if you know anything about me you know that I HATE bare feet in public. HATE it. It’s gross. You don’t know what’s on the sidewalk…and you REALLY don’t know what’s on the floor of a Thai bar and its outdoor restroom, but my inner Florence Nightingale took over).

We hobbled over to the restroom, attempting to avoid puddles of who-knows-what along the way. Once inside, I had Diane drape her leg over the sink and discovered that water faucet could not reach her foot. Being the quick-thinker that I am, I knew that we needed a bucket of some sort to pour water over her toe, and the closest one…was in the toilet. Yes, you see, in most Thai toilets, you have to use water to manually flush them, so there is always a vat of water next to them with a bowl that you use to pour into the basin once you have completed your business. I looked over at Diane, knowing exactly how disgusting the proposition was, but also knowing that my options were limited.

“This is really gross, but are you okay with using the scoop from the toilet bucket?”

“Yes.”

“Good, cuz it’s all I’ve got.” I grabbed it, and started filling it with water from the faucet. It took a few rinses, but thankfully, it was clear that her toe was still intact, though badly cut, and to my untrained eye, looked as though stitches would not be necessary (which was my big fear as we hobbled over to the bathroom (risking hookworm along the way)).

As we were rinsing her toe, people came in and out of the restroom commenting on the scene at hand. Everyone was surprisingly supportive and not grossed out by the equipment being used in our terribly un-sterile make-shift hospital room (probably because once you’re in Thailand, your whole idea of clean changes).

Despite the fact that I was challenging my tendencies toward relative cleanliness, I did feel strongly that the wound needed to be disinfected. I asked Diane to sit tight (or stand, as it were) while I ran back to the pharmacy to buy some antibiotic cream. As I ran out or the restroom and down the alley, I came upon Sam, our tour guide. In an attempt to help, he had gone with the bartender to find antiseptic and had it in his hand. Together we delivered it to Diane and applied it to her toe. We then washed off our flip flops and returned to the table where the Full Moon Party was commencing.

I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a bloody stump prevent me from getting my drink on, so I did not. With just a little prodding, I convinced Diane to go in on one of several buckets of gin and tonic with me (which was a deal and a half). We also ordered our free shots of tequila complete with salt and lime—unfortunately for us, the waitress returned with Sambucca shots complete with salt and lime. And even more unfortunate, we didn’t discover the mistake until after we had drunk them, complete with salt and lime. Gross. Did I mention how much I dislike licorice? Gross.

We all settled into the bar and the people watching. We were especially curious about what was happening at the bar ten feet away from us where scantily clad Thai women were hanging all over large, middle-aged white men (which was different from the ladyboy bar where a similar scene was taking place). No prostitutes in this bar, huh? It was especially entertaining as we watched a group of four youngish guys interacting with the attentive ladies, thus commencing our game of “European or Gay”. I voted European based on one member of the foursome, but Diane was sticking to her guns on Gay.

We eventually asked about the “No Prostitutes” proclamation at Chang Bar and learned that the other two bars that were both within ten feet of our table and obviously had prostitutes of either the female or ladyboy kind were completely different establishments. Apparently there was an invisible line that prostitutes dared not cross (though upon observing the suspect interaction of a young German couple and the bar-back, we suspect that the rule might not apply to male prostitutes).

As everyone was busily people-watching, I felt the need to dance, and dance I did. I danced so much that I found myself on Dutch home movies. I was even interviewed in one about my dance skills. Americans may not see it, but the Dutch think I’m a good dancer. And I’ll admit that I have tried to find it on YouTube, but every time I look up “Dancing Girl in Thailand” I get something else altogether that will probably land me on some sort of Government Watch List.

Sometime after midnight, Diane and I decided it was time to find our way back to the hotel, since we both had activities planned for the morning (rock-climbing for me and kayaking for her). Upon leaving the bar, I took a purposeful wrong turn in hopes of getting french fries from Burger King. Diane resisted at first, but came around pretty quickly. Though, just as I was about to make my way to the door, a Canadian fella stopped me.

“Don’t do it!” He said. “We just had the Four Patty Burger, and I feel like throwing up. Don’t do it!”

“Of course you feel like barfing. That’s disgusting. I just want fries.” I laughed.

“Don’t do it! Promise me!”

And then we all started to chat. Diane recognized them first.

“Were you in the Chang Bar?” She asked.

“You’re the girl that was dancing!” One of them exclaimed, pointing at me. “We were just talking about you. I saw you and said, ‘There’s someone who just doesn’t care.’”

“You’re the guys that were awkwardly talking to the prostitutes!” I laughed.

“Hey, you don’t know that. They could have been really into us.”

“Uh-huh.”

They introduced themselves to us and we learned that three of them were from Canada and the fourth was from Spain. And then I forget who, but either Diane or I revealed that they were part of our “European or Gay” game. I stood firm in letting them know that I went with European based solely on the appearance of their Spanish friend…and then I may have let it slip that Diane called gay based on the other three.

And then we became fast friends. Eventually Diane went inside to buy french fries while the Quad-Patty-Burger-Eating Canadian followed her in begging her not to order a hamburger. We made plans to meet up the next night with the understanding that there was only at 30% chance that either party would show.

We then bid adieu to our new, straight Canadian (and Spanish) friends, and made our way back to the hotel for a brief slumber before embarking on chest-hair growing physical activities with killer hangovers and little food.

To be honest, I think the madness hit the day after the full moon, but that might have been my aching muscles and starving belly talking.

Another Day on the Beach (Or Why Do Unattractive People Sunbathe Topless?)

2010-01-30T23:35:00.000-08:00

Well, we made it to the beach. After a few relaxing and delightful days staying in a treehouse bungalow in Khao Sok National Park (where I encountered monkeys who showed zero interest in my outfit), we piled into a VIP bus complete with the option of karaoke (though we opted to watch the third installment of the Mummy series) and drove to Ao Nang (which, according to Lonely Planet is the armpit of Thailand, but will be my home base for the next week). It's a lovely beach (despite what Lonely Planet or the Dutch girl and the New Zealander said) and the water is so shallow that you can walk for at least a half a mile during low tide without ever getting the water past your knee. The town is...well, a bit over-run by tourists (as this is a major transportation hub for people going out to the island, Phuket, and other Andaman sea destinations).

We spent our day wandering around, having coffee in tattoo parlors and crying over our food (okay, so I was the only one crying and eating, but it was just so darn spicy!). As I ate through my tears, I noticed a group of kids working on an English project. Basically, they had a list of conversational questions to ask people in English. Being the natural helper that I am, I wanted to be interviewed. So, we finished up our food. I wiped my tears and approached the shy girl. Immediately we were swarmed with kids, listening to our answers and asking us questions. They were very sweet, and we were suddenly rock stars. After quite awhile we managed to excuse ourselves and walk away. A half an hour later, they spotted us walking on the beach and came running down looking for autographs. Rock stars indeed.

And that was our day. We saw some unfortunate nudity (which, for the record, is illegal in Thailand) and then went to Reileh Beach where I got to check out the princess cave...oh, and I also watched a beautiful sunset whilst eating corn-on-the-cob.

Once the sun went down, the full moon rose...and the fun was only just beginning.

Snack Attack!

2010-01-27T23:18:00.000-08:00

Oh Pringles! Why must you exist? You are the new Goldfish, which were the new Pringles, which were the new Cheez-Its, which were the new Goldfish, etc. I came all the way to SE Asia, and here I am, eating Pringles like it's raining dehydrated potatoes. Why did I have to see you in the 7-Eleven? I was doing just fine when Lays were the only potato chips available because they don't put crack in their chips, not to mention the fact that they are less entertaining since you can't make hilarious duck lips with them. Is there nowhere to run? Will I never be safe from deliciously salty snacks? Will I ever stop eating like a 5-year-old?

On a somewhat unrelated note, what's up with the abundance of fried chicken in Southern Thailand? Did I die and wake up in Mississippi? I am so down with the what the Rock is cooking around these parts!

Night 1 at the Raft House: Fried Fish - Muy delicioso!
Night 2: I was disappointed to learn that fried fish was not on the menu, but my hunger strike was called off almost immediately when they delivered...FRIED PORK BALLS!

Heaven! I'm in Heaven! What's a quasi-southern girl to do?

The abundance and variety of deep fried deliciousness in the south of Thailand brings up a curious question (and I have to give Diane credit for this particular musing). Is it possible that the southern part of all countries share the culinary aesthetic of deep fried fanaticism? If so, I have DEFINITELY found my people.

Now I Get It

2010-01-26T22:28:00.000-08:00

I never understood the beach vacation...until now. When it comes to travel and recreation, I generally subscribe to the go/see/do school. I've never been a beach-goer. Don't get me wrong, I like the beach, but I just don't know what to do with myself for hours on end. Same goes with camping (though that has more to do with me not liking being dirty). Or hanging out by a pool. I like to be active, even if that activity is something I'm really really bad at (like say, kayaking, hiking, competing in any sort of race, or, as is the case since I've returned from this trip, getting out of bed before noon). I'm sure it's something I inherited from my parents what with their preference to go on action-packed vacations (where most of the action is driving around in the car). The one time I wanted to try out the "beach vacation" was our family trip to Hawaii in December of 2002. And that totally failed, not because of me, but because my parents couldn't fully grasp the concept (nor could they stick to their edict of "We're all adults, so we can split up and enjoy individual activities" because this vacation turned into an all-or-nothing drive-a-thon).

My brother and I tried to stand together on the "lazy day at the beach" strategy, but Dad's need to keep moving never made it possible. Rather than allow us a day to do as we pleased, we were lured into the backseat of the rental car and driven around O'ahu all day long. Don't get me wrong, we had a good time going to Pearl Harbor, stopping at the Dole Pineapple Plantation, and checking out the North Shore (where we got our first beach stop, which consisted of dad stopping on the side of the road and saying, "Okay, there's the beach. You have five minutes." (And people think I'm a ball-buster when I try to get them in and out of Grace Cathedral in less than 10 minutes.))

Needless to say, that didn't satisfy our beach-going desires, so we commenced the moaning and groaning which led to a second (and much more uncomfortable and less-satisfying stop). Hearing our cries, the 'rents made a decision to quell our misery by pulling into a parking lot at a beach, where Dad turned to us and said, "Alright. There's the beach. If you two want to go, that's fine. Your mother and I will stay here with the car."

Surprisingly that kind of selfless compromise worked only my dad's favor because my brother and I just felt weird and awkward going to the beach while our parents waited for us in the car in a crowded parking lot. Did I mention we were full-grown adults at this time? Closer to thirty than twenty? Needless to say, we returned to the car after two minutes and continued the endless drive.

Given that experience and a myriad of other botched attempts at hanging out and doing nothing somewhere other than my couch (where I have no problem whatsoever), I have never had a successful beach holiday...until now.

We took the night train down from Bangkok and ended up in Surat Thani at 6:30 in the morning. All I wanted was a shower, and that shower was never going to happen which made me very upset (because for a person who dislikes showering, I hate being dirty--it's one of my grand ironies). We grabbed some breakfast, then boarded a bus to Khao Sok filled with entitled and endlessly bitching college kids, then transferred to a truck which delivered us to a boat where we boarded and cruised through Cheow Lan Lake until we arrived at our home for the next two nights--a raft house resort in the middle of the lake.

Suddenly, I was less concerned about my lack of a shower because this place was magical. Each of us got our own bamboo huts, and we spent the next two and a half days hanging out on our respective porches and swimming in the lake. Our hosts called us to the main raft at meal time where we ate like kings.

And now I get it. At last! I didn't have to rise early. I didn't have to worry about a schedule or opening hours. All I had to do was sit around, read, write, swim, and eat (and unfortunately, I had a wee eating issue when an entire colony of ants found their way into my small bag of almonds. Had I not looked down and noticed them as I popped the nuts in my mouth, I probably would have eaten them without worry--and yes, I see the irony that I was unwilling to eat ants with a side of almonds after eating fried maggots).

All I had to do was relax, and I took the opportunity to get my non-bathroom "me" time in my little hut. It was bliss. However, I'm glad we left after a couple of days because I'd hate to get burned out on my new discovery. I'm sold on the beach vacation, but only for a couple days at a time (ed. unless of course the beach vacation is in my living room in which case I can keep it up for weeks).

The Train! The Train!

2010-01-24T22:15:00.000-08:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it again... This is, by far, the best travel experience I've ever had. Take tonight for example. We boarded a train in Bangkok headed for Southern Thailand and within the first hour of our trip managed to make friends with everyone in our car from our fellow passengers to the train staff.

Diane and I discussed our shared inability to befriend strangers a couple weeks ago. No one ever talks to me. Seriously. I once sat at a bar for 5 hours and even the bartender wouldn't make conversation with me. As nice and friendly as people seem to think I am, it isn't enough for anyone to feel any desire to approach me or even consider a chat when I'm alone in public. But I think I might have turned a corner tonight.

It all started with a couple of French guys. They were having trouble setting up their table. Since I had watched our train attendant (who happened to be a ladyboy, which pretty much meant that we'd be friends), I offered to give them a hand. After that little bit of interaction, my soon-to-be French friends occasionally made conversation with us.

But really, what got the ball rolling was our ladyboy attendant. When asked his name, he simply said, "Tonight, I'm Frank." And from that point forward, we were besties. Having just left the train with a Disco Car, I inquired about it with Frank. He sadly informed me that this train didn't have one, but confided in my that not only was there a secret party...but that I was definitely on the list (and yes, I realize how creepy that sounds, but it was pure innocence).

Diane and I pulled out the dominoes I bought on our 45 minute sojourn to Laos and started playing (and to all my Texans out there, I attempted to get everyone into 42, but I was met with fierce resistance, so we just played straight dominoes...and I also couldn't get anyone on board with the correct scoring marks, but I still managed to teach them the value of a point-system).

We played a couple rounds, and occasionally Frank would walk by and check on the hot domino action, when finally he asked, "Is it okay if I join?" We acquiesced, and he squeezed his way into the seat next to Diane (which was really only big enough for one person, but he had no qualms about personal space). He quickly got into the groove of the game (though I admittedly waived a couple rules for the sake of the game), until he was called away by his work.

We took a quick break, and I found myself over at with the French guys where they were playing a game with the New Zealander. I joined in that game for awhile, then Frank sauntered over and insisted on playing as well. Much like he had done with Diane, he squeezed himself into the seat next to one of the French guys who had a look of utter horror on his face. We played for awhile, then the train's military cop walked over and Frank started chatting with him. I was certain that Frank was in trouble for playing games and not working, but as it turned out, the military cop was his brother and wanted to watch us play the game in hopes of joining in as well, leading me to wonder...does anyone work on this train?

After a few rounds, we all took a quick break and had a dance party at the request of Frank who only wanted to listen to Kylie Minogue or Madonna. Once the dance party was complete, we started playing card games. As the night wore on, everyone in our section of the car was joining in the games whether they were passengers or staff. I never managed to find the secret party, but I kind of think it was happening in our car. It was so much fun and so completely unbelievable for me, a girl who never talks to strangers.

And that's just how this trip keeps going. I'm making friends. One lady boy at a time. And the (straight and married to French women who were absent from this holiday) French guys...well, they seemed genuinely disappointed that we weren't going to join them at the Full Moon Party in Ko Samui. I am becoming the traveler I always wanted to be.

I AM the popular table. Take that seventh grade!

Ah Bangkok, I Almost Forgot How You Smelled

2010-01-23T20:40:00.000-08:00

Returning to Bangkok after two weeks in Northern Thailand felt a little like a homecoming. As our taxi rolled over to Banglamphu from the train station, I couldn't help but feel that comforting sense of familiarity that you get when you come home (or in my case, when you go anywhere that you've lived (and enjoyed living in) at some point during your life).

The traffic. The people. And of course, the smells. Bangkok has that special mix of odors that no other city has mastered (and I've been to many stinky places). It's that magical combination of open sewage, fried food, spices, body odor, alcohol, trash, vomit, and in the case of this morning after the streets were cleaned, wet dog.

What can I say? It's nice to be home.

Won't You Take Me To...The Disco Car?

2010-01-22T19:27:00.000-08:00

Those Thais are clever, and man do they know how to compromise!

We took the overnight train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok and were introduced to...the Disco Car. Yes, after years of foreigners drinking and carousing on the train until late into the night, bothering the locals who were trying to sleep, the train came up with a plan. Add a Disco Car. On this particular train, there is one car reserved for drunken revelry, complete with flashing lights, bartender, and DJ. When the Disco Car was introduced, it was open all night long, but that proved to be a problem as drunken foreigners loudly stumbled through the cars, disturbing the sleeping set as they tried to remember where their beds were. In an answer to this, the Disco Car now closes at 11pm. And boy is that Disco Car popular. I would have spent time in the Disco Car if I hadn't been so content in my own car, but it was quite a sight to behold--filled wall to wall with loud, drunk French people. It was like walking into a dive bar, where everyone was a local, and they all liked to sing.

Simply brilliant.

And something that should DEFINITELY be incorporated onto the McKinley Explorer trains in Alaska. I'd have so much more fun standing around in the Disco Car rather than standing around in the bathroom during my "me" time on the 8-hour ride (and just to give a little insight into my life and habits, the bathroom is always my go-to place for "me" time, at work, at a bar, at the mall, anywhere. Seriously. I used to nap in the bathroom at work (though that shouldn't be any reason why someone wouldn't want to hire me...in case any potential employers are trolling the interweb for reasons NOT to call me in for an interview), but that's a tale for later).

Ever Wanted to Know Exactly How to Make Heroin?

2010-01-21T23:52:00.000-08:00

Well, the recipe is just a plane ride, a train ride, a bus ride, and a songthaew (covered pick-up truck) ride away at the Opium Museum in the Golden Triangle. That's right kids, you too can learn the intricacies of growing poppies, harvesting them for opium, and creating the black tar that can then be smoked or turned into a variety of drugs (including heroin).

Oh yes, you will read folklore about the poppies, those beautiful flowers with deadly consequences. You'll learn how the hill tribe people of the Golden Triangle were introduced to the poppies as a major cash crop by the Chinese, British, and French in their attempt to earn a quick buck using cheap labor. You'll be given a thorough description of exactly how (and with which tools) and when to cut, dry, and scrape the poppies to extract the black tar. Then you'll learn how prepare it, weigh it, and package it for sale. You'll also see and read a detailed explanation of how to smoke opium, complete with a life-sized diorama of a man in a shack, assuming the opium-smoking position lying on mat, properly holding the pipe, and resting his head on the pillow (and I will admit that as a life-long drug-phobic, I was startled when I walked by because it looked like the guy could have been alive and in an opium haze--and quite frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me if there had been a real person getting high in there).

Once you feel confident in your opium harvesting techniques, you'll wander through a hall of paraphernalia (which were really cool-looking) from opium pipes (carved out anything from teak to ivory), opium pillows (which in most cases were beautifully and intricately carved out of stone), and opium weights (which, if I didn't know what they were, I would think were really cool-looking toys/figurines).

After completing your walk through that area, you'll be confronted with the hard truth about the banning of growing opium. Yes, the hill tribes suffered. No, they didn't want to comply. Yes, the Thai government, along with the help of the US DEA, did everything they could to re-educate the hill tribe people and give them alternative crops. No, the hill tribes still aren't happy that they can't grow opium because coffee and tea simply don't yield the same kind of profits. And why was their cash crop taken away? Because, as if opium isn't bad enough (aside from the fact that it does make the best painkiller available, and thus is legally grown in India for that sole purpose), opium can be manufactured into other more potent and easier to smuggle street drugs...like heroin. And it seems that the Golden Triangle (being the area where Thailand, Myanmar (Burma), and Laos intersect) was (until Afghanistan knocked them out of the #1 spot a couple years ago) the world's largest illegal opium producing area (and the world's center for heroin smuggling).

The next part of the museum tour takes you into a room where you learn a little about the science behind creating drugs (aside from straight opium) out of the base product. You know, things like morphine, heroin, methadone, and oxycontin. They go so far as to list out the exact recipe and procedure for making heroin. Let me just repeat that. There was an enormous poster listing, not only the necessary ingredients, but the step-by-step process of making heroin. Ummm...did the Opium Museum use the crystal-meth-how-to internet sites as their resource for what information is appropriate for the general public (and did I mention that photography and journaling was totally allowed inside there)? Personally, I felt a little weird being the holder of such knowledge, and I wasn't the only one.

My Canadian friend looked over at me as we were reading the poster, and he asked, "Do you find it strange...?"

And I didn't hesitate to complete his sentence, "That we just learned how to make drugs?"

"Yeah. Should that be in a museum?"

"Not sure. It's interesting...but kinda creepy."

"And maybe a little unnecessary and...oh, I don't know, too in-depth?" The Canadian added.

I agreed, then directed my eyes to the next part of my opium education.

Right next to the heroin recipe was....(drum roll please)....the biography and horrors of the notorious Burmese drug lord, Khun Sa, who controlled the heroin trade for close to 50 years. Reading that made me feel a little better about the museum because it did showcase the kind of dangerous underworld (complete with paid militias and constant warfare) that the illegal drug trade forced upon the region (which was in stark contrast to the first part of the museum which seemed to acknowledge the negative aspects of opium use, but overshadowed those negatives with the positive economic outlook provided by the sale of it).

Looking to learn more (as if this wasn't enough)? Well, that's all you're going to get, because the next part of the museum contained a room full of photos of giant Mekong catfish (and they are gi-normous), and long-necked women.

But never fear, no museum exit is complete without forcing you to go through the gift shop, and in this gift shop you can purchase all the opium paraphernalia that you could possibly want. Seriously. And if you didn't get EVERYTHING you needed, fear not. There's a pharmacy next door.

Monkeys Stole My Pants

2010-01-21T00:51:00.000-08:00

...well, they tried to anyway...while I was wearing them. Here's how it all went down (and, by the way, if you see these monkeys, don't be surprised if they are wearing women's pants or even drinking beer and playing poker for that matter):

On our way to the Myanmar (formerly Burma) border, we stopped at a monkey temple. Despite my recent run-in with monkey boxers, I was still optimistic about the little scamps. I mean, look at Curious George! He was just a little mischievous, but his friendship with the man in the yellow hat always led him down the right path. Surely these monkeys would be different. They do live at a temple after all!

Sadly, I was wrong...again.

We got to the temple, and, as usual, there was a large sign warning against about 25 activities that might upset (read: rile up) the monkeys including feeding them, petting them, being too interesting, you know, the usual. Being that I didn't have a random stray dog with me this time, I figured I was probably safe (and I was prepared to be VERY uninteresting) and that the long list was one of paranoia on the part of the keepers. Now I know that not only was I not safe, I was REALLY interesting.

When we pulled up to the main part of the temple, monkeys were everywhere...well, mostly in the trees, but there were tons of 'em. Mommies, daddies, babies, the whole kit 'n caboodle! We wandered around watching them, photographing them, smiling at them ever so innocently while they plotted away at our eventual demise.

The monkeys came down from the trees when the keepers allowed some people to feed them bananas. The monkeys (which were macaques, and given my limited yet negative experience with them, I believe are the meanest monkeys around) swarmed the couple, and the keeper had to swat at the woman because (like and idiot), she was trying to pet them and wanted to pick them up. Apparently she is immune to rabies (or she enjoys shots). And that's when I became aware of...

Monkey attack #1:

The wife of the Canadian (who was also a witness of the monkey/dog fight a week before) was innocently walking toward us when a monkey approached her, grabbed her bag, started rummaging around, then stole her water and ran up the tree where he not only took off the plastic wrap, but opened the bottle and drank the contents. When questioned as to why she didn't try and prevent the monkey from stealing from her (by someone that also didn't seem to understand the concept of potentially rabid wild animals...and the even worse effects they would have on pregnant women), she simply replied, "I wasn't fighting him. If he wants my water, I'll gladly spend the dollar on a new one."

As we marveled over the sight of the monkeys being generally mischievous, their brethren started inching closer (mostly, I'm guessing, because the people feeding them were forced to stop after the reprimand over petting the animals). Heeding the advice of our guide, I became extremely uninteresting. I didn't talk. I didn't move. I just stood there, until I absolutely had to move because one of them was way too close. As I tried to slowly and lazily lose the monkey who was trailing me, the keeper motioned to us to back away from the tree under which we were standing. Why? Because it was time for....

Monkey Attack #2:

Dr. Evil (the monkey up in the tree above us) was busily breaking off branches and other large tree limbs with a single purpose in mind--to hit us on our noggins from about 50 feet above. Oh it's true. He would rip off the branch, then hold it, waiting for someone to walk under the tree, at which point, he would throw it at them. I'm guessing this wasn't the first time because the keeper was very careful as to where to have us stand.

While watching this odd and malicious behavior, a couple monkeys decided to tango with me, leading to...

Monkey Attack #3

They started by grabbing at my bag (which had, well, nothing in it except for a book). They quickly lost interest in that and backed off. Unfortunately for me, they had their eyes set on other things, namely, my pants. Yeah, the ones I was wearing. One monkey walked behind me and grabbed my pants with his hands and started yanking. Within seconds, four monkeys were grabbing my pants, but not just with their hands, they were pulling my pants off with their teeth. And guess what? So not sexy.

Needless to say I was a little more than freaked out, and I was having to dig deep to remain uninteresting, but it wasn't working. I just started announcing, "Monkeys have my pants! Monkeys have my pants!" while standing there, feeling my pants slowly succumb to all of the pulling.

My guide stood next to me and calmly whispered, "Just stay calm and slowly walk away."

To that I replied, "I can't! My pants will come off. They won't let go."

"Oh." He said. Then he motioned for the keeper to come over. The keeper grabbed his bamboo stick and walked over to me, shooing the monkeys off of my pants and away from me. he then advised me to go back to the truck because they weren't going to leave me alone.

I calmly walked back to the truck, as one the monkeys trailed a couple feet behind. I could tell he was still after my pants, but he wasn't getting them without a fight (well, okay, I'd probably give them up pretty quick because my honest concern was that their mouths were way too close to my legs, and I REALLY didn't want to get bitten as they continued their quest to de-pants me), but luckily that fight never happened.

I got into the truck, my little monkey friend sat right next to it, causing me to wonder if he might join me. Then a few minutes later, everyone else joined me, and we drove away...with all of our pants...and a little bit of our dignity.

Bugs & Buckets*

2010-01-20T01:28:00.000-08:00

* The title was given to me by the Canadian who came up with it for a scrapbook he will never make.

When you finish up a 3-day trek through the hills (read: mountains) of Northern Thailand, what's the first thing you want to eat?

Well, I wanted nothing more than an In N Out burger. Since that wasn't an option, I settled on bugs. (ed. to be fair, I DID eat other things, so the bugs were more of a special treat at the end of the day. you know, like a bowl of ice cream or popcorn.)

After spending the afternoon recovering from the miles of uphills and seemingly endless downhill hiking, we went out for dinner at the night market in Chiang Rai. Most of the delicacies available at the night market were fried, and thus, right up my alley. My first course consisted of fried shrimp and fried chicken...and I threw on a skewer just to add the illusion of health to my chosen meal. Then my Canadian friend, who had been talking up a storm about eating bugs ever since we met, took note of the fried bug stand near our table. Being that I'm always interested in seeing other people make poor choices, and, for that matter am generally a willing participant in, not only, making my own poor choices, but going along with the foolishness of others for no reason in particular, I encouraged him to buy a plate of something spectacular.

The Canadian left the table, and when he returned...what was on his plate? Fried worms. Okay, so they might have been maggots. Who can really be sure? I never claimed to be an entymologist, so all you really need to know is that it was a plate of fried bugs, and three brave souls out of seven decided to take the plunge.

We were poised and ready (and one of us claimed to be a strict vegetarian, but spent most of the evening eating my leftover chicken fingers). With little prompting and cameras at the ready, we popped a few in our mouths and chewed...and chewed...and chewed...and, well, tasted nothing. I am of the opinion that fried maggots taste like exoskeleton--not because I've eaten exoskeleton or am a connoisseur of our armored friends, but because it seemed to me to taste like I imagine exoskeleton would taste like (given my limited experience of accidentally inhaling bugs on bike rides).

Unsatisfied with stopping at worms, I urged the Canadian to go for something more exotic--the large waterbugs. He left the table for a spell and returned empty-handed, unable to follow-through with the purchase. I decided then and there that if he couldn't do it, I would. I waltzed over to the bug counter and proudly ordered the large waterbugs (which look like enormous cockroaches). As I waited for my order, a German couple snapped photos of me and the buffet of bugs before me.

Within minutes, six large waterbugs were in my hot little hands, and I admittedly, really only wanted one, so I knew I'd have to get some more recruits so as not to waste such a precious delicacy. I arrived back at the table with my bounty and quickly grossed out and intrigued the members of our group. While it did take a bit of prodding and time to contemplate such a culinary extravaganza, the Bug-Eating-Trio were all over it.

The Canadian and the vegetarian were the first to have a go. I snapped photos as I watched them bite off the heads of their prey. Then, it was my turn. On the count of three, I ripped its head off with my teeth, and started chewing...and chewing...and chewing...and chewing...and...chewing. And once again, it didn't taste like much of anything. Dare I say it tasted like LESS of anything than the maggots. While it didn't taste like much, it was a very work-intensive meal. I think we chewed on our bugs for a good ten minutes before we were done.

After the feasting on insects, we decided to wash the good times down with a couple buckets of whiskey and coke. Wigs were worn (which distressing me that this is the second time in recent history that I've worn a bar wig in a foreign country that probably doesn't have the same concerns over health and safety as we do in the good ol' US of A), songs were sung, and I was thrilled to have a toilet inside the hotel room for the first time in a week (not because I was sick, but because I was tired of debating the necessity of using the facilities based on my hesitance to walk outside in the dark to find them).

It was a good night. And I wouldn't change a thing...except maybe NOT to have put Red Bull in the first whiskey bucket because that's just nasty.

Massage Melange

2010-01-19T02:17:00.000-08:00

I have a history with massages in Asia, and it's not a pretty one. You see, my first (and prior to this trip to Thailand, only) experience was in Xi'an, China. Several of the people with whom I was traveling (including my brother) had gotten massages, and they raved about it. They also told me that you a) keep your clothes on, and b) are in an open room with all of the massage-goers.

With that knowledge, my friend, Adam, and I went to the massage palace next to our hotel. Unfortunately for us, the menu was exclusively written in Chinese. In an attempt to make-do, we pointed at the massage option listed at our desired price-point, and the adventure began. We were directed upstairs and split up into two private rooms. Once inside our rooms, we were given satin pajamas into which to change. Sadly for me, the belt I was given to tie the top onto me was only about 8 inches long and (surprise, surprise) wouldn't wrap around my waist, so I did what I could to secure it, but decided to just hold it with my hand until someone could help me. At the time, I also had a money belt, and while I wrestled over what to do, in the end I decided to keep it on figuring that it would impede the massage in any way if it were on my stomach (wrong).

Once I completed my costume change, I sat in the room, waiting for my masseuse, wondering what was going on, and worried that we had walked into the wrong kind of massage parlor (if you know what I mean). After a bit, a girl wearing a traditional Chinese masseuse uniform walked in (later I found out that Adam's masseuse was dressed in such a way that you might have thought she was out clubbing). I wanted to tell her about the shirt, but she spoke no English whatsoever, and I just felt awkward. So I let it go.

The massage began, and it was fine...until it became like no massage I had ever had in the past. She started moving down my chest, thus making me terribly uncomfortable. And, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. My jimmy-rigged knot came loose and my shirt flew open. The girl panicked and stood up. I quickly covered myself and showed her the belt. A wave of relief swept over her face. She then excused herself and returned with a substantially longer belt. My shirt was then fixed, and I felt better.

Then, she started massaging my stomach and was baffled by the presence of the money belt. I was baffled by the stomach massage. I removed the money belt, and she continued by poking at my intestines. Once that bit of fun was over, she moved onto my legs and started getting dangerously close to my naughty bits--so close that I started to worry that I really HAD gone to the wrong massage parlor, and wondered what was happening next door in Adam's room.

She finished that terribly horrendous bit and had me flip over when she kneeled on my shoulders and started sliding down my back. By this point, I was so uncomfortable that anything beneficial that could have come from the massage was totally lost. After what felt like 10 years, the massage was finally complete. I thanked my masseuse and met Adam outside.

The walk back to the hotel was an awkward one.

Adam: How was your massage?
Me: It was good. You?
Adam: Fine.
(We walked for a bit in awkward silence.)
Adam: I have to ask you something. Did you... Did she... At any point...
Me: Was the massage weird and uncomfortable?
Adam: Yeah. Did she get really close to your...groin area?
Me: Oh yeah. You?
Adam: Yep. I didn't know what to do! I was freaking out.
Me: Me too!
Adam: I decided that if it was going to be a happy ending, I'd just start screaming your name for help.
Me: And what would that accomplish?
Adam: I don't know, but maybe she'd think you were my girlfriend and stop.
Me: Thank God it didn't come to that.

And that was my first Asian massage.

Given that experience, I wasn't so sure about the world of Thai massage (especially since someone told me that the massage I got was just like Thai massage). While in Chiang Mai, I went for it, and in one hour I was convinced that the massage I got in China was definitely strange. Thai massage is more of a beat-down (not that that one wasn't) and assisted stretching and less uncomfortable closeness (either that or I've grown as a person). I was also convinced of something else, and that was that I needed to get more massages.

I quickly remedied that a couple days later on the first day of our hill trek. We got to a Lisu village, and the village women were available for massages, so we took them up on it. I managed to get a dud. It started out okay, but it got progressively worse as my lady started just lightly petting my legs. Wondering if this was everyone's experience, I started looking around the room. It appeared as though everyone else was getting stretched and twisted, while I was still having my lower legs lightly patted.

I was getting frustrated, but didn't want to complain. So I just lay there, festering. And then my lady pointed at my pants and said something to everyone else. She gave me a weird look, then never made eye contact again. The massage kept going downhill, and she appeared to dislike me. I had no idea what was going on, so I just lay there. When the second-longest hour in massage history ended, we all bid the ladies adieu. I looked down at my pants and discovered that my fly had been open the entire time. And that's why my lady hated me. I was a dirty foreigner (though, in my defense I had long johns on, so it's not like she even saw my underwear, but I guess that's not the point).

Since then I've had several more massages, and each one gets better than the last. So long as my pants stay zipped, and my shirt stays closed, Asian massages are magic.

You Don't Know What You've Got Til It's Gone

2010-01-19T02:06:00.000-08:00

Cinderella sang it, and it's oh so true. You know something I don't give much thought to? Toilets. Yeah, I take those suckers for granted all the time...at least until I travel.

Now I see myself as a worldly gal, one who can pee in the most grungy of places (like on my shoe, or in that squat toilet in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia's train station that was sitting on a pile of broken tile forcing me to balance quite precariously whilst doing my business, or even the constantly clogged toilets at CBGB's where my friend, Jen, once dropped her make-up brush), but I'm not sure I was truly prepared for Thailand. Sure I was warned, but I figured that I survived China, and I really don't have a problem squatting (especially if I'm wearing a skirt), so it couldn't be THAT different...right?

Everything was fine to begin with... Then I went on a three-day trek through the mountains (though they call them hills around these parts) of Northern Thailand. The toilets there (and, to be fair, throughout the entire country) require much more participation the user's part than any other toilet I have encountered. The scarcity of bathrooms that you might find in a Starbuck's in suburban America (note: I did NOT say downtown San Francisco) led Diane and I to come up with a 5-point toilet rating system. Anytime you are paying for a toilet, you want it to be a 5, but that is rarely the case. The scale looks like so:

Western-style toilet: 1 point - Squat toilet: 0
Flushing toilet: 1 point - Manual flush (which is to say you dump water in the toilet to make it flush): 0
Toilet paper: 1 point
Sink with running water: 1 point
Soap: 1 point

If the bathroom smells rank, you can deduct half a point. Also, if there are towels, you can add a bonus point (though later on, we were forced to change the scale to be 6 points and include towels--more on that later).

Most hilltribe toilets were 2's...and were outdoors, thus forcing the user to walk barefoot in the dark should nature call in the middle of the night.

You can imagine my glee when I woke up in a hotel the night after we returned and realized that the toilet was just a few steps away...in the same room as me...and it flushed. It was like dying and going to heaven.

And then we went somewhere else, and the whole cycle started again.

Things that make you go, Really? No. Seriously?

2010-01-19T01:19:00.000-08:00

We went hiking in the the mountains of Northern Thailand, and I came away with at least one random, yet curious observation. You can get excellent cell service in the middle of the jungle in the remote mountains of Thailand, but you can't get cell service in my apartment in the middle of San Francisco--the hub of all technology--unless you press your face against the middle, back window and tilt your head slightly to the left. Even then it's iffy.

What's that about?

Furthermore, I discovered that you can ALSO get excellent cell reception in the middle of the f-ing ocean...and not in my apartment.

Wow. Really? No. Seriously?

Those US mobile providers need to take notes.

Culture Clash

2010-01-17T01:10:00.000-08:00

So, today the Australian woman with whom I'm traveling compared Thai toilets to American ones, saying they were just the same. This was while we were at the home of a rural hilltribe family. Their toilet? A squat toilet which required you to flush it by pouring a bucket of water into it.

Immediately upon hearing this, I was appalled. Mostly because I can't imagine an American who would buy a house with a toilet that required them to squat, and lord knows we love our toilet paper...and don't even get me started on getting our hands dirty to make the thing flush.

The conversation all started with Diane made the statement that Thai people must be shocked when they see bathrooms in America or other countries because we devote huge amounts of space to having a toilet area, shower are and sink area. Our idea bathroom allows us plenty of room and separation between the elements of the bathroom. In a Thai bathroom, it's an all-in-one affair with the shower being a handheld nozzle next to the sink, above the toilet. Most bathrooms occupy a space of about 5ft by 5ft. Unless you're living in a fourth floor walk-up in NYC, your American bathroom is considerably different.

So you can imagine my shock at the Australian woman's assertion that Thai toilets were just like American toilets. She quickly backpedaled and said that she didn't mean that we have squat toilets. No, her comparison had to do with the water level in American toilets. Apparently, she felt fear every time she sat on a toilet in America, thinking she might fall in.

It takes all kinds.

Later on in the trip, the same woman compared my traveling solo to Cambodia with her traveling alone to London to visit her daughter who lived there. Yes, traveling ALONE to a 3rd world country still recovering from genocide and under the rule of what is essentially a military dictatorship is EXACTLY like going to London.

End. rant.

PS. Diane is now coming with me to Cambodia, so you needn't worry. I'm just doing Laos solo.

So far, so good -- Would You Care for a Tattoo with Your Curry?

2010-01-16T00:59:00.000-08:00

I have to say that Thailand may be the best travel experience I have had to date. I've never felt such camaraderie with my fellow travelers or found locals to be sol willing to help (without wanting money in exchange for their generosity). We had a free day in Chiang Mai and decided to take a cooking class. I have to admit that I was skeptical and not terribly excited by the prospect, but it turned out to be a highlight. Not only did I learn how to make some delicious Thai food, but I got to hang out with fellow travelers, laughing at ourselves and sharing insight into the places we had been. It was a glorious day!

After class we went for $5 massages, walked aroudnm the Old City, and sat down for dinner at a little restaurant that doubled as a tattoo parlour and guesthouse. We were totally unaware of the tattoo parlor at first. The restaurant was chosen solely based on the fact that they served massaman curry, and I wanted to eat something with potatoes. So, beyond a quick check of the menu, we did no further research.

We walked in, and the owner pointed us to a table. As we attempted to sit down, a pampered shihtzu made it clear to us that we were not welcome at that particular table. How did we know it was her table? She was standing on it, snarling at us.

The owner quickly shoved some restaurant supplies aside at a different table and had us sit there. We ordered our food and a couple of beers. That's when we finally acknowledged the constant buzzing sound that was coming out of the back of the restaurant. It didn't take long to notice the tattoo parlor behind us. It was about that time that we realized the owner's husband had made a quick run to the corner store to buy our beers. Talk about service!

With beers in hand and curry before us, we had the best meal one could imagine having in a tattoo parlor. The only thing that could have made it better would have been band of monkeys playing bongos in the corner.

It just goes to show that appearances are deceiving. You never know what you're walking into until you're halfway through it.

How bizarre, how bizarre...

2010-01-16T00:41:00.000-08:00

When night falls in Chiang Mai, the markets open. Diane and I spent our night attempting to barter our way through the Night Bizarre. We were fairly successful with our not-so-well-honed bartering skills.

For the most part, we wandered around looking at the hundreds of stands, occasionally asking about prices, but not buying so much. Then we found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a hard-sell, and neither of us knows how it happened. All we were doing was walking. Diance glanced over at a white shirt, and before she could event register as to whether ot not it was something she might be interested in owning, a lady boy popped out of nowhere, throwing the shirt in her hands and tying a pair of pants around her.

"Where are you from?" The lady boy asked.
"America." We responded.
"Oh! California?"
A little surprised, we said, "Yes."
"I've been to San Francisco (ed. soooo not surprised by that one.). I went to Chinatown, and what do they call the fishing place with shops?"
"Fisherman's Wharf."
"Yes! Oh, I loved it there. Now you," he turned to me. "You need an orange shirt."

Magically an orange shirt appeared in my hand. Before I had time to turn share a glance with Diane, he was dressing her in a pair of pants."

"I show you how it works. See, you wrap it around, you understand? Then pull it under, you understand? And tie at the front, you understand? Yes. Very nice. Now I show you on me." He grabbed a pair of the pants from the pile and quickly wrapped them on himself. "This is how they look. Not for boys. Only girls wear these. Not for boys. I just put them on to show you. Not boy pants. Understand?"

"Yes," Diane said. "But I don't want pants. Maybe a skirt?"
I jumped in, "Can I get a green shirt instead of orange?"
"Yes!" He wrapped a skirt around Diane and handed me a green shirt. "Okay, let's talk turkey."
We laughed.
"I give you price, then you give me one. I show you on calculator." He pulled out a calculator, showed us his first offer, then said, "Your turn."
We countered.
Then he said, "My turn."
We looked at it, countered again, and....
"Deal!" He shook our hands, took our money, and sent us on our merry way, still unsure as to how that all happened in the first place.

The next night we happened upon him as he was dressing a confused Dutch woman in the pants. She was laughing and saying, "What is happening? I'm Dutch!"

He carried on, asking her if she understood, assuring her that the pants were not meant for boys. Then he spotted us. His face lit up, and he proudly told everyone what we purchased the night before and asked if we wanted more. We declined and said goodbye.

And that's how you keep the people coming back!

That, and my friend, Tong, who sold me a skirt. I bartered him down from 350 baht to 290 baht. Iw alked away, shopped some more, then realized that I accidentally gave him 390 baht. Thirty minutes had passed, but I felt it was worth a try, so I went back to him. He was happy to see me. I asked him on what price had we agreed, and he told me 290. I then told him that I mistakenly gave him an extra 100 baht. He was totally surprised, pull out the money, and said, "Oh no! You're right. I'm so sorry. I didn't even notice."

He gave me the extra 100 baht, and we both apologized profusely.

That would never happend elsewhere! That's why I have a friend in Tong...unlike any friendship I could possibly forge with a car dealer.

This whole karma thing works out well for me, the consumer.

I Love the Elephants!

2010-01-15T00:37:00.000-08:00

After a fun and fairly restless night of sleep ont he train, we found our way to
Chiang Mai in Northern Thailand. Once we dropped our luggage at the hotel, our first stop was...the elephant conservatory!

We arrived just in time to watch the elephants take a bath, then see the demonstration on how they were used in logging. As soon as that finished, we booked it over to the "loading dock" to ride our very own elephants. It was fun to say the least, as well as a little hairy going downhill since we weren't harnessed to our seats and could have easily fallen off had we not employed the death grip. Good times indeed!

ONce we finished our rides, we thanked our elephants by feeding them sugar cane. One elephant was a bit greedy. He blocked the other elephants and took all of the sugar cane. What he couldn't fit into his mouth, he just held in his trunk. Who knew there were lunchroom bullies in the elephant world too!

Making All My Karaoke Dreams Come True--One Country At a Time

2010-01-14T00:26:00.000-08:00

I will dominate! Mark my words. I will make the magic happen. You heard me alright. My quest to sing karaoke in every Asian country I visit is quickly coming to fruition. To be honest, I didn't even know this was a goal until I was knee deep into the game.

My first foray into the Asian karaoke scene was in China. We found a karaoke bar that was not a thinly-veiled prostitution front (as are, apparently, the norm) in Beijing. It was called "Happy Bar", catered to Australian ex-pats, and was decorated with enormous murals of Che Guevara's visage. The staff's uniform? Che shirts. Oh yes, and there was a stripper pole in the middle of the stage which my brother used rather adeptly during one of his performances. Random? Definitely. Too much? Never.

My second? Japan. After much convincing, I dragged my friends to the same karaoke bar that Scarlett Johanssen and Bill Murray went to in "Lost in Translation". I had to promise that we would only stay for an hour. At first, my companions refused to sing, thus making it L-A-M-E. Then, the spirit of song made its way into their hearts, and they later admitted that an extra hour would have been nice.

Thailand brought the karaoke to me. While were were in Kanchanaburi, we spent one night on a raft, which was kind of like a floating barge. Three large rafts were tied together and pulled by a speed boat. The back raft was a sunbathing spot, where we tied intertubes and floated along with the barge. The middle raft was our sleeping quarters, bathroom, and kitchen. The front raft was our dining room during the day, and our disco at night--complete with fog and lights.

During the day we made stops at a couple pretty impressive temples that required us to walk up 300 or so steps to reach. When night fell, we had dinner, and our karaoke-loving host set up the karaoke lounge. Later we would find that he opens up every karaoke set with "Hotel California". At first, we were the only two participants, but it didn't take long to get the whole gang on board. At 10pm, the karaoke abruptly stopped and we were suddenly thrust into a bizarre disco for about 20 minutes. The smoke machine, disco ball, and lights were a bit excessive considering the fact that only three people were dancing (mostly out of a deep sense of responsbility to make our hosts feel that their efforts were appreciated), but it was fun nonetheless.

And with that, I checked off another karaoke destination. Cambodia and Laos are coming up, and I suspect they might be a bit trickier. Time will tell!

Liability Waiver Who?

2010-01-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

There really is something magical about Asia. Some might say it's the colors and smells, the excess use of neon lights, or pherahps the feeling of welcome (or at least the constant state of shock and awe that everyone you pass seems to be in when they spot you, the foreigner). Personally, I think it's the availability of potentially life-endangering activities without the need to sign one of those pesky liability waivers (or got through any sort of safety inspection or training before commencing said activity).
I suppose when you live in a place where the mere act of crossing a street (or walking through a pedestrian walkway in a shopping market) immediately thrusts you into a game of Frogger with vehicles (cars, buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles carrying a family of seven) speeding at you from all directions with no intention to slow down or avoid you, that insisiting someone fill out a liability waiver for anything from diving to zip-lining is just plain silly.

I first acknowledged this phenomenon in China when I paid $2 to take a zipline off of the Great Wall. As my friends and I completed our jumpes, we laughed at the improbability of doing such a thing with so little preparation in our own countries. "Hey, did anyone fill out a liability form?" No. "Uhh...did we get a quick safety briefing?" No. They just took our money, quickly strapped us into the harness and sent us on our way, flying over a lake. Fun? You betcha'! Something you could do in the US of A without a half-hour video and safety inspection after filling out and signing a 20-page legal document declining your right to sue should anything go wrong? No way, Jose.
Safety truly is an afterthought here. Want to ride a bike or even a motorcycle? Rent one. Want a helmet? Why, are you some kind of wuss? Thinking of kayaking down the river, but have never set foot on a boat? Hop in! You'll learn as you go. What's that? The gondola is closed due to 100 mph winds? We'll just find another one down the road that'll take us to the top of the mountain. How about a nice rock-climbing lesson? Come on over...you will have to sign a form accepting their insurance policy (which is the closest I've EVER come to signing anything remotely close to a liability form).

Thailand is crazy when it comes to transportation. I had no idea that you could fit an entire family from grandma on down to baby onto one tiny motorcycle, or that you could drive a motorbike while your girlfriend sits side-saddle behind you holding a full-sized 20" television in a box, but you can! Hell, the most frequent transportation we take is to pile into the back of a pick-up truck with a sketchy cover and no tailgate, then speed down the highway for a couple hours. No one ever falls out, so we must do alright.

The most hilariously shocking example on this trip was our visit to the tourist trap that is the Bridge of the River Kwai. There isn't much to it except the opportunity to walk over the rebuilt bridge (see the movie to find out the history of the good old Death Railroad, and to learn to mispronounce the word, "Kwai"...it should be pronounced like "Square" without the "S"). When we got there, we took the requisite photos and started to walk onthe bridge. I determined after the first ten steps that it was in my best interest to walk on the metal center rather than rotting wood planks on the side. After walking a little ways, we came upon a warning sign that said something to the effect of, "Be careful walking on the bridge as it is a working railroad bridge. IF you see a train move aside quickly." Really? That's the nod toward safety on on operating railroad bridge? How about, don't walk on the bridge, lest you get hit by a train? That so wouldn't fly anywhere else! Oh yeah, that and the fact that there was no railing and enormous, gaping holes that the largest of people could easily fall through.

While such a warning sign and the obvious dangers of walking the bridge (along with the number of people that refused to step aside and let people pass as they all walked back and forth across it) might be a deterrent for some, it just made the whole excursion more of an adventure.

Asia truly is a magical place.

Monkey vs. Dog

2010-01-12T22:22:00.000-08:00

My gorilla suit sure could have come in handy the day I went to Erawan Falls National Park. Sure it started off fine. We loaded up into the back of a pick-up truck, rode a couple hours to the park, bought some lunch, then walked over the waterfall. We found our way to the second level, jumped in to enjoy our free "fish massage" which was just a weird, tickly experience of having a swarm of fish bite our legs relentlessly.

Once we finished our swim, we headed up to see all seven levels of the waterfall, which was a little over a one kilometer hike. Prior to getting to the waterfall we were given guidelines on appropriate apparel. The Thai people (and really SE Asia as a whole) appreciate conservative dress, specifically for women. We were instructed not to wear bikinis and to swim with a t-shirt on. Our trusty guide noted that we would probably see people from the former Soviet Union wearing a little bit of nothing, but warned us NOT to take our fashion cues from them (which, honestly, is a good policy for anyone regardless of the social customs of wherever you happen to be).

As we hiked, up the hill, we passed scads of scantily clad women, and most of them...were Russian. At first I laughed at my own puritanical surprise and my shock at those crazy Europeans and their lack of body shame, and then I spent a half an hour climbing rocks behind a woman wearing a thong and what may as well have been pasties. I don't care how well you've managed to fend off cellulite or how large your breast implants are...that shit should not be paraded through a damn jungle. I now see why the Thai people are so offended by the crass Westerners.

Around the sixth level, I got seperated from the rest of my companions because I was stuck behind three Russian couples taking their bikini prom photos on the rocks. Once the photo session finished up, I carried on with my climb to the seventh level. It was tricky to say the least, but at long last, I made it. Oh the joy! Unfortunately for me, I made it with only 15 minutes before I was supposed to catch my ride at the bottom.

I scurried as much as I could down the hill, but fear of my own clumsiness slowed my roll. A friendly dog and a group of Russian guys were behind me for a bit, so I started up a half Russian-half English conversation with them (the guys, not the dog). As we walked, we found ourselves at a clearing. The friendly dog had discovered the monkeys.

Now prior to getting to the first level of the waterfall, there was a warning sign that said something to the effect of, "Be careful of fierce monkeys. They will steal your belonging." (No, that's not a typo.) Up to this point, I hadn't seen any monkeys, and I couldn't imagine that any monkey would be fierce. I mean, come on! Who didn't watch BJ and The Bear? The greatest buddy show ever about a trucker and his monkey who fought crime and solved mysteries as they drove cross-country?

Apparently, I was wrong.

The dog barked wildly at the group of monkeys that numbered around 7 adults and 2 babies who were all in a tree over a narrow part of the path (thus blocking everyone from continuing). The head monkey screeched at the dog and occasionally took a swipe. We all took photos. At one point, the dog backed off, and the Russian guys took a break for it. I, unfortunately, really wanted more monkey photos, so I stayed behind. That was a bad move on my part. The fight flared up and dog completely blocked the path. I really wanted the dog to give up, but he stood his ground while the head monkey became more agitated.

Finally there was another slight break, though the head monkey was hanging from the tree right in the middle of the path. My new Russian friends kindly waited for me on the other side and encouraged me to walk over. I hesitated, but I didn't think it was going to get any better, so I slowly made my way over to the path while all parties were silent. As I quickly walked under the tree, the head monkey started screeching and took a swipe at my head, sending me off whinneying through the trees. He didn't touch me, but he was darn close.
The Russians and I continued down the path. As I stumbled over the rocks, my Canadian friend caught up to me and we shared stories of the monkey fight. In the end we were a half an hour late, but what better excuse do you have than, "I got caught in a monkey fight?"

Too bad for me it wouldn't be my last 'cuz I could really use that gorilla suit after all.

Bad Grammar

2010-01-11T01:26:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not speaking Thai-lish these days, I'm just not proofreading. Forgive the mistakes.

More posts to come, but my 30 minutes is up.

TTFN.

Ten Baht Tuk Tuk

2010-01-10T23:57:00.000-08:00

As much as I'd like to start this off with a pop culture reference to the song, "One Night in Bangkok", I just can't--mostly because I spent three nights in Bangkok, and it just wouldn't make sense. So, here goes my next tale of tuk-tuks.

On our second full day in Bangkok, my traveling companion (who will, from this point forward, be referred to as Diane) attempted to explore the city by foot. We managed to walk a good five blocks before a local stopped us to chat. He suggested a couple good places to go and warned us not to accept a tuk-tuk fare of more than 10 baht. The reason being that the tuk-tuk drivers can drive us, the dumb tourists, to the jewelry emporium and the suit tailors in exchange for gas coupons. As we he was explaining this to us (which is something that the guide books also discuss and make a point to warn you about), a young tuk-tuk driver approached us offering us a 10 baht ride. Being that he was somewhat more honest than say, the tuk-tuk driver we'd had the day before who told us the whole ride would be 200 baht, then tried to raise the price four times throughout the trip, informed us that to get the price we had to go to these tourist traps. At first we were a bit skeptical, but once we confirmed that there was no requirement that we had to buy anything at the shops, we agreed to go for it. After all, he did agree to take us to two temples on different sides of town for a quarter.

As we motored in and out of traffic, we talked tour driver, whose name learned was PK at the end of our journey. He was a mere 17 years-old, having come from Phuket to Bangkok two years prior to make money for himself. He was a student and didn't have many friends because the other kids at school looked down on him for his profession, of which he apologized for the reputation of tuk-tuk drivers who scam tourists. He also told us that Thai girls didn't like him because he didn't make enough money. It was admittedly a little sad, but the kid seemed to be doing okay in life.

He drove us to the temples, then once we saw our sights, he said, "Okay, now you help me out. You don't have to buy, just stay long enough and oooh and ahh over the necklaces." We walked into the diamond exchange or whatever the place was, talked gemstones...and ended up with some silver jewelry because, well, we're both jewelry girls. The next stop was the tailor shop where the man tried to convince us that we needed suits and party dresses. Sadly, he couldn't persuade a couple of tour guides that we needed to dress up for work (especially since Diane leads camping tours), so he was out of luck until we spotted the scarves. Luckily for PK, we appeared interested enough that he got his gas cards.

As the 3-hour tuk-tuk tour came to an end, PK informed us that he thought we were very beautiful and wanted to know our ages, but we wouldn't tell. We all bid adieu, then went to get $4 pedicures.

And that was our second day in Bangkok.

Later that night we met our tour group, and I kept my lips zipped as one person in particular ranted over paying 400 baht to get from the airport to the hotel (I paid 13) and the 250 baht she paid to get four blocks (we paid 10 for 3 hours of good time).

I guess we're not so dumb after all.

Zen Master

2010-01-09T23:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my first day in Thailand, and I discovered something about myself. I have grown as a person. Oh yes, The ants are no longer in my pants. That's right people, I didn't get all agitated when I boarded a random bus headed for who knows where. I just went with it.

And that's so not me.

In my former life, I would have chosen NOT to get on any bus. And if I had gotten on the bus, I would have outwardly panicked throughout the entire drive, flipping through my book, frantically searching for a map to somehow make things better. But not this time.

I left my hotel and got into the hotel's car. He asked me which terminal I was going to (since he was taking me back to the airport). I told him I wasn't sure and explained that I was taking the bus to the city.

"Then why are you going to the airport? You should go to the bus terminal."

I shrugged. "Okay. That works too."

So he drove me past the airport to the bus terminal, the whole time inquiring as to why I would choose to take the bus instead of the cab. My answer (which I realize may have befuddled him considering the income disparity between our two nations) was simply that it was cheaper...and because it would be an adventure.

He dropped me at the bus terminal and directed me to the back. I was looking for bus # AE2. I didn't find AE2, rather, I was directed to bus #556. I boarded the bus that was filled with Thai people and a Norwegian couple. The bus pulled out of the space, and the attendant came through collecting our money. I handed him 150 baht (the equivalent of about $5), and he gave me a puzzled look. He motioned to the Norwegian couple and asked, "For everyone?"

"No, just me." I replied.

He then handed me back all but 13 Baht (the equivalent of a quarter). It was then that I first suspected I might be on the wrong bus. According to my guidebook, the bus cost 150 baht, so had I found myself on public transit? And, even though it said Khao San Road, where exactly was it taking me? I considered these questions and looked down at my bag wondering if it might be wise to take out my book. After a good 15 seconds of semi-serious thought, I opted to look out the window and check out the Thai landscape.

As we hurdled down the highway into Bangkok, I looked over at the traffic. We came to a crawl, when I noticed the bus next to us--the airport bus...bus # AE2. It was filled with white folk. I laughed a little in my head. That was my bus. But my bus appeared to be going in the same general direction, so I decided to let the gods of travel take it from there. We drove into the city, and I made note of passing the Democracy Monument (which I knew was relatively close to the part of town in which I was to stay). The bus made its first stop (which lasted a total of 5 seconds, making me realize you have to know when to get off and make a break for it).

After a few stops, we came to yet another and the attendant walked over to me, saying, "This is you. Khao San Road." I thanked him and exited the bus. Still having no clue where I was, but not wanting to stop in the middle of the crowd to figure it out, I walked down the street for a few blocks until I found a clearing where I pulled out my book. After a quick survey of the map and my current position, I saw that I stopped at the exact spot where I needed to cross the street. As I made this glorious realization, a friendly Thai man asked if I needed assistance and directed me to my street.

It took one block before I knew I was going the right way. How did I know? White people. Hundreds of them. I wandered down Khao San Road which is a spectacle at all times of day, though especially at night (think Mardi Gras or what Halloween in the Castro used to be like--minus the stabbings). As I wandered, I came across a large, angry American who had just been swindled out of 500 baht when he followed a man into a back alley hoping to have his fortune told. The man made a spectacle of himself, yelling about his lost money, pounding his chest, and posturing as a gorilla might.

I quickly did the math in my head and felt little sympathy for the galump. It was just 20 bucks, and while it is a damn shame that he was bamboozled, it was his own fault. And besides, I was cheated out of 400 bucks in China, so I really have no sympathy.

I finally passed them and made it to my hotel, and once I did, I felt nothing but pride. I never lost my temper (which has happened in the past), and I just trusted that I would find my way. And I did.

Zen found.

The Crocs That Saved Me

2010-01-09T18:52:00.001-08:00

....a true story by all of the toes on my right foot...

Say what you will about Crocs (my traveling companion already did by merely saying, "Nice Crocs", which may seem like a benign comment, but really...admiration was not in her voice because....Crocs are sooooo dorky), but these babies saved my toes AND toenails yesterday.

Had I been wearing flip flops (like I've chosen today), then I'm sure i would have lost my toes. I kicked at least 3 curbs, and my feet were stepped on at least 5 times. Did it hurt? No. Because I had Crocs. The downside was that i did manage to get a couple blisters, so I had to administer some surgery in the middle of the night. But that's it!

And speaking of people stepping on me. I'm no tall gorilla, so it shocked me when I almost walked into a full-grown adult because I didn't see them--they were a whole head shorter than me.

I'm a giant at 5'4.

Farewell Cankles!

2010-01-08T19:27:00.000-08:00

The nice thing about travel-induced cankles is that it doesn't take much for them to go away. Last night, I got to my hotel around 2:00 AM, then had a panic not knowing if tipping was something that you do in Thailand. At first I didn't (and according to my book, it isn't expected), but then I felt a wave of guilt (mostly because I was concerned with tipping karma), so I ran outside to find the guys that drove me and carried my luggage. They seemed very pleased that I gave them the equivalent of 60 cents.

After cleansing my karma, I went to bed and had to do everything I could to NOT think about the fact that I lost my water bottle on the plane. Now, I know you're probably thinking, "Water bottle? Who cares!" But it wasn't any water bottle. It was a gift from my mom, and it had a filtration system...and apparently it was very expensive. I tried to retrieve it, but it wasn't to be. Someone on Korean Air is now the happy owner of my water bottle. Seat 48E was the luck winner!

Once that was cleared from my head, I went to sleep, and I did okay. I only woke up 4 times (which was better than the night before when I had dreams that I had to drop my friends off at 2 different airports before catching my flight--and I didn't wake up shrieking (like I did on the plane) because I thought I'd left my rings on the plane (because I left them in a safe deposit box)), so it was a good night.

The best part about it was that when I woke up, I peaked under the sheets to check out my cankles, and they had almost disappeared. They're still there, but getting smaller! I'll have normal feet tomorrow. Goodbye Fred Flintstone!

And now, it's time I started my journey into the Bangkok. Until then, fair readers. (You are coming back, right?)

Oh wait, but before I go...is it weird that the place where I had breakfast is playing country music almost exclusively. I kind of want to wait around and see if they play that Tim McGraw fan with the line, "Jesus is My Friend, America is my Home." I like to imagine that he had more lines like, "I like Ice Cream. Bubblegum tastes good."

Now it's off to town.

Old Habits Die Hard

2010-01-08T02:18:00.000-08:00

On my last day in San Francisco, I decided that I needed to eat something very American for lunch. What did I do? I had a burger at Red Robin. Then, as I was driving back to the city, what did I do? I stopped at the mall with the sole purpose of going to Mrs. Fields to buy a cookie cup (because I LOVE to eat sugar covered in artificial colors that do NOT occur in nature--there are photos to prove this). If I had gone to Chevy's for dinner, my guilty pleasure dining day would have been complete.

Since I didn't do that, I did something else. I paid WAY too much for a bag of goldfish crackers...that I consumed on the plane while watching 6 movies. What will I do on my next flight without kid snacks?

Tourist Fashion

2010-01-08T02:10:00.000-08:00

Ah, travel. It brings out the worst in people's fashion choices. In the short time I've been leading tours, I've witnessed these bad choices. For whatever reason, people choose to wear clothes on vacation that they would never (and should never) wear in public when they are close to home. I'm talking people wearing ripped up jeans and nasty, falling-apart t-shirts. Shirts with ridiculous slogans on them that they got for free at a fast food restaurant opening. It's appalling. They're still IN public. Just because they don't know anyone in the place they are doesn't mean they're suddenly invisible.

Often I find myself making fun of these people in my head. And now...I'm one of them. What is my faux pas? Crocs. I bought a pair of crocs specifically for my trip to China a couple years ago. I only wore them in China, and they've been in my closet ever since. Now that I'm en route to Thailand, what am I wearing? Crocs.

So it seems that I'm no better than anyone else. Though, the nice thing (or interesting thing) about wearing Crocs on a long plane ride is that you get to see how much your feet swell. I'm already through the 12 hour plane ride to Korea, and I'm about to board my 6 hour flight to Bangkok. I would put money down that my Crocs will be very snug by the time I land, and as I walk into my hotel, it will be like I'm walking on pillows.

Ah, travel fashion!

Adventures in Shapewear

2010-01-04T21:19:00.000-08:00

Ah, shapewear. How long I’ve avoided you. Oh, it’s true I’ve toyed with idea of buying you a time or two. It probably would have helped if I had gone through with my purchase before the dreadful wedding guest dress disaster of ’07, where I broke the zipper on my bestest guest dress minutes before we were supposed to leave…and got stuck in said dress requiring my mom, aunt, AND cousin’s assistance in freeing myself from my own prison of shame. Then again, you probably wouldn’t have saved me in the end because I knew I was taking a risk in not bringing a back-up dress, but I figured if I just wished hard enough, the dress would still fit. I’m afraid I was a hopeless case.

So what happened that led me to make the big purchase? Alaska, that’s what. There’s just something about being in the biggest state that makes you want to grow. It’s totally out of one’s control—what with all the free cookies. I know my argument may falter when you find out that I managed to pack on another five pounds while at home in Oklahoma for the past two weeks, but I still blame Alaska.

I blame Alaska in the same way that I blame Mexico. It had nothing to do with my own personal lack of self-control that I ended up immortalized in film (on someone else’s camera) dancing around a bar in a wig (that was not mine) and ended my Mexican adventure sitting alone at table on the sidewalk, holding hands with a stuffed orangutan before I was shoved into a cab and somehow delivered back to my room on the cruise ship where I would occasionally wake up yelling about the sweater I lost in Mexico (and is probably currently being worn by my orangutan friend). We’ve all had those experiences in Mexico. My cousin told me so…of course, most of us weren’t in our 30’s when we had those experiences… I also blame Mexico for the trail of destruction I discovered at 6 o’clock in the morning after I crashed a company holiday party a couple weeks ago (of which, I came out as a star—those [insert company name here] people loved me, which makes me think my antics were witnessed by no one…thankfully). I’m still not exactly sure what happened, but I need to study the layout of my apartment (and perhaps add some directional signs), so I don’t confuse the entranceway with the porcelain god. (I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I decided that 10 feet was close enough. What my subletters don’t know won’t hurt them.)

So as you can see, I am merely a pawn in this miserable game. Left to my own devices, I’d be a supermodel with a pristine living space. Unfortunately, Alaska and Mexico are forcing my hand. And that’s why I bought the shapewear.

What exactly put me over the edge on buying the shapewear? Well, it was the mere fact that my jeans didn’t fit. Back in April, I bought two of the most expensive jeans I’ve ever purchased under the stipulation that I could not gain weight, so they would fit for eternity. Unfortunately, Alaska did her damage. So, upon my return (just before going to Japan and that fateful cruise to Mexico), I decided to take matters into my own hands and find a temporary solution to the muffin-top debacle. That solution? Shapewear.

Did I wear it in Japan? No. Did I wear it on the cruise? No.

The first time I wore it was almost two months later. I was leading a private wine tour for my friend’s company, and I thought, “Hey! I should try this out.” In the morning, I put on the cinching undergarment and was impressed by how much better my clothes hung on me. I went about the morning, feeling fan-freakin-tastic. Then, as the day wore on, I started to feel self-conscious that my sweater might ride up (or my jeans ride down), and I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t feel it happen (due to the shapewear). And then…everyone would know. Yes, I do cause my own problems, thank you for noticing. The rest of the day found me constantly checking my shirt and pants. By the end of the day, the legs had rolled up, forming a tourniquet on my upper thigh. I thought I was going to have to amputate my leg. Once the tour was done, I jumped on MUNI, headed home, and adjusted the shapewear.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too. Why would I just adjust the shapewear? Why not TAKE IT OFF? The answer is a simple one. Because that wouldn’t make for a good story…well, actually, at the time it was just my own laziness. Once I was at home, I had a couple hours to pack for a trip to the East coast, so I rushed around doing that and ran out of time to take the shower I planned on taking, which also led me to NOT take off the shapewear.

I wore that torture device on the plane—on the red-eye. I have NEVER been more uncomfortable. An hour into the 5 hour flight, I rolled it down, allowing my belly to breathe (though sacrificing my hips). As I slept, I think every part of my body swelled up, except what was bound in the shapewear. I awoke in Boston feeling awful. My first stop at the airport was the bathroom, where I slowly (because there was no fast-motion option for removing my jailor) pulled off the shapewear, and as I did, I felt the greatest relief. I stood in the stall for a good five minutes, reveling in my newfound freedom. Once I was clothed, I sashayed by the mirror and decided that I looked just fine without the shapewear that I had been wearing for 24 hours non-stop, and I went out into the world—a new, exhausted, muffin-topped woman.

And then I wore the shapewear again the night of the holiday party. It wasn’t so horrible that night (except that I decided to put control-top pantyhose on over them). Apparently, I did get fed up with them upon my return home. How do I know? Well, during my CSI SF investigation, I discovered them next to the sink in the kitchen. That’s right, I disrobe in ALL rooms. And, for the record, I haven’t worn them since.

So now that I’m returning to San Francisco with the knowledge that I am an unstoppable cookie and chip eater, what am I gonna do? Wear the shapewear? No. I’m going to Thailand. Surely THAT country won’t force my hand like Alaska and Mexico. Expect to see me on the TV with a public service announcement about how Thailand made me lose 15 pounds. Sure Jenny Craig couldn’t do it, but surely the mere thought of eating a Cambodian deep fried tarantula will help curb my appetite. I’m in last resort territory (next, of course, to doing something other than watching Hulu in bed all day long—but who wants to exercise and eat right when you can watch episodes of “The Greatest American Hero”?). It’s Thailand or bust, cuz that shapewear is so 2009.

Phonies Just Don't Quit!

2009-12-30T14:44:00.000-08:00

Remember the Phonies saga? If not, please refer to the Phonies Phollies section for a quick review.

Well, as it turns out, Phonies isn't done with me. Nope. Not at all. A couple weeks ago, I came home after a quick trip to New York and found a letter from them. To be specific, it was a bill. Is that the sound of disgust I hear coming from your end of the computer screen? I thought so. My reaction was the same.

Apparently, I'm not done dealing with them (which is weird for so many reasons, including the fact that I've been with Heaven long enough to consider switching over to another carrier simply because I want a really cool, state-of-the-art phone, rather than the paperweight I've been lugging around for the past...oh, two years).

So what was up with the bill? Well, it wasn't as devastating as I first expected. In fact, it was a windfall of sorts. Due to an accounting correction, it seems that Phonies owes me $2.54. Yes, one year and eight months after finally ending my battle with them and officially closing my account, they still owe me money.

Being the suspicious and, possibly, paranoid person that I am, I called Phonies to get an explanation. My fear, of course, being that someone, for whatever reason, stole my identity and opened an account with them (which is not SO ridiculous, seeing as how my credit card number was used years ago to spend $1500 with AT&T before I had even activated the card).

I dialed the ever-familiar number and went through the process of demanding a person from the voice-activated operator, and finally found my way to (let's call him) Joe. Joe wanted my phone number, so I explained to him that I had not been a Phonies customer for over a year and a half and was calling because I just received a bill stating that I have a credit of $2.54 on my account that was closed in April of 2008. Joe laughed for quite awhile, saying something about a flawed billing cycle and promised to get a check in the mail to me.

I suppose it was a little funny. Oh Phonies, you lovable scamps!

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.7: Rhonda, You're Not Helping

2009-12-30T08:04:00.000-08:00

And now it’s time for yet another edition of, Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists! This one’s a doozy. First, though, I want to share with you a random comment that was made on my final tour of the season.

Guest: (speaking of our Riverboat Discovery cruise where we make a stop at an “authentic” Athabascan village.) That was really interesting. It’s good to learn about the savages and see how they live. (Noticing the mortified look on my face by merely hearing the Native people of Alaska that presented at the village who just so happened to all be graduate students in Engineering, and who, I might add, do NOT live at the Disney-esque village that is only there for tourists, she said,) Well, I guess they’re not called “savages” anymore, but they were. Now they’re what? Indians?

Me: Native is the appropriate term.

Guest: Right, that means the same thing.

Me: (Smiling as always, I issued my standard line when I want to leave a conversation.) You’ll have to excuse me. I think it’s time for me to eat.

WOW! Savages? Really? I don’t think native people have been called savages in at least a century. And maybe a century is too much. Let’s go with 50 years. Seriously. Savages? As Shaggy would say, “Yoinks!”

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming:

Rhonda, You’re Not Helping.

As much as I hoped it would be different, I knew it was going to be a bad tour. Why? Well, for starters, it was a Tour 13 (by far, the worst itinerary…and coincidentally, the cheapest). Also, it was my second Tour 13 in a row, as I had just completed one the day prior, and I was livid that I had to do another one (especially after the insulting tips I received for the one I’d just completed which were the result of crappy people (many of whom opted out of our last day’s activity, thus opting out of tipping me) AND the fact that we started our tour with a 10 hour bus-ride on a motor coach WITHOUT air-conditioning). But, I sucked it up and got up at 2 o’clock in the morning to catch the bus to drive down to Seward.

Now I don’t remember what weird thing happened on the bus ride, but I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities. My morning started with a creepy adventure. The first possibility was that this was the morning where I saw Anchorage as the bars closed, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Not only did I see all the creepers outside, a very drunk woman bumped into me, then ran out into the street, and attempted to get into a moving car. The cop that was behind the car that chose to speed off while she was holding onto the door, causing her to flail into the other lane of traffic arrested her as she screamed and pointed at no one in particular, whilst allowing the motorist who sped off to go on his merry way. After that, we started our three-hour drive to Seward and came within inches of hitting a full-grown male moose. The other possibility is that this was the morning I got into a cab, and as we pulled into the Hilton, a group of belligerent English guys tried to convince the cab driver to get them onto Elmendorf Air Force Base. The driver refused and got into a verbal fight with them before I was able to get out of the car. Once I managed to free myself from the cab’s interior (in the middle of the fray), I went to the trunk to retrieve my suitcase, and the cab driver attempted to speed off, causing me to chase the car, banging on the trunk. Luckily for me, he stopped after 20 feet, opened the trunk, and allowed me to get my belongings. Meanwhile, I was surrounded by an angry, drunk mob.

Neither was a good start to the day (at 2:45 in the morning), and one of them definitely happened that morning.

We arrived at the ship around 6:15, went through security, boarded, and grabbed some food in the Lido deck. Around 7:15, we headed to the showroom, and I met my group. They seemed okay. There was a family of thirteen that claimed they would be trouble. As it turns out, the one that claimed they’d be trouble was a pain in my ass. The whole family was a rude, though they were completely unaware of their behavior and thought they were a dream. Of course, in the beginning, I just thought they were making idle threats.

Our debarkation group was called, and I led my group of 43 hardy travelers to our bus. And which bus was I lucky enough to have? Oh yeah, that’s right, #869, the same bus I had exactly one week prior--the same bus that didn’t have air-conditioning, had rattling windows, and a smelly lavatory. How did I know the lavatory was smelly? Well, because I had 44 passengers, and when that happens, I am relegated to the back seat next to the lavatory, where it’s especially hot, and especially smelly (especially when the driver decides to put the trash bag next to my seat). Less than pleased? Yes. Optimistic that maybe, just maybe, they took my complaints seriously and fixed the air-conditioning on the bus? I made my best effort.

Everyone settled in, the family of thirteen sat in the back, and I set up camp in the front. The best seat in the house is reserved for the handicapped. How is it reserved? There’s a sign on the seat. If someone who normally has to sit in the front seat boards the bus, they know to sit there. No one did, so I moved a lucky couple (who I really liked) to the front seat. They were, by far, the most pleasant couple next to whom I’ve had the pleasure of sitting. I made a couple of rounds to the back of the bus trying to gauge the air-conditioning situation. At first it wasn’t too bad, but I had a sinking feeling that that would change.

On my first sweep, I became officially acquainted with Rhonda. She was the loudest member of the family of thirteen (who will heretofore be known as the Baker’s Dozen), and she was sitting in the back seat next to the lavatory (which happens to have a little desk area next to it as well). Seconds into our first conversation, I knew Rhonda was not someone I wanted to be near. She was the arch opposite of Mr. and Mrs. Williams, the very sweet couple sitting next to me. (He was American and she was a beautiful, reserved, polite, and very proper Thai woman). She was, in a word, class-less.

Rhonda: You know, I usually sit in the front seat.

Me: Oh, well, that seat is reserved for people with mobility issues.

Rhonda: The people sitting there are fine.

Me: Since no one sat there, and the coach is full, someone had to take those seats. The couple sitting there just happened to get them.

Rhonda: Well, it should have been me. I just had knee surgery, so my leg has to be elevated. (I glanced over and noted that she propped up on the desk. Catching my glance, she continued.) This actually works really well for me.

Me: Good. I’m glad you found a place to rest your leg.

Rhonda: The front seat is better.

Me: (Knowing that I wasn’t going to win this battle, even if I pointed out the fact that Rhonda was the first person on the coach and CHOSE to sit in the very back seat, I decided to walk away.) Well, I need to check on something with the driver. I’ll talk to you later.

The ride continued. The lack of air-conditioning was becoming more apparent, but wasn’t horrendous. I talked to the group about optional excursions and answered the most questions from Rhonda’s daughter, Janessa (which happens to be the fake name I made up at a bar one night when I couldn’t decide between “Jennifer” and “Vanessa”). Janessa’s biggest concern was that she had to pay to do anything fun. As someone that is attempting to sell optional excursions, you don’t really want to have a loud conversation about all of the free things that are available on the tour, so I did what I could to keep the question-and-answer period as short as possible.

We arrived at our lunch stop in Wasilla, where I fielded a myriad of questions about Sarah Palin including, “Will Sarah be at lunch?”, “Will we go to Sarah Palin’s house?”, “Why won’t Sarah be here? I paid good money for this tour!”, “Do you have Sarah Palin’s number?”, and on, and on. You might think these questions were facetious. In some cases they were. In many, they were completely serious, and sometimes, people got downright angry with me for not driving by Sarah Palin’s house (of which I’d like to point out that I was not driving, and I don’t know where Sarah Palin’s house is, and I’m guessing they don’t allow tour buses down her street). On one tour, someone accused me of forcing my liberal agenda on them because of this obvious omission from the tour. Let it be known that I NEVER talk about politics (and I have nothing to do with the tour-planning), so such an accusation is unfounded and insulting.

Once we finished lunch, everyone gathered outside of the coach (which was sweltering), and Rhonda’s portion of the Baker’s Dozen complained about everything. The food sucked. The kids were mad that the friends they met on the ship were on different tours (and that was somehow my fault?). The coach was hot. They wanted more cookies.

Needless to say, I was really looking forward to the next portion of the ride. We boarded. I opened up the emergency windows on the top of the bus, and we set off. As we were driving down the highway, I walked to the back to try and keep spirits up in the section where it was steamy to say the least. As I got to the back, I noticed that Rhonda switched places with her eldest son (who, with his love of D&D and social awkwardness, I pegged at 16, but found out much later that he was 19). She was now sitting with her 7-year-old son one seat up. A very sweet Indian family drew the short straw and ended up in front of her (and in the middle of the Baker’s Dozen). The mother and son were sitting in the seats directly in front of Rhonda, while the grandmother was sitting across the aisle with another stray member of the Baker’s Dozen.

As I walked by, the mother (whom I will call Mary), grabbed my arm.

Mary: Hey Cardelia, I have a quick question.

Me: Sure thing. What is it?

Mary: If my son were to lean his seat back, which he can’t do right now because someone is shoving their leg into the back of his seat, how would he do that?

(Rhonda shot me a dirty look and started to get worked up.)

Me: (Looking over at Rhonda, who WAS pushing the seat forward with the force of her bodyweight, then smiling at Mary and her son, Harris.) Ah, well, if that WERE possible, which I see it isn’t right now, it’s pretty easy. He needs to pull the lever on the side of the seat and lean back.

Mary: Thanks. I hope the situation changes in case he wants to do that.

Rhonda: (Yelling and looking around wildly.) I don’t have a choice! My foot has to be elevated at all times!

Gary (Rhonda’s brother): (Shouting from across the aisle.) Rhonda, shut up and put your foot down. You’re making a scene.

Rhonda: I will NOT put my foot down. It has to be elevated at all times. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow if I don’t. As it is, I don’t know if I can walk. It’s all swollen.

Gary: Then move back to the other seat, where you can put your foot up.

Rhonda: Too late! I’m already here. (At this point, Rhonda uncrossed her leg, then flung her bare foot over the seat and rested it between the window and Harris’ head.)

Mary: (Looking forward, with rage growing on her face.) I would appreciate it if you did not put your foot in my son’s face.

Rhonda: I don’t have a choice! I have to keep it elevated. There’s nowhere else for me to put it. (Then she moved her foot between the two seats in front of her, resting it between Mary and Harris’ faces.)

Me: (Knowing someone had to make a sacrifice and knowing that person was me, I quickly intervened.) Rhonda, how about you come up front and sit next to me?

Rhonda: I don’t see how that’s going to help anything. Where am I going to put my foot?

Me: I feel confident you can find a more appropriate place for your foot up front next to me than where you’ve chosen to put it here. (Mary gave me a thankful smile.)

Rhonda: I really don’t think so.

Me: Well, I do. Get up and follow me.

Rhonda: I don’t think it’s going to work.

Me: Why don’t we try it out. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll rearrange people, so you’re putting your foot into the faces of your family members. (Okay, fine! I didn’t say that last part. I just wish I had.)

Rhonda reluctantly got out of the seat and followed me up to the front. She complained the whole time. I got to the front seat, cleared it off, and let her sit down.

Rhonda: This IS better. It’s much less prissy up here. (She smiled at me, thinking that somehow I was on her side and agreed that Mary was WAY out of line. Then, she resumed to complaining.) My son isn’t going to be very happy with me up here.

Me: (Thinking she was referring to her older son who had set up a fort in the back seat.) He’ll be fine.

Rhonda: No he won’t. My 7-year-old will freak out if he’s not next to me.

Me: I think he’ll be fine.

Rhonda: No he won’t. You need to switch seats with him.

Me: Rhonda, I’m sure he’ll be fine. He isn’t alone. He is sitting with his brother, sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I feel confident they can keep him entertained.

Rhonda was quiet for about two minutes, and then she started a running commentary of everything. When I say, running commentary, it was more of a running critique. She complained about the driver. She complained about the people sitting around her. She complained about the heat. She complained about the sun. She complained that she couldn’t see Mt. McKinley at any given time. And then, tragedy struck. There was a traffic jam.

The mood on the bus was far from good, mostly because everyone was hot. So long as we were moving, we were able to get slight air circulation. With the coach being stopped in traffic, we had nothing. I quickly offered up a game. Mr. Williams was kind enough to help me rip up scrap paper to make writing surfaces for everyone. As I finished up the process, Rhonda started in.

Rhonda: Great. Now what are we going to do if we all die?

Me: (Wanting desperately to ignore her.) What?

Rhonda: You just ripped up our Emergency Info sheets.

Me: No I didn’t.

Rhonda: Yes, you did.

Me: No, I didn’t. I ripped up blank Info Sheets that I brought in case I needed extra.

Rhonda: Those aren’t blank.

Me: Yes, they are.

Rhonda: Not the one on the bottom.

Me: (Flipping it over, to reveal the original info sheet with my handwriting on it, stating my name and the tour number.) That was the original. I made copies off of this one.

Rhonda: No, it’s not.

Me: Rhonda, I’m in charge here. I didn’t rip up the information sheets, and I don’t need to prove it to you. This was the original.

Rhonda: Oh, so you wrote up an example one in case we messed up?

Me: No. It’s the original.

Rhonda: Well, you still…

Me: (Cutting her off.) This conversation is over.

I turned around to try and rally support for the game, but was met with anger. Just as I was about to give up hope, the traffic jam cleared, and we continued on our way. The rest of the drive was filled with Rhonda’s running critical commentary and overheated glares from everyone in the back. As we rolled into Denali, I got on the microphone and gave them all of the information they needed, while Rhonda tried to interrupt me and pretend that she and I were in a private conversation. I finally bid them all goodnight, and went to unwind with my co-workers.

The next day, the group had a tour of Denali National Park. I arrived at the lobby to help direct them to the appropriate bus (they were split between two). Rhonda was chasing after her 7-year-old yelling, “He didn’t take his meds this morning. He’s going crazy.” Once she corralled him, she cornered me and informed me that she had to sit in the front seat. I kindly told her that she would need to speak with the driver about that. Her solution was to hover next to me on the sidewalk.

Her hovering made other people crowd around me. I announced that I did not know where the bus would pull up and that crowding around me would not help them get on the bus (that wasn’t there) any faster. Every time I moved, the crowd followed me. Rhonda would push people aside in her attempt to jockey for prime spot. The bus pulled up, and the crowd moved as a solid mob to where it would stop, despite my loud suggestion that a line needed to form. Rhonda, not wanting to get left in the dust, pushed her way to the front of the crowd, knocking people over. She then stood right in front of the door, so close to the door that it could not open.

I told everyone to take two steps back. No one listened. I made an announcement that if they wanted on the bus, they needed to take two steps back before the bus door could open. Rhonda refused to move, saying, “I need to be the first one on!” My reply? “Then you need to take two steps back, otherwise NO ONE is getting on the bus.”

She finally stepped back. The driver was getting off the bus, and she attempted to push him over to get on board. He stopped her, and informed her that she had to tell him her name. She then checked in all thirteen members of her family (who were several people behind in the crowd). She got on board, then she leaned out the window and started yelling to her family. “You’re all checked in! Push through and get on the bus! These people shouldn’t go before you.”

Her daughter yelled back, “We can’t! All these stupid people are in the way!”

Thankfully her uncle stepped in and told her she could wait her turn.

Then, I noticed the Indian family. They, once again, drew the short straw, and were on the bus with the Baker’s Dozen. I sympathized with Mary, and she told me that it was becoming comical more than anything.

For eight glorious hours, Rhonda wasn’t my problem.

The next day, we headed to Fairbanks on the train. Rhonda approached me at the train station.

Rhonda: Do we have assigned seats on the train?

Me: Yes.

Rhonda: Good. I’m getting so sick and tired of all of this pushing. People keep cutting in line, and they push their way onto the bus. I can’t handle it. I had knee surgery, so I have to be careful. I don’t see why people have to be so particular about where they sit.

I said nothing. I wanted to say, “YOU are the one that cuts in line. YOU are the one that pushes people. YOU are the one that yells. YOU are the one that is causing the problem.” Instead, I walked away.

The next day, we had our local day of sightseeing and fun in Fairbanks. Rhonda sat in the front seat, and her father sat behind her. He decided to use the opportunity to take care of every phone call he hadn’t made in the week prior. Throughout the whole tour, he talked loudly on his cell phone. Toward the end of the tour, I passed out my comment cards. As I walked off of the bus, Rhonda said, “So, basically, we have to lie about you on these cards, so the company re-hires you next year.” I answered, “No.”, walked off the bus and muttered, “I hate you.”

The end of the day tour was the end of the whole tour. It was time for me to get paid. Everyone lined up to say goodbye to me, and wouldn’t you know it, the Baker’s Dozen…well, they didn’t tip me at all. They had no trouble telling me about how wealthy they were, but they apparently didn’t think that they needed to follow the guidelines for tipping. In fact, most large families do not tip. If they do, they tip you as though their group of 15 people was one unit. Let me fill you in on a little secret, a 15-person family is comprised of 15 different people. While it may be one family, it is still totally inappropriate and very insulting to tip someone that had to put up with all 15 individuals as though they were only dealing with one (or none in this instance).

I wasn’t surprised, so I wasn’t all that angry. The one thing I would have changed was the fact that once I said “goodbye” to my tour, I had to sit in the lobby for another six hours meeting the people from my new tour. In doing so, I kept running into the people that stiffed me--most notably, the Baker’s Dozen. At one point, Rhonda’s brother and brother-in-law sat down to shoot-the-breeze, and told me all about how crazy there sister was and how they were very unhappy that the black sheep of the family had to be included on the trip.

So was I, because Rhonda, you definitely were NOT helping.

A Few Things to Get off My Chest

2009-11-28T19:06:00.001-08:00

That's right, it's everybody's favorite installment: LETTER TIME!

Dear Crappy Taqueria,

So we meet again. I know you thought I was gone forever. Sure I may have psyched you out a few weeks ago when I walked in, checked out the menu, and walked right on out of there. You thought I wasn't coming back. I like to imagine that you were sad (and that perhaps you heard the conversation I had with someone outside your door last April, as I begrudgingly went in to buy a burrito (You know, the conversation where my "friend" went on a ridiculously long and detailed tirade about all of the misfortune that he and his coworkers endured from your food...despite the fact that I told him I was going in there to get my dinner (thank you Sunshine)), and you figured that was the last straw); but alas, the force is strong in you. As usual, I came crawling back, begging for that flautas platter like I have done so many other times (By begging, I simply mean that I politely asked for it). Sure you've made some changes. You raised your prices, so it costs over $10 for the loads of mediocre food you dish out. And yes, you now have the salsa bar (which I REALLY like) and you finally abandoned the avocado mayo in favor of real guacamole (which is a major improvement), but that doesn't change the fact that I was just using you. That's right. You were merely a pawn in my game. I'm like an angry tween getting back at her mother for asking her to clean her room. You're just collateral damage, my friend. Or maybe you're profiting from my irrational behavior. Whatever the case, I'm over it, and I'm over you. We're done, you and me. Done. I'm not even gonna walk on your side of the street anymore. No way. And I'm not even going to tell you how much I like the new napkins, regardless of the fact that they are a major improvement over the old ones (that never existed). So this is our swan song, crappy taqueria. Adios.

With distended belly,

Cardelia Boardeaux

Dear Jenny Craig,

Yeah, yeah, you're onto me. You got my number. You know what's what. Well, I have news for you! I'm onto you and your game. Oh yeah, how do you like me now? Huh? Huh? I thought so.

Look lady, you can't tell me what to do. Oh yeah, I DID go to the crappy taqueria for dinner last night. Oh, and I DID eat two snacks. Oh, and you wanna know something else? I blur the line between lunch and dinner foods. Uh-huh, it's true. I do all these things. Why? Because I can. Because you're not the boss of me. No, I am. And my boss makes poor choices--all the time. Sure there may be a better way to change a $20 bill than by simply buying a frosting-covered cookie cup at Mrs. Fields every time you need to take MUNI home, but is the better way as tasty? Does it give you the feeling of going into a sugar coma? Is it so sweet that your tongue hurts? No, it's not, and it doesn't. The only better way I'm looking for is acquiring that $20 bill, so I'm not immediately accosted by a crazy toothless woman at the ATM asking me if I can get her some cash.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's not working out. I just don't think you truly care about my weight loss. Why do I think that? Is it because the staff asks me the same questions as if reading them from a script and don't listen to my answers? Is it because the new guy who saw me last week kept trying to sell me things I didn't want or need (and when I told him as much he suggested I give pedometers to my family and friends as stocking stuffers in a last ditch effort to make a sale)? Is it because he also shook his head in disappointment when I told him all I'd done exercise-wise was to walk downtown and back home four days in a row (a total of 8 miles each time) as if I'd told him I considered walking between the couch and my bed to be exercise? Is it because the crazy manager of the center thanks me for helping her hit her numbers every time I purchase food (and also gave me a weird nickname that I don't like)? Is it because the larger ladies look at me with loathing when I walk in as though I'm a skinny girl with low self-esteem and a skewed self-image (fyi...I'm trying to nip the problem in the bud at the extra 20 pounds instead of 300)?

It's all of those things. And, it's just the mere fact that I don't like to be told what to do, and your food (while tasty) is boring. I think I'll do better (and spend less money) if I just take care of my own meals. That, and I like to use my kitchen gadgets.

So, I guess I'm breaking up with you. I hope you understand. We just aren't right for each other, and I think I'll work out if your people aren't telling me I have to. Maybe I'll keep some of your food around, but I think I miss my turkey tacos and lackluster salads. The truth is, I don't have much going on in my life right now, and I need something like cooking to give me something to do. Your microwave meals are just too easy. I can't do idiot-proof.

Happy trails,

Dear Weight Training Class,

Miss me? Really? Did you? Then why did you have to make the workout so hard today? Don't tell me it's because I'm out-of-shape. Don't tell me that it was always that hard. Come on. It's gotten harder, right? I'm still having trouble walking down stairs. The jelly legs are out of control. Don't worry, you haven't scared me off. You just made me realize how much I'd let myself go. But I'm coming back. You bet your sweaty gym socks, I'm on the rise. This belly fat isn't going away by itself, and if I want my shirts to button (that's right...shirts...the pants obviously don't button, so there's no need to mention them), I've got to take action. So get used to seeing me. I'll be back on Monday.

Hangin' Tough,

CardBoard

Dear DTV Converter Box,

I blame you.

What kind of piece of crap are you? Seriously! I know I didn't pay for you, but you should work. I mean, really? 3 channels? And not even consistently? What do you want me to do? Get a hobby?

I'm over it.

Your frenemy,

Cardelia

Alright, already!

2009-11-27T12:44:00.001-08:00

Yeah, yeah, I know...where have I been? Busy, that's where. I've been busy laying around, feeling sorry for myself. I've also been busy studying or avoiding studying. And lastly, I've been busy taking tests...just for kicks.

Oh, yeah, and I've been busy trying to find a job, but no one wants my skills.

I'll get on the writing. I promise. Because, well, I'm not that busy after all.

Oh Alaska! How Fair Thee Are

2009-09-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

Well, that’s it. I’m done. Fin. No more workie-workie, and no more Alaska.

I left the Great Land (as they like to call it) this morning, and I have to admit, I was a little sad. I really didn’t think I would be, but I was. Despite all of the crappy things that happened (read: the poorly behaved tourists and my lack of a desirable schedule, creepy neighborhood action, etc.), I really enjoyed my summer. Alaska is beautiful. It’s hard to even compare the landscape to anything else. It really is amazing. I realized that when I flew into Seattle, and I saw Mt. Rainier, and I was somewhat under-whelmed. That mountain’s got nothin’ on Denali!

So, I guess it was a good summer after all. I’m going to miss the last frontier. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be homeward bound (sort of), but there was a part of me that started feeling like Alaska was home. (Granted, it was the kind of home where you only have plastic utensils and a baking sheet making it a frustrating home that forced me into eating a steady diet of crap, but it was still home.) And to that I say, adios, ney, hasta luego Alaska…I’m sure I’ll see you again.

I've Gotta Get Out of This Place

2009-09-17T21:35:00.000-07:00

Should I be concerned that three, yes, that's THREE, unmarked vans have followed me in the last 24 hours?

It does seem suspect, no?

Thought so.

I'll tell ya all about it later.

The Things People Say...

2009-07-19T19:36:00.000-07:00

My 21-year-old roommate went to see the new Harry Potter movie. He had this to say about it:

21: It was pretty raunchy.

Me: Really?

21: Yeah, there was one scene where Ron and a girl walk into a room where Harry and Hermeine are sitting, and they said, "Oh, it looks like this room is occupied."

Me: And how is that raunchy?

21: Well, it was just a lot of innuendo. But after that, Ron and the girl went up in the tower. I'm sorry. You don't go up into a tower to make-out. The only reason you'd go into a tower is to fuck your brains out.

Me: Are you speaking from personal experience?

21: It's true.

Me: Hmm.

I later went to see the movie myself, and we had the following conversation:

21: So, how was the movie? Did you catch all of the innuendo?

Me: Well, there was one innuendo, but it wasn't raunchy like you described.

21: Uh, yeah it was.

Me: No. It was pretty tame.

21: Well, maybe my mind it's where my mind was at the time.

Me: Hmm.

One of my guests went on a couple flight-seeing tours. The first was above the Arctic Circle, and the second was around Mt. McKinley. When she came back from the second flight around Mt. McKinley, I asked her how it went.

Me: So, how was your flight around Mt. McKinley?

Guest: It was great. Much better than the Arctic Circle flight.

Me: Oh? Why's that?

Guest: Well, on the Arctic Circle flight, the man that gave the safety speech had no teeth.

Me: Oh. (The whole time thinking, does the absence of teeth make you an unfit pilot or safety speech giver?)

A couple days later, I approached the same guest to give her something for her friend/roommate and to inquire as to how her roommate was doing (since she had fallen, broken her arm, and was in the hospital).

Me: Hi, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm just dropping by some extra luggage tags for Carol.

Guest: Uh, oh. Thanks.

Me: By the way, have you heard from her at all?

Guest: No. She went to town.

Me: Right. I know. She fell and was rushed to the hospital. She's on her way back soon. I just didn't know if you had talked to her.

Guest: No. I didn't go with her. That's too bad.

Me: Uh, yeah. Well, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. She should be back soon. Please let me know if either of you need anything.

Guest: Oh, I'm fine.

Me: Great. See you in the morning. (Thinking to myself, what the hell kind of bad friend is she?)

I had the misfortune of going on an excursion when I was way too tired and unable to properly phrase things. A guest (not mine) on the van was complaining about how late we were returning to the hotel and how early she would have to get up the next morning. She was very concerned that she wouldn't get enough sleep. In attempt to sympathize with her, I said the following:

Me: Well, when you do get some I hope it's long and hard.

(Pause. Realizing what I just said...)

Me: I mean, I hope you sleep hard.

(Still not comfortable.)

Me: Sleep well. Get some sleep. You'll sleep soon. Sleeping. You'll sleep eventually. Sleep well. (And then I decided to just stop talking.)

Sometimes, you don't have say a word to make an ass of yourself. The other day, I was on the train, and I was walking through the aisle trying to pass someone. Usually when I walk through the aisle and pass people, my hands are up. This time, they were at my sides. I bumped into an older woman, and in an attempt to apologize, I attempted to pat her on the shoulder to say excuse me. Since my hands were at my side, I ended up patting her on her bottom. And then I ran away and hid in the back of the car.

And that's all I can think of right now.

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.6: A Tale of Two Carnies, or The Ballad of Scowling Poodle-Face

2009-07-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

Well this is a long overdue tale of the most draining tour I've had this summer. Now is a good time to tell the tale because I'm with another group of Carnies, AND I recently ran into someone that had experienced all that is Scowling Poodle-Face.

My second tour of the season was, by far, the worst. Sure, I've had someone get injured on 67% of my tours. And sure, 50% of those injuries required a hospital visit and involved broken bones, but this tour was still poke-your-eyes-out bad. What makes a tour bad? Is it terrible things happening at random? Rain? Lost luggage? Rabid dinosaurs brought back to life by an evil scientist? No. It's people. And sometimes, it just takes one.

From the get-go, I was apprehensive about the tour. I know this may make me sound like a bit of a snob, and I really don't intend to (since, technically, I fall into this demographic), but the reason for my lack of enthusiasm was that this tour was a budget tour for budget travelers. Don't get me wrong, it's still not cheap clocking in at a grand for just the land portion of the tour (and that's for 4 days, mind you), but it is infinitely cheaper (and substantially sub par) when compared to the other available tours. As a result, the people that purchased this tour were very different than my other guests. Many were very nice. Most of them were first-time group travelers. And some of them were simply awful.

The meet and greet day was fine. Slowly but surely I met my collection of travelers. They ranged from Willard, the 83-year-old solo traveler who was quickly approaching the time in his life when he had no business traveling to the large group of non-English-speaking French-Canadians to my biker couples from Ohio who wanted to know where they could buy some weed (and were under the mistaken impression that it's legal in Alaska). In total, I had 32 guests, and, to be fair, the majority of them were nice. I don't want to go as far as saying delightful, but they were nice people. If the nice people were the only ones there, I would have had a MUCH better time. But they weren't. Instead, I had the angriest people alive.

I met four of the five Angries during the meet and greet. They seemed fine. They seemed tired and a bit miffed that they were awake, but they seemed fine. They were two couples from upstate New York. The husbands seemed like they were in to have a good time, and the wives, well, the wives were pleasant. A few people did not show up for the meet and greet, so I left notes under their door instructing them to find me the next morning in the lobby before we took off for the train. And that's when I first met Poodle-Face.

I showed up bright and early at 6:00 AM to greet my guests, most of whom were not there yet (since they didn't have to show their smiling faces until 7:00 AM). I stood there, arranging name tags as guests from unescorted (read: not led by a Tour Director) tours kept badgering me about giving them a name tag (which I don't do because they are not part of my group) and basically yelling at me because they feel all left out and confused, which just prompts me to eventually tell them that the reason they didn't get a Tour Director is that they didn't pay for one (and that never goes well). As I greeted people and made myself appear useful, I saw the first four Angries. The wives didn't seem terribly happy (and I would later learn that they just weren't happy people). I handed them their name tags. Then, out of nowhere, a woman of less than 5' in stature with a helmet of hair and a scrunched up face approached me.

"Are you Cardelia?" She barked in her thick southern twang.

"Yes."

"Is this all I have to do?" She shoved her completed information form into my hand.

"Yes, thank you. It's nice to..."

"I'll be over there." She cut me off and stomped away muttering to herself.

It wasn't how I generally like to start with people. Usually, I make an effort to do a formal introduction explaining my role in their lives for the next few days. She wasn't interested, I guess. Eventually, our coach pulled up, and I loaded everyone onto it. As we drove the 10 minutes to the train station, I explained a little about the train ride and what would happen once we reached Denali. Even during that 10-minutes drive, the four Angries complained that they were sitting too long. I heard things like, "We hardly had a chance to see Fairbanks." To which, I could only reply, "Well, you chose the tour." (ed. If I haven't already mentioned it, this is not a tour that I personally would choose. It is flawed. Very flawed.)

Once we were all loaded (and hopefully happy) on the train, I walked down the aisle. Poodle-Face stopped me to inform me that her insulin was in the refrigerator next to the bar. As she informed me of this she also pointed out that someone else had to help her because I was nowhere to be found (which, just to defend myself here, I wasn't on the car because I was too busy loading their 75 bags onto the train, so I had an excuse). I promised her that I would remind her of the whereabouts of her insulin, then sat down. When I sat down, my coworker approached me to tell me about her. He apparently helped her out with the insulin, then she yelled at him for being too tall and blocking her view of the train yard (this, of course, was in lieu of a "thank you").

The train started up, we rolled through the Alaskan countryside. I tried to sell optional excursions, but hit several road blocks. The four Angries didn't want to spend any money. The other folks thought everything was too expensive. Most people felt they didn't have enough time in Denali (which I won't argue since it was a crappy tour). Poodle-Face and her gang (which, I should probably describe. They consisted of her husband. A tiny man who was shy as all get-out and truly seemed surprised anytime I said hello to him and her two friends who were ever-so lovely) decided to purchase the Dog Sled Ride for the next morning.

Throughout most of the train ride, I spoke with the nice people and occasionally found myself attempting to smile at Poodle-Face. She just gave me dirty looks. After four long hours, we pulled into Denali. I passed out their key packets, we loaded a coach, and I explained our day. We had 45 minutes before they were to go on their tour of the park. I explained (as I had explained the day before and on the train ride) that they should get food before going on the tour. Everyone was dropped off at their rooms, and I went back to the main lobby to wait for them.

The first to show up were the four Angries. They didn't like their rooms. Apparently, they weren't fancy enough (which was the same complaint they made about the rooms at the hotel in Fairbanks). I gave them some line about Alaska being rustic (which is true; however, if they had splurged a bit more, they might have ended up in nicer accommodations). They also were very upset at the cost of food. I explained to them that food in Alaska is more expensive than it is in the Lower 48 because it all has to be shipped in (think Hawaii). They were convinced that they were being ripped off, and they were mad that they were sitting so much, to which I could only apologize and remind them that they were on a group tour (designed for the elderly), and that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

As I was going through all of this, Poodle-Face pushed her way through the crowd and started in on me.

"Cardelia, Cardelia!" She shouted at me.

"Yes?"

"I have a problem! My room doesn't have a refrigerator, and I told them I needed a refrigerator. I have diabetes, and I need to put my insulin in the refrigerator. They know I need this!" Poodle-Face yelled at me in the midst of an enormous crowd.

Smiling, with a look of concern, I replied, "I'll look into it. You did move into the room 3 hours early, so that might be the issue."

"No, that's not the issue!" She squawked back. "I need a refrigerator. I put it on the bed. Hopefully it doesn't ruin. If it's not cold when I get back, I'll die."

Feeling the melodrama, I said, "Well, I'll look into it while you are away on the tour."

"The ice machine is broken in my building."

"Okay, I'll check on that too. Did you try the ice machine at the other two buildings next to you?"

"What? That is too far! (ed. The buildings are about 10 feet away from each other and the distance is smaller than what she would have walked in an enclosed hotel to get to the ice maker or the elevator)."

"Okay," I just wanted her to leave. "I'll look into it."

She stood there for a minute, started to walk off, then turned. "Cardelia, Cardelia! My blood sugar needs Subway, or I'm gonna die!"

Knowing that this wasn't a joke, I tried not to laugh. "Well, then I guess you should walk your blood sugar over there."

"I am! This place is too expensive. It's a rip-off."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." My smile was glued on.

"I'm gettin' a $5 foot long. Don't let them leave without me."

"They won't leave without you, and the foot longs are $9."

"What?!" She was incredulous.

"It's Alaska." I smiled and started waving. "Hurry back."

She and her crew ran off. I continued directing people to the best of my abilities. They came back just as the buses were arriving for the tour. As they boarded the bus, Poodle-Face scowled and informed me that "This place is a rip-off!" Her sentiments were echoed throughout the bus. Luckily, I didn't have to go with them, so I stood there on the sidewalk, waving as the bus pulled away with all of my unhappy guests.

While they were gone, I checked on the refrigerator situation. I didn't have to explain much about the guest in question, as the front desk staff knew exactly about whom I was talking. A refrigerator was delivered to the room an hour after the tour left.

Feeling good that the situation was resolved, I was ready to meet the group when they returned after five hours. The bus pulled up, I eagerly greeted them, asking them if they had a good time. The four Angries were still angry and hungry. They didn't heed my advice about getting food before the tour. They also told me that they didn't see anything. In fact, all they saw was a couple of bears, some caribou, and a lynx. Yeah, an effing lynx! No one sees those! And a couple of bears?! That's a good day. I directed them to a nearby restaurant since they made it clear to me that the hotel restaurants were far too expensive.

When Poodle-Face emerged, I proudly approached her and told her that the refrigerator was delivered, so she needn't worry about her insulin. Rather than thanking me, she asked, "What about the ice machine?" I informed her that it was, in fact, still broken, but that the ice machines in the two other buildings may be in working condition. This answer was not good enough for her, and she yelled, "That is unacceptable! I need ice! If I don't get ice, I'm gonna die!" To which I replied, "I'll see what I can do."

Once they had all vacated the lobby, I approached the front desk, and the manager personally delivered a bucket of ice to Poodle-Face. She never said thank you.

That night, I went to the bar and made poor choices.

The next morning, I greeted everyone in the main lobby as we waited for our coach transfer to the train station. Poodle-Face and her motley crew returned from their Dog Sled Ride excursion and the woman was smiling. I didn't think it was physically possible for her to do such a thing. She was so happy. I even thought that it might be a good day. Too bad it wasn't.

We arrived at the train station, and I looked for the guests that went ahead of the coach (because there is a visitor's center next to the train station, and I encourage people to go there beforehand for all of the free fun that it holds). I spotted the four Angries, and one of the wives was near tears. As I approached, she shot me the look of death.

"Hi! How are you?" I asked, hopeful that I could turn that frown upside-down.

"Not good."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

And then she started screaming, "This tour is awful. Everything is too expensive. You didn't tell us about any of the free stuff. You only told us about the things you have to pay for."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I did tell you to come to the visitor's center since you opted not to purchase any of the optional excursions."

"Well, we came here, but you didn't mention anything about the dog sled presentation. That started at 10, and we didn't get here until 10:15, and it was over." (ed. If a free presentation lasts less than 15 minutes, is it really such a loss that you didn't get to see it?)

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"I bet you are!" She yelled at me.

Her husband then walked up to me and ranted about how awful everything was and how angry he was about the tour and how it was a waste of money. Again, all I could do was remind him that he chose it.

Once he finished, her friend walked over to me and said, "You're doing a great job. This is no reflection on you whatsoever."

And then the train came.

We boarded the train. I walked through to make sure everyone was situated. As I approached Poodle-Face, her smile was quickly dissipating. Then she asked, "How long is this train ride anyway?" And the answer was...8 hours. And then the smile was gone, and she was angrily muttering to herself once again. I opted to go to an empty car and sit alone. Occasionally, I walked through my car to talk to my guests. The Angries complained that they were sitting too much. The French-Canadians were really nice; however, they were upset that we wouldn't have much time in Anchorage. (Later on one of my comment cards, I learned that one of the French-Canadians would have preferred the train ride more if we had had a disco ball and bingo. Weirdos.) When dinner was announced, Poodle-Face told the waiter she wanted to eat in the last seating After a half an hour, she called me over.

"Cardelia, Cardelia!"

"Yes?"

"When do I get to eat? They told me I could eat, but that was 2 hours ago. I have diabetes, and if I don't eat now, I'm gonna die!"

What I wanted to say was, "Well, that would just mean I'd have to do a little extra paperwork.", but what I actually said was, "I'll see what I can do."

Sure enough, the waiter came up and brought her down to eat. As she returned, she complained that it was too expensive.

After eight long hours, we pulled into Anchorage. I got everyone and their luggage loaded onto the coach, and we drove over to the hotel. As promised, I sat in the lobby for over an hour, awaiting my guests' complaints.

First down: The Angries.

The angrier of the wives approached me. "There's not hair dryer in my room. My friend has a hair dryer. Why don't I?"

I went to the front desk and was told that it was probably in the drawer. The Angry had disappeared, so when she returned I suggested she look in the drawer. Apparently, she was one step ahead of me. "Oh, I looked in the drawer. It was there. Thanks for nothing."

Yeah.

Second down: Poodle-Face (who, I forgot to mention sleeps with a scowl on her face, leading me to believe that it IS, in fact, possible to have your face freeze that way.)

She stomped out of the gift shop toward me, barking, "Cardelia, Cardelia!"

"Yes?"

"Do you know how much a bag of chips costs in there?" She meant business.

"Uhh...I'm guessing it's more than you're willing to spend?"

"Five dollars! FIVE DOLLARS! That is ridiculous. It's a rip-off!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way." I smiled, whilst giving her a look of concern.

"Where's the grocery store? I need to go to the grocery store. I need to buy some chips or somethin'." Poodle-Face was just revving up for the rampage.

"Well, the closest grocery store is almost two miles away. You'll have to take a cab."

"A what?! That's ridiculous! You know, that train was awful. They didn't have anything to eat. No bread, no chips, no crackers. I have diabetes, and I have to eat, or I'll die!"

(ed. Now I'm not expert on diabetes, but I'm pretty sure that you are NOT supposed to eat bread and chips and crackers. I could be wrong, but I think those are the main culprits of the disease, thus making them "no-no's".)

I sighed, plastered on my smile, and offered to help. "Well, I don't think there's a convenience store, but maybe the front desk will know of one. Let me check with them." She followed me over to the front desk.

As I waited to pose my question, Poodle-Face asked, "Did you see how much that breakfast buffet costs? Did you see?!"

"Too much?" was my only reply.

"You're damn right! $16.95 for a breakfast buffet? You gotta be kiddin' me. That's outrageous! You keep forcing us to eat at expensive places."

"Well, it is a hotel restaurant. Those aren't known for their bargain prices. But, as I pointed out on our way into the hotel, there are plenty of restaurants that will be open in the morning. You don't have to eat the breakfast buffet at the hotel."

"And I most certainly will not!" She then shot me a dirty look (or just looked at me with her normal face).

Just then, the front desk agent asked how she could assist us. I asked her if there was a convenience store nearby where my guest could buy chips and her first response was to point us to the gift shop. I tried to stop her, but it was too late.

"I have BEEN to the gift shop thank you very much. I will NOT spend five dollars on a bag of chips. It's a rip-off. A RIP-OFF! You people are ripping us off. I'm onto you!" Poodle-Face was irate.

The agent simply apologized and suggested a convenience store around the corner; however, both she and I agreed that it was probably closed. Poodle-Face then flew off the handle about the price of the breakfast buffet and was greeted with the same calm apology from the desk agent.

Unhappy with everything, she turned to walk away. Stopped. Then turned around and yelled, "I am never EVER coming back here again. This state is AWFUL. I will NEVER come here...and none of my friends will either!!" Then she stomped off toward the exit. I just stood there, shrugged my shoulders, and resumed my position next to my chair.

Within two minutes, Poodle-Face stomped back in. Clearly, she didn't make it to the convenience store. She bumped into two people that were traveling on another tour director's tour (with the same itinerary, thus were cut from the same cloth). She ranted over the five dollar chips and the $16.95 buffet. They sympathized. Then, they all discussed (loudly) how cruel we tour directors were to force them to buy all of these expensive meals. If we were worth our salt, we would have taken them to McDonald's.

I so wanted to jump in and ask them when the last time they saw a McDonald's was. Because, let me tell you, they aren't near downtown. The closest McDonald's is a $12 cab ride from where we were. Furthermore, they would be dismayed to learn that McDonald's costs more here than it does in Tennessee. Why? Because we're in effing Alaska! That's why!

Though, had I done any of that, they would have accused me of setting the prices, in much the same way that another guest accused me of personally changing the price of the Subway foot-longs to $9 instead of $5 as advertised on television. Right. I have that power. It has nothing to do with the fact that the Subway is in a national park in the middle of nowhere. It's all me. I'm an evil genius.

But I digress...

They eventually left the lobby. I then met the French-Canadians at a karaoke bar, and after singing it all out, I went home. The next morning I met my group for our not-so-exciting tour de Anchorage and transfer to the ship. When we said our final goodbyes, my tips were total crap, but my comment cards were better than expected. Poodle-Face completely passed me by without saying toodle-loo.

Once everyone was on their merry way to the fun ship, I walked inside the terminal, to see if my roommate had seen Poodle-Face. She hadn't, but another tour director had. He knew immediately who I was talking about when I called the woman, "Poodle-Face". Apparently, she walked by him. He asked her how she was, and she responded, "I'm not happy about a lot of things." His response? "Have you ever thought of smiling?"

And that was the last we heard from Scowling Poodle-Face (which is her full indian name).

The End.

Until over a month later, when I went on the Dog Sled Ride, and the woman that runs the thing told me about the angriest woman alive. She knew Poodle-Face, and she said the only thing that made her smile was holding a puppy. Perhaps she has a soul after all.

I'm exhausted.

Oh, and just so you can sleep at night, I did learn a couple things from this. First, I always make it a point to tell people how expensive Alaska is when we first meet. Second, I take nothing personally. I just nod my head and let them yell knowing full well that I can't do anything to change their ugly demeanor--they were just born that way (or maybe it's Maybelleine).

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

2009-07-04T02:52:00.000-07:00

So won't you be my neighbor?

Since I'm sure everyone is wondering what my life is like in the ever-exciting burg of Anchorage, let me just fill you in. Often I am asked where I live, and when I tell people, I am given a similar response, "You live there? Is it safe?" So what does that tell you? I know! I know! I live in the hood. Yeah, it's true. I live on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn't know that when I moved in. No, I had no clue. I found this apartment while I was in the safety of my own apartment in a neighborhood full of dogs and baby strollers in San Francisco. How was I to know that I was about to move to the bad side of town?

Nothing terribly exciting has happened over here. Sure, I have to walk two miles to get anywhere. And, anytime I walk, cars honk at me, and men call out to me. They say things like, “Lookin’ good!”, “Girl, you fine.”, and “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout”. But, that's normal, right? And yes, there are a few more guard dogs than I'm used to seeing. And yes, I do get irritated with my roommates when they leave the window open (seeing as how we live on the ground floor and all). But, it's not all bad. Well, I guess one of our neighbors in the complex has a red pick-up truck with the words, "Louisiana Redneck" emblazoned on the back window. But, really? Is that such a bad thing?

Last night I went out to a bar/club, and one of the people I met inquired as to the safety of my neighborhood. I reassured her that everything was fine. Then, I had a flurry of dreams that were quite to the contrary. One dream involved a police raid on the entire building, where my neighbors were scurrying around trying to hide. One of the neighbors ran through the building, yelling, "The cops are here! Hide!"

Luckily that was a dream.

Oh, and just now...at 2:00 AM, I hear the pitter-patter of little feet running through the hallway. Maybe the kid has a different bedtime than other little ones. Who am I to judge? I'm awake. I just happen to be an adult, and I'm in charge of my own schedule...but who's counting?

At any rate, I thought this might be a good time to talk about my little jaunt from downtown back home today. It really sums up the neighborhood.

Whenever I walk to or from downtown, I make an effort to walk down one of the lettered streets because they are typically nicer and less...gravelly...trafficky...full of crazies. (Note: I did say “less”, so don’t think it’s like walking through a gated golf course community on the other streets.) Today, I chose "A" Street. As I walked down the street, toward 15th, I noticed a crazy man ahead of me. He was at least one block ahead of me, and he would periodically stop, point at things and yell at his invisible companion. Every so often, I was the object about whom he was pointing and yelling. At other times, he would hit the parking meters, and occasionally, put money in them. I eventually caught up to him and walked slowly behind him until I had a chance to pass him. Seeing as how he was randomly yelling, I didn't want to do anything that might aggravate him.

Once I passed him, I opted to walk down 10th Street toward Gambell. My reason? Well, I had to do laundry, and I figured I should try to get some quarters at the grocery store. As I walked toward Gambell, I noticed a couple of homeless men sitting in an abandoned parking lot, screaming at each other about something unintelligible. Quite honestly, I don’t know that they were screaming at each other--one was screaming while the other was sympathizing. Now, I'm from San Francisco, so this sort of thing doesn't really faze me.

Perhaps that's why I never noticed that I was living in the bad part of town. I passed them, along with the other homeless that I often see yelling at each other, me, or nothing in particular. (Just as a side note, I did see the homeless couple that I passed about a month ago downtown. They were yelling at each other as usual. This time, they didn't have any special deliveries. And by special deliveries, I mean plastic bags full of human waste that they stow in the free newspaper dispensers along the sidewalk.)

I walked another block and a half, and I could see the grocery store. As I got closer, I saw more angry homeless people shouting at no one and at everything simultaneously. Then I saw a couple in love, and I became my mother (as in, I thought, "This is no place for love-making!"). They were leaning against the trashcan right next to the front entrance of the store. They were so enraptured with each other that they were completely unaware of their surroundings. Perhaps they thought they were in the privacy of their own bedroom or were on a deserted beach on Fantasy Island, because the way they were making out suggested that sweet, sweet love was in their near future...and might be witnessed by everyone planning on buying their Independence Day provisions at the grocery store. (Though, I would recommend only buying boxed foods from the store. Their deli smells like the refrigeration isn't working properly).

I walked right next to them as they smacked and slurped by the entrance, but I said nothing. The crazy homeless person on the other side of the entrance also said nothing. By the time I left the store, they had all but disappeared, and I saw a few crazies wander over to the bar and lounge next door (which, I might add, is the place currently seeking a cocktail waitress, and I considered applying for about 10 seconds).

And then I walked the rest of the way home. The neighbor’s Doberman pinscher that could easily leap over their 3-foot fence didn’t attack me. Rather, another neighbor’s 3-legged golden retriever and Pomeranian rushed me. I won't lie. I was a little scared. That Pomeranian meant business.

So that's my neighborhood. I didn't even tell you about the projects that are behind my building. I walk by those when I go to the Fred Meyer (my preferred grocery store). It really is beautiful. I'm just thankful we have a family of moose to keep us all in line.

The last straw!

2009-06-28T16:42:00.001-07:00

First ulu knives, then snow globes? What's next TSA? Huh?

And what's the other thing on there? A harmonica?

The Angriest Cab Driver in the World

2009-06-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

I just got out of the cab of the angriest cab driver in the world. All I wanted to do was to go home. I would have walked. Really. I would have. Ask anyone that knows me. I prefer walking over jumping in a cab, but the truth of the matter was that I was tired, it was cold, and I was lugging 85 pounds of luggage with me (not that I haven’t lugged heavier luggage in the past…just 2 weeks ago for the entire 2 miles it takes to go home). But tonight, I decided to take a cab. Too bad my cab driver wasn’t happy to see me.

He rolled up to the hotel, I helped him load my bag into the trunk, then I got inside. I told him my address, and he said, “I was really hoping for an airport run. All I wanted to do tonight was airport runs. But no, I haven’t gotten any of them. Just this bullshit.”

I said nothing. Then he took a phone call. When he hung up, he said, “I get more money delivering pizzas.” As he said this, he patted the pizza delivery box sitting on the front seat. Needless to say I was concerned he might deliver pizza on the way to my apartment. I decided then and there that he was still only getting ten bucks from me. If I wanted to go on a pizza route, I would have called Domino’s.

We pulled up to the entrance to my apartment complex. I handed him my money (of which he got a substantial tip considering I rounded $8.25 to $10), and he grumbled. I asked for a receipt, and he slapped one in my hand. Then, I unloaded my own bag. As I walked away, I said, “Have a good night.”

He turned to me, with venom spewing from his lips, he said, “It is NOT a good night. It is TERRIBLE night. Just TERRIBLE.” He got in to his cab, rolled down the window and continued yelling as I walked to my door, “My shift started at 5pm. It’s terrible. I should be delivering pizzas. This is bullshit.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I tried not to smile (which, by the way, is my go-to reaction to everything), and I walked inside.

Perhaps driving a taxi isn’t his calling.

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.5: When Cameras Drop

2009-05-31T17:12:00.000-07:00

I did it! I completed my very first tour up here in Alaska. It went smashingly. I already miss my people--the 60th Anniversary crew, the honeymooners, the 35th Anniversary-ites, and the girls. If only we could just travel together all summer!

I'll tell ya what I don't miss though... I do not miss the unescorted groups that kept getting thrown on my coach with all of their questions, confusion, and general bad attitudes.

My first tour was an intimate affair of 18. We laughed and didn't cry...except when we had to share our coach with random strangers. For whatever reason, (well, okay, I know the reason. We were only 18 people, and the coach seats over 50) other unescorted groups were tossed into our coach. This wouldn't be a problem, except that the unescorted people kept asking me questions, and, technically, I shouldn't talk to them because they didn't pay for my services. Alas, I'm a nice person, and I didn't want to be a jerk in front of my own guests, so I helped them out a little--not a lot.

On our last day, I thought I was home-free. I was positive that we would be the only group on the coach. And then, I discovered, much to my dismay, that 20 extra people were joining us. And those 20 extra people were not nice. They were all angry that they didn't have a tour director, so I had to give this answer, "Well, I'm sorry you're upset, but you chose a tour that is unescorted. Mmhmm, yes, I do understand your frustration, but when you chose your tour, you opted for one that did NOT have a Tour Director. Yes, I can see that, and I'm sorry you feel that way. Well, the simple answer is, the people on my tour paid for a Tour Director, you did not."

And what I really wanted to say after explaining and re-explaining was:

"Because you're cheap."

But those words were never uttered.

Throughout my five-day tour, there was a group of 4 people that kept taking the front seats on the coach. I still don't know how they did it. Somehow they managed to stake out a spot that was closer to the coach area than me, so every time I got on board, they were already there. Knowing that others were getting upset (since I was annoyed myself), I opted to remedy the problem by banning anyone from sitting in the front two seats. I took one for myself, and the other was to be the "picture seat" where guests could rotate in and out every 20 minutes. This plan would have been a good one if it weren't for those unescorted people.

One couple from the other group claimed motion sickness and insisted on sitting in the front seat. And let me tell you, they were a piece of work. For eight hours, I had to sit next to the unhappiest woman on Earth (or so I thought until I met Scowling Poodle-Face on my second tour). She had a constant monologue going throughout the ride. "When are we off this bus? It better be soon. That driver better drive fast. I'm not staying on this bus until 5. Why aren't we going faster? Why aren't we taking a different road? We better not go back to Denali? I'm never going there again. That place is horrible. Why would anyone go there in the first place? When are we getting off this bus? Why are we on a bus? Well, the train was even worse. Why would we go on a train? When do we eat? Why are we stopping?" ...

While those two definitely peppered my experience, it was the couple in the back that lent the comic relief.

Our lunch break was in Wasilla (insert Sarah Palin joke here). As we unloaded the coach, the couple from the back (who were on the unescorted tour) approached the driver and me with an issue.

"Is it possible to leave the tour early?" The wife asked. The driver and I looked at each other, somewhat confused. "My husband's father is in the hospital, and we have to catch the next flight home."

"Well, I can call my supervisor and see what we can do, "replied the driver.

"We just need to get dropped off in Anchorage. It shouldn't be that hard."

"Except that we have 36 other passengers that need to get to the ship. We'll see what we can do."

With that, we went inside the restaurant for lunch. Upon our return to the coach, the driver worked out a plan to make a detour and drop the couple off in Anchorage. Everything seemed fine. All was right with the world. The complaining motion-sick lady was still complaining. Once we made the announcement that we were making an unscheduled stop in Anchorage, she started demanding that we take her to Nordstrom. My people were still delightful, and then tragedy struck.

I was standing in the aisle, chatting with one of my favorite little ladies when I looked up and saw the woman, for whom we were stopping in Anchorage, frantically waving her hands. I rushed over to her, and she pulled me into the lavatory.

"I dropped my camera in the toilet." She was panicking and almost in tears.

Baffled, I replied, "I'm so sorry."

"Can you get it out?" She then thrust her arm down the toilet hole. "I can't reach it."

"I don't think you'll be able to reach it. Take your hand out of there."

"I haven't flushed, so it should be there. Maybe you can reach it?" She asked, her arm still shoulder deep in the toilet.

"It all goes into a tank. I'm not sure how deep it is, but I'm not putting my hand in the toilet."

"But your arms may be longer than mine."

"I'm sorry. I don't think you can retrieve it that way."

"Well, what do I do?" She cried.

"I'll talk to the driver, but we'll have to drain the tank."

She was getting frustrated. "Can't he just pull over and do that now?"

"No, ma'am. We can't. We have to drain the tank at a special facility. It's illegal and an environmental hazard to drain human waste on the side of the road (ed. despite how much you might think Wasilla is a s-hole)."

"But how am I going to get my camera back?" She shoved her arm back down the toilet.

"We will do everything we can, but there is nothing we can do right now. How about you come back to your seat?"

She then fumbled with the sink and got frustrated when water didn't come out of the faucet. "Why won't this work?"

Feeling really bad and a little disgusted, I replied, "There isn't any water. We only have hand sanitizer on the coach." As I said that, I was thinking, "And don't get near me, you probably have the Walk AND the Hep now. Who shoves their arm down a toilet hole in the first place?"

She rubbed hand sanitizer all over her hands, then sat down next to her husband, who was shaking his head in annoyance, and started to cry hysterically. "I don't know how it happened! I've had things in my pockets before, and they've never fallen out!"

I sat down across from them and felt great sympathy for her "I'm so sorry. We will do everything we can. We are getting you to Anchorage as fast as we can, but I make no promises about the camera. Is there anything else I can do that might make you feel better?"

Her husband turned to me, narrowing his eyes, "You can get the camera back, that's what you can do!"

I was taken aback and wanted nothing more than to defend myself and say, "Sir, I did NOT throw your camera in the toilet on a motor coach. In fact, I was nowhere near the toilet when the camera fell in. I have NOTHING to do with this. Your anger is misdirected. I'm just trying to help here, and you're not even going to tip me...and for the record, no tip is worth risking the Hep."

Rather, I said, "We'll do what we can."

I walked over to the driver to update him on the new situation, and he gave me the same answer I gave them. When I returned to the back of the bus, the wife decided that the camera wasn't that expensive, so it didn't matter. Ten minutes later, I walked back to check on them and give them instructions for their departure in Anchorage. The wife handed me her husband's business card asking me to mail the camera or even just the memory card when we found it. She also apologized for her outburst explaining that the lost camera was the last straw.

Once we reached Anchorage, the couple exited the bus. We retrieved their luggage, and the wife gave the driver a hug. Part of me was surprised that I didn't get a hug, but I was also relieved. She was unclean after all. And, I didn't tell the driver that she shoved her arm down the toilet until three hours later, which gave me a little bit of pleasure since he did screw me over first thing in the morning by misleading my group for his own enjoyment and purposely driving away when he knew I was missing two people.

I have no idea what happened with the camera. I passed the card onto the driver supervisor, and the story is now the stuff of legend.

Moral: Don't carry valuables into the lavatory on a coach. And if you do, and it falls into the toilet, just walk away.