Flying the Frustrating Skies

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

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

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...

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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

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.