The Woman from Mundania

It's pineapple alley in my neighborhood again. And all those pineapples got me thinking about upside-down cake, of course. So, I made one. And while I like a nice piece of cake on occasion, I rarely ever eat an entire cake. My cake is my department's gain. It was delicious, of course, and was quickly devoured by the staff.

Fast forward to last night. I went out to dinner with one of the other teachers at my school. She isn't directly part of my program, so I don't know her very well, but she laughs at my jokes, so I figure she's worth getting to know.

Earlier in the day, she had a piece of cake, and she asked me if I learned how to cook as a child. I explained how both of my parents were good cooks and we never had mac 'n cheese from a box or spaghetti sauce from a jar. "In fact," I said. "I used to bake bread with my dad when I was 6."

You could hear the words hovering in the air for a moment.

"You mean with a bread machine?"

"No, like by hand and stuff."

Pause.

"Wow, I think I've just described a Norman Rockwell paining."

You know, I've never thought of my childhood as particularly idyllic. I mean it was a childhood, not the cover of Life magazine. It was rather mundane, but there it was. Hanging in the air.

After a good laugh, she asked if all my family members are good cooks. "Sure," I explained. "Although we all have our specialties. My brother, for example, is good at making candy. Back when we were kids and we had a snow day, my brother and I used to make candy together..."

Again, the words hovered for a moment. She looked at me. And laughed. "You made candy with your brother? Where did you grow up, anyway?"

"Maine. We lived in the middle of nowhere, so there was nowhere to go when we were stuck home in the snow. So we'd make fudge or penuchi or candy apples. My mom would get the strangest phone calls from us, asking what the 'hard crack stage' was. It was all perfectly normal."

The look on her face might have been a hint that it wasn't as normal and mundane as I thought.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Beijing, China

An Open Letter to My Sisters --

And Anyone Else With Children

Over New Year's, I traveled with my good friend E, also known as TC3, to visit her brother in Tokyo. Yes, both TC3 and her brother are expatriates. At one point, the conversation turned to what it is that brought each of them to their respective countries. Brother told this story:

When he and E were children, their parents hosted an exchange student. The student was from Germany, and it brought all of the outside world to their rather provincial Saskatchewan town. Here was a person who spoke differently, ate differently, dressed differently, and wore funky socks (why is it that Europeans wear crazy socks?). And he was an active guy, so this six-year-old boy suddenly had a big brother to play soccer and hockey and any other game with. Brother was, to be honest, in love. In the way only a six-year-old who idolizes a teenager can be, of course. The love and wonder of the experience was still evident in his voice 30 years later.

His parents sponsored a number of exchange students over the years, and they were all wonderful experiences, fraught with the occasional argument or tension though they were. Each exchange student brought his or her own unique perspective to their small(ish)-town.

And as they grew up, both he and E became exchange students themselves. It was his experiences as a high-schooler in Japan that brought him back to the country to study and then live and work as an adult.

I'm not sure, really, what brought me only own expatriate adventure. I always find it difficult to put into words. We had an exchange student, once, for a few months. It was a good experience, but aside from the odd reference to rubbers, she was an Australian, so it wasn't such an eye-opening experience. She was a lot like just one more big sister.

But I do know this: my world is definitely bigger for living in a different culture. I admit I'm pretty hard-core. Not everyone, especially not everyone with kids, is prepared to pick up and face the challenges and the unknowns of life in a foreign land. But exchange students are out there, and you can bring the world to you.

More importantly, you can bring the world to your children.

P.S. This post was not sponsored by my friends who work for exchange student companies.

Incidents and Accidents

After three weeks and a few days of blissful non-work, I thought it might be nice to reflect on one more trip to foreign lands.

As with any trip of mine, planned largely at the last minute and great expense (or at least a higher expense), things didn't always go as planned. I have some regrets; there are some things I wanted to do that I didn't.

Top of the list is my aborted visit to Laos. Based on things said to me by fellow travelers last year and strong suggestions from a Beijing friend, coupled with the rumors of the best silk in SE Asia, and I was in. Or so I thought. TC3 and I were splitting up after about two weeks so she could go meet with her family, and we hadn't worked out all the details in advance. So by the time I had dates set, there were no more flights to Laos at an appropriate time.

Then there all the little things. If we had taken a bus instead of the train to Da Nang. Maybe I shouldn't have had those dresses made on such short notice. Maybe I should have had the work dress made instead. Did I really need that necklace? I didn't play tourist enough. What the hell did I eat to make myself sick, again? I should have gone out more in Thailand. I should have been more careful on the trail. I wish I'd gone climbing. I should have done more work. I wasted too much time doing nothing.

It's enough that a girl could almost get lost in the self-pity.

But then I consider the things that I did do over my holiday.

I did a lot of nothing. For three and a half (ish) glorious weeks, I didn't have to do anything. It was very relaxing. But the nothing included some rather wonderful things.

I bought many meters of fabric. Most of you know about my fabric fetish by now. While driving across central Vietnam, the rice paddies inspired a quilt design in me, and I bought some silk to make it happen. I had purchased some fun Thai cotton prints last year, and when I went to use them over the summer, I realized I was missing a critical contrasting fabric. So this year, I took a day trip back to the same city to fill in the missing piece. There was an unmistakeable grin and feeling of joy as I walked into the shop. Here was a definite accomplishment of a goal. And a delightful goal that promised hours more of pleasure (and some consternation, sure) with a rotary cutter and a sewing machine.

I read a lot. It's not that I don't read during the school year, because I do. But I seldom get to read with such focused attention. I rarely spend so much time planning where my next book will come from. I don't always have the opportunity to really savor a book and consider it's implications for me as a human or as a writer. (What? You don't think this blog is all about keeping you informed, do you? I consider myself a writer, whatever my students think.)

I started writing my blog again. Maybe you noticed, but my posts were few and far between from November on (maybe even during the whole year). It's not that I didn't have things to write about, I just didn't have the patience, time, or energy to put my thoughts into words. (Note, I'm typing this on the iPad, so typos are common and I just wrote "swords" instead of "words". Telling, no?) But I suddenly found myself with the time and inclination to let you back in on my thoughts.

Back when I was living in North Carolina, I took a trip south. I spent a couple of nights in Savannah, and to save money, I stayed at the hostel. I remember talking with the other travelers there, and there were rumors flying about regarding one woman. She kept to herself and she spent a lot of time on her computer. "She's a writer for Lonely Planet" one German girl said, "She doesn't really talk to anyone else." There was such an aura of mystique around here. The rest of us couldn't help but be a bit in awe of her. I admit that I tried to cultivate the same aura of self-imposed, studious aloofness, albeit without the cool rumors of my job.

One evening, while sitting on my bungalow's balcony with a pint and a Stephen King book, something clicked in my head. I'm not even sure exactly what combination of elements (the lowering of my affective filter, the various short stories I'd been reading, the author's note at the end of the book, time) combined in my head, but I suddenly solved the problem of my own short story. I've been working on this things for a good ten years, if not more. The problem has always been two-fold: how to begin and and how to frame it. The opening, of course, leads into the framing. You can't have one without the other.

That right there was worth the price of admission.

And, of course, I got a tan, which is no small feat in itself. I'm not a natural tanner; I'm a burner. So to spend that much time (including six days in the ultra-strong Thai sunshine) on beaches and escape with only minor, patchy burns and a good even tan on my face and shoulders is nothing short of miraculous. That, or a testament to my slavish devotion to coating every square inch of my body with 50 SPF sunblock. It took me a good half an hour every morning to fully coat myself. And the 50 has so much zinc in it, that it doesn't easily soak into skin: it sits on the surface with a brilliant white residue... Which I'm always afraid will them sweat off or wash off into the pool. But, it must have worked at least a little bit.

I'm back at work now. And I can no longer laze away my mornings, afternoons, and evenings. I'll have to get back in the habit of actually accomplishing daily tasks. At least now I'm rested and ready for the challenge.

Or so I'm telling myself.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Beijing, China

I've Never Seen One of Those There Before

Many years ago, I was a waitress in a wonderful establishment, Elmo's Diner. It's a small, locally-owned chain (of two) diners that specialize in all-day breakfast and square meals with an emphasis on a regular clientele. As a server, I was encouraged to make a personal connection with my tables (within reason); the personal touch is part of what makes Elmo's great. I contend it's where I really learned how to flirt. Not nasty, dirty flirting, but building a positive connection with a stranger based on light jokes and a charming smile. (You have to tell me if I was a good student.)

It's been years (7? 8?) since I've worked there, but it's still the first restaurant I visit whenever I'm in Durham (when I was there two summer ago, I ate at Elmo's at least once every day). And there are still some customers that I remember: Pet Fashion Woman and Her Husband, the Man Who Ordered the Big Salad, the Mother Who Said Her Asshole Son Liked Me (In a He Listened to What I Said and Didn't Get Angry at the Help kind of way). And then there was the man with the injured knee.

I've been thinking of him a lot recently, since I injured my own knee in Thailand.

Let me tell you something: I'm a peeler. I could blame my mother for letting us kids peel her burnt back all those years ago, but I think she was just working with what already existed. I was one one those kids who let Elmer's glue dry on her finger so she could peel it off. I spent many a rainy Saturday afternoon that way. I still try to peel my own burns, but I use a lot more sunblock than my mom did back on the early 80s, so my peels never quite reach the same legendary levels that hers did. (To be clear: I draw the line at popping. I'm not one of those people who love popping other people's zits. I might take secret pleasure in a particularly well-popped zit of my own, but not someone else's. Eugh.)

So, I've been a bit infatuated with the growing scab on my knee. I know I can't pick at it, because that would lead to ugly scarring (and I'm also a particularly nasty scarrer), but that doesn't stop me from watching it.

At first, I was obsessed with signs of infection. I did get this injury in a non-Western nation, of course. When I kept the wound covered, the oozing, weepy bit was all nasty-looking. It looked like, well, pus. I knew better, but until I took off the bandage and let it dry out into a scab, it was going to look really bad.

Which brings me back to my story. It was a particularly busy Wednesday night at Elmo's. It's not usually busy on Wednesdays, but my section had been slammed, non-stop. I walked up to one large party of 20-something's. "Ask her," I overheard.

"No way!"

"Ask me what?"

"Well, my friend here injured his knee, and he was writing an email to a friend of his about it. There's a lot of pus on his knee. When he wrote her about it, her response was, 'I've never seen one of those there before.'"

I have to interject, because this is really an aural joke. When you try to make a word an adjective, you often add a "y" or "ie" at the end. Of course, if it's a short vowel sound, you double the consonant before adding the -y or -ie, So a knee covered with pus becomes... A pussy knee.

I originally said that you need a dash to make the word work: a pus-ie knee or even a pus-y knee. I've since decided that it just can't be written. Your knee is either "covered in pus", or it's not.

Now that I've taken off the plaster, my knee no longer looks like there is anything related to pus near it. It has developed a highly pickable scab, however. Here's hoping my Thai tan (read: moderate and controlled burn) starts peeling enough to distract me from picking at it.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Beijing, China

Some Days, We Don't Let the Line Move at All

-or-
How I Almost Missed My Flight

Clever girl that I am, I got an early-morning flight to Krabi from Bangkok, effectively giving myself an extra day at the beach. It also meant getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to get to the airport. So maybe I cut it a little close, but it was a domestic flight meaning there was no immigration to deal with.

I easily flagged down a cab at 5am. That would get me to the airport at 5:30 for my 6:35 flight. Perfecto.

Well, Mr. Cab Driver was nice enough. He was so nice, he drove to some place with a guy he knew spoke English just to make sure that "airport" meant Suvarnabhumi International Airport. Of course, I had to look it up, because at 5 am, I can tell you "BKK", but not "Suvarnabhumi". They also pronounce it "Savannah-boom", like we were discussing some American Civil War battle in pidgin.

Mr. Cab Driver also drove with the gas light on the entire way. I've already mentioned what a nervous traveler I am, and going the whole trip with the threat of running out of fuel didn't help. And then there was his speed. I've been in some break-neck taxis before (once rushing to catch a train), but this guy was off the hook, going 100kph (or more) down the freeway. I have no idea if he thought he could drop me off before he ran out of gas if he went faster although all he was doing was using up his fuel at a much quicker rate. It didn't help my nerves. Or maybe the model race car and helicopter on his dashboard were the tell-tale hints to his speed racer pesona.

But, I got there in one piece, and still had a fat hour to check in. I checked for the ticket counters for my flight, and then stood in line.

When I say "stood", that is exactly what I mean. There was no forward progress in this line whatsoever. The lines were all jammed up against each other, so I might have cut in front of some lady, but she kept on line-jumping with her friends, giving me no reasonable way of knowing which line she thought she was in.

The clock kept up its inexorable ticking towards my departure time. And the line did not move at all. The people around me were all leaving at about the same time, and they started making noise. Finally, I asked an airline employee about the situation and was told to go stand in another line on the other side.

It was shorter, but that line, too, wasn't moving at all. After commiserating with the people around me, who were all getting nervous, I saw that one lady was holding a sign with my flight on it. "Hey! That's me!"

"OK, stay right here."

"But shouldn't I be checking in right now? You have the sign for my flight..."

"Yes. Stay here."

So I stayed there, in a line that continued to not move, until she came back from trolling the lobby with the sign. I jumped at her again because that was my flight. Suddenly, the women all jumped into action. They weighed my bag, printed a boarding pass, and scurried me off to security.

Why I had to stand in line for 40 minutes when they could have been doing that exact thing with everyone else in the line ahead of me is beyond my comprehension. I knew that in 5 minutes, they'd come around with the sign for the next flight, and another 10 people who had been standing around me waiting for someone, anyone to do anything remotely related to checking them in would also be whisked through the check-in process. But without that pressure? Nothing.

Fortunately, security was a breeze. Since everyone was standing in the check-in line, there was no one in my way at security. I raced through the airport looking for my gate, passing little old ladies and lazy teenagers alike. In Bangkok, no one even pretends to stand on one side of the walkway and walk on the other. I had to vocally get the people to move.

It's a good thing I did, too. I made it to my gate and was pointed to a bus. I got on the bus with the other passengers. In thirty seconds, I'm guessing when they confirmed I was the last passenger they had checked baggage for, they closed the door and drove us to the plane.

It's not quite as dramatic as having them close the airplane door behind you, but in the land of stair-cars, that doesn't usually happen. I certainly haven't been that late for a flight since it took my mom and me three and a half hours to drive an hour and fifty minutes in a snow storm and the gate agent suggested that I not go to the bathroom because they just might shut the door on me. Needless to say, I didn't stop to use rest room this time, either. I didn't even ask.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Suvarnabhumi Airport, Bangkok, Thailand

Restless

Having learned my lesson after my last Air Asia flight, I got to the airport with two hours to spare. Also, due to dumb luck, I got a free ride. The man at the hotel desk in the morning said there would be plenty of taxis at the dock where the free long-tail boat lands. When I got there, a nice Portuguese couple had booked a van through the hotel. The driver didn't quite understand that we weren't all in it together, so I hitched a ride for free. Score!

Of course, things at the airport are as vague and confusing as ever. The check-in line actually moved though, and I found a decent cup of coffee. Security was a breeze (it's not a very big airport). So, I sat in the gate waiting room and, well, waited.

Around 7:10, I started perking up for my flight announcement. We were scheduled to board at 7:15. But it's a small airport, and there were no staff members to check with.

I took a turn around the room, and I noticed a few things: 1) the computer was showing that the flight was boarding, 2) there was only one waiting area for the three gates and we were there, 3) there were definitely no staff members present and 4) there was no airplane.

None of this is particularly good, but it's also not the end of the world. At least I could be fairly certain that I wasn't going to miss the flight because I was in the wrong place; there was only the one place to be. Still, I have a flight to catch at the other end, and while I know that I'm landing three-plus hours prior to departure and they won't even open up the check-in counter until two hours prior, giving me a good hour and change to cool my heels in the most boring part of the Suvarnabhumi Airport (I know because I showed up early last year for the same flight from the same carrier and that's what happened), I still just want to get there.

Now, I knew I wasn't the only Nervous Nelly in the crowd which was strangely comforting. If I was missing my flight, so was everyone else, and the chances of that happening are fairly slim. I could recognize the signs: people were looking up, they were "casually" strolling the perimeter of the room, they were looking at the monitor with some alarm. But I knew they'd come to the same conclusion I had: no one was going anywhere without an airplane. That, and this woefully backwater "international" airport had its computer on auto-pilot, showing a departure for a flight that was clearly delayed.

With 10 minutes to go before our scheduled departure, a woman in a red Air Asia shirt came walking towards the counter. Half of the passengers waiting in the terminal jumped up and formed a queue. I stayed sitting because I knew the secret: we still didn't have an airplane.

Sure enough, she made an announcement that our flight was delayed due to the late arrival of the aircraft. Big surprise there.

Ooh, I can hear airplane noise. So did everyone else. It looks like our airplane has arrived. They'll need a few minutes to deplane and give it a cursory clean, but I can't imagine this is anything than our plane.

I was right; our plane it was. They threw us on that thing lickity-split and had us off the ground in no time. Of course, I was sitting next to a giant. This dude was tubby, yeah, but he was also tall and broad-shouldered. Big. Poor man was obviously uncomfortable, uncomfortable enough to lessen my own sense of consternation for being stuck next to the guy. He was a jolly giant, too. He talked to me in a little broken English as we were landing and he noticed I was looking out the window.

And, I made my next flight with plenty of time to spare. No need to get nervous at all, as usual.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Krabi International Airport, Krabi, Thailand

Oh, China

Yesterday, when I got home from my trip, I found out I had run out of toilet water. No, not perfume, but the stuff in the toilet that you use to flush your, uh, waste.

Let me back up for a moment: there are three kinds of water in my apartment. 1) There is the cold water. This water comes out of my faucets and it is the one utility bill I get each month. 2) There is the hot water. I don't have a water heater in my apartment (some owners have installed them, but my landlord hasn't), so I buy my hot water from the building management company. I buy the water in advance and then insert a credit-card thingy into a meter under the sink to release the water. 3) The reclaimed water that flushes the toilet. Like the hot water, this is pre-purchased and the card is inserted into a meter in the bathroom wall.

So, it seems that I have run out of water. The stuff is cheap, dirt cheap. But when it goes, the only way you can flush the toilet is to fill up a bucket with cold water and dump it in the tank.

This afternoon, I took my card and 20 kuai and went to top up my card. Except, the woman wasn't able to put any money on the card. What the? She passed me a note in English, which was a completely meaningless jumble of words. After much confusion, I called my Handler and gave the phone to the water lady. She was at first nervous (how would she speak?), but she quickly realized I was handing her off to a Chinese speaker.

It turns out that you can't put more water on the card if there is too much water on the meter (more than two tons) or no water on the meter. Yup. If the meter is at zero, you can't buy more water until the maintenance man goes up to the meter and does something magical with the magical maintenance card. THEN you can put more water on the card. The meter is supposed to beep when you get down to two tons, and I don't recall a beeping, but who knows? Enough strange things happen around here that I wouldn't know what was up. And if the toilet was still flushing and the beeping stopped, I'd chalk it up to one more thing I didn't understand.

So, she called the maintenance man to my apartment and I walked back home. Along the way, I passed by an old woman enjoying the sunshine and flapping her arms like a bird. Seriously.

Once the maintenance man showed up, he rather quickly discovered the problem. It wasn't that there was no water on the meter, it was that the connector from the wall to the toilet had broken. Like, snapped in half, broken. Yeah, that would do it. (It seems I'm still above two tons, hence not remembering a beeping from my meter, because there'd been none.)

I did notice some odd things when I got home yesterday: the books on top of my washer were water-logged; the hose for the washing machine was pulled out of the drain; the spare garbage bags in the trash can were soaking wet. I thought maybe Cleaning Lady had accidentally knocked something over when she had been in to clean, but I think not. The water had been spraying around the bathroom, soaking the aforementioned items. She turned off the valve and pulled out the tube to allow the water to drain quicker. I guess. It would have been nice if she'd mentioned the broken pipe to my Handler so he could have told me and we could have dealt with it sooner when I got back, but...

My Handler and I went down to the Alley and bought replacement parts (the nice maintenance man unscrewed everything for me and was very clear about what I needed to purchase and to call him back when it was taken care of). I'm now waiting for maintenance man to come back and replace the parts (we're in between the shift change, so it'll be a new maintenance man unfortunately -- I like the day-time one, he's nice).

I expect to have nothing to report when he leaves except that my toilet is once again flushing normally. But still, that old woman was walking around the fountain, flapping her arms like a bird.

For Love or Money

In Sihanoukville, on the Cambodian coast, TC3 and I tried to avoid the in-town beaches, which TC3 called a "Chinese Gong Show", with a 15-minute tuk-tuk ride to the more secluded beach. It was a beautiful white-sand beach, lined with a row of restaurant shacks and bungalows. There were plenty of beach chairs to lounge on, and the ubiquitous hawkers of beads, bracelets, sunglasses, sarongs, fruit, mani/pedis and massages. So to call it "secluded" is really relative. It's not like we were on our own out there.

The hawkers were really quite forward and obviously knew how to make money. Even when you said "No, thank-you," they came back with "Maybe later." And woe unto the unwitting shopper who said "Maybe" in an effort to get rid of the seller, because they would be back later.

By my second day on the beach, I had pretty much how it down to a science, "No, thank you. No. Thank you. No thank you." They would eventually move on to the next sun worshipper who might be more willing to part with their own hard-earned dollars.

What can I say? It's not just that I'm cheap, but I didn't need a tacky string bracelet or to have my hair ripped out by it's roots. And even if I did need a good leg threading (and what Western woman on a beach doesn't?), I certainly didn't need one while I still had two days of smearing my legs with sun block and bug spray and jumping in the sketchy Cambodian coastal waters. The reason I refer to myself as a delicate flower is because I do have delicate skin. I bruise and blister and burn with the best of them.

But one young man was not going to take no. He weaseled his way past my defenses. Who knows? Maybe it had been a slow day and he really needed the sale. Maybe he thought I looked like an easy mark. Maybe he was just bored and needed to spice up his afternoon. He asked for my favorite color. Green. He liked green, too. He also liked blue, because it was the color of the ocean. I agreed that blue was indeed a nice color as well. He reached into his bag and pulled out some green and blue thread. Floss. String... And he said he was making me a bracelet.

Oh, no. I didn't want it. Yes, he pressed. I did. It was a friendship bracelet and he was making it for me for free. He wanted to show me that not everything in Cambodia was about money. Except we both knew he was lying.

Meanwhile, his friend came up and started harassing me about my leg hair, again. Now, I can be as vain as the next woman, and TC3 had submitted to a threading the day before. The idea of not having to shave for my Thai beach vacation was alluring, so I promised I would let her pull my hair out, but not until the next afternoon.

And then Bracelet Boy was back at it. He tied on the simple, braided friendship bracelet and started haranguing me about his shrimp and fish knotted key chains. They were as obnoxious and tacky as only beach souvenirs can be. I just had to buy one. It was the last day of his Chinese New Year school holiday, and he wouldn't be able to sell anything else. I just needed a shrimp. And look at the fish. He needed money for school. He wouldn't be there tomorrow.

Right. He dishes out the lies the Westerners want to believe and then we hand over a few dollars in shame since our governments have done so much (or so little) to cause (or alleviate) his country's problems. It's a time-honored scam. And he had me. He had me the moment he pulled out the floss to braid me a bracelet. There was no way I was getting away without purchasing a product.

Of course, school or no school, he was back out on the beach the next day pedaling his wares. Since I had my friendship bracelet on, we were friends. He gave me a hello when he saw me, and then shooed the other knotted-shrimp sellers away from me. I didn't bother to ask him about school. It seemed so beside the point.

I've still got my friendship bracelet on, too. Well, it's an anklet now, but you get the point.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Sihanoukville, Cambodia

I Mentioned the Bisque

There are a lot of bad things about colonialism. Europeans (and their descendants -- I'm looking at you, America) have done a fantastic job of world domination, destroying civilizations, orchestrating genocide (intentional or otherwise), and building a supply of wealth based on the resources and labor of subjugated peoples. But there has been one good things to come out of colonialism, French colonialism in particular, and that is a diffusion of one of the best culinary traditions, ever.

In particular, I am talking about a Westerner's ability to easily find rich, robust coffee, crusty baguette, flaky croissants, and cheese throughout all of Vietnam. (Just ignore the rampant poverty and destruction left by a century of oppression and war.)

Cambodia was also under a French protectorate, and while it is definitely not as far along as Vietnam in the grand scheme of rebuilding itself from the ashes of the twentieth century, it still has that same French culinary tradition.

So after my stressful bus trip from Sihanoukville and a week of beach grub, I decided to splurge on a dinner at the best French restaurant the Book could recommend.

After shocking the hell out of the wait staff because I was eating alone, I was taken to a table and left to my own devices. After sitting there for a few minutes with nothing to read (as in: no menu), I was given a drink list. OK, but I want a glass of wine. Do you have a wine list with wines by the glass? No. Just a house red and a house white. Since I planned on having a steak (which I haven't had in quite some time, slabs of meat not being the norm in Asia), I went for the red.

It was fine. Not stellar, but at least not Great Wall. My notes say "unassuming". (What? You're surprised that I was taking notes? Don't you know me by now?)

Once my drink was taken care of, I got the real menu, which was a picture book. I'm. It kidding, the menu was a book, albeit one with a broken spine and pages falling out. It was completely unnecessary and unwieldy.

Some things looked good. The crab bisque looked good, as did the tomato salad, and steak. All three of which I decided on.having skipped lunch, I thought I might be able to handle three courses. I could at least try.

First, I was brought out a baby-starter. Just a teensy plate of a single sausage round and a spoonful of lentils. It was the best sausage I've had since I left the U.S. And while that's not too tough, given the state of sausage in Asia, it is tough to do given the state of sausage in Asia. This particular meat was spicy with a strong sage undertone.the texture was right and the lentils were a nice counterpoint to the meat.

If only the rest of the meal had focused on the simple pleasure of food that tastes like food and works well together.

The first thing I thought when my bisque was delivered was that "someone got a foamer for Christmas" because my bisque looked nothing like bisque. It looked like a cappuccino, complete with being served in a glass and not a bowl. You know those new-fangled chefs who try to break food apart into it's component molecules and then put it back together in "new" and "inventive" ways. Well Chef Frankenstein was definitely one of them, and I'm more of a Michael Pollan/In Defense of Food kind of a girl. If your grandmother wouldn't recognize it as food,then you shouldn't be eating it.

The soup part of the bisque was a deep brown and tasted like an over-peppered, crabby roux. The milky foam on top never really mixed in with the soup, so I never got that full, creamy lushness I associate with a rich bisque. Beside my cup of coffee -- er, soup, were two fried shrimp. I'm not quite sure why I got shrimp with my crab bisque, but there they were, in all their lukewarm, soggy glory. Oh yes, that's how "well" they were fried. And then, as any long-time viewer of Iron Chef (the original Japanese version) knows, the was the kiss of death: the soup was too salty. I know MDtS thinks I think all food is too salty, having heard me bitch about Maggie G's one great failing all too often, but it really was. And if the old lady who is the fourth judge (be she the fortune-teller or the food critic) says the food is too salty, you have just lost the competition.

I also was brought a warm, crusty roll. That was also tough. The marble single-serving butter dish was nifty, though.

In a disappointing breech of service, my salad was delivered before I finished my soup. So not cool. And again Chef Frankenstein was up to his old tricks. He had pureed the mozzarella with basil and reformed it into perfect tomato-sized rounded. These he alternated with tomato and placed on a stale cracker. I'm not sure how you can take one of the best salads ever invented by the Italians and turn it into a joke, but he did.

By the time my steak arrived, I was prepared for disappointment. My steak (a NY strip) was rare, as I had ordered. It had a nice flavor, but it wasn't special. It came with a hollandaise on the side that wasn't quite lick the dish buttery, but had a nice lemony pop. The spinach ravioli in cream sauce were bland and bitter, all at once. The potato gratin was nice, but taken together, there was too much cream on the plate. (I know all about Houghton's First Law of Food, but there is such a thing as balance. That's all I'm saying.)

However, tucked off to the side of the plate was a handful of micro-greens. I've picked through enough micros in my life to know a good green when I see one, and these were good. They had a forceful, but delicate crunch and a pleasant hint of nasturtium. The dressing was put on a tad heavy, but it, too, had a good, lemony pop. The greens were excellent.

By then, I was full and it was time to meet my moto driver to take me back to my hotel. And I didn't think I could stomach any more disappointment. So I skipped dessert and yadda, yadda, yadda, I went to sleep.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Why Don't We Take the Long Cut?

I am staying on East Railay, which is lovely but overlooks a mangrove swamp. While I'm all for biodiversity and crap like that, I'm also fond of beaches. To get to the beaches, I have to walk across the peninsula to West Railay. It's not a particularly long walk, but it's also not well signed, and it's by no means straight (no matter what the maps show). It involves winding through various resorts and hotels along a path that is at times brick, concrete, and dirt.

On my way in, I noticed a fork in the road, and I took the more-traveled path (not wanting to get lost on the way to my hotel), but I remembered it. When I saw a sign for the same bar on the east side of the peninsula, I decided I'd try to find the short cut.

So, on my way back from the beach yesterday, slightly tipsy from drinking a couple of beers while waiting for the rain to stop and definitely well on my way to sunburned from my morning on the sand, I veered off to the path less taken.

I kept my eyes open for signs to YaYa Bar. Along the way, I came across a cave (Diamond Cave it turns out) and saw a monkey playing in the trees. I played back with him, trying to get a photo while he scampered around. I eventually did, and I kept walking.

A few minutes later, I came to another fork. This one telling me I could go left for Ton Sai Beach. Ton Sai Beach is not on the (crappy, useless) map given to me by my hotel. I have no idea where it is. I sorta remembered seeing it in the Book, but the Book is big, so I had left it in my room. I followed the path for awhile, going deeper into the jungle. It made me think of the Blair Witch Project and how if it's impossible to get lost in Maryland (or it should be), there was no way I was more than five minutes from a hotel or resort or bar. Just then, I noticed that the path was narrow and uneven, so I should be careful in my flippy-floppies. I was careful for two steps, and then I wasn't. Down I went.

I scraped up my knee but good. It hurt, and now I really wanted to find my way back. I pressed my sarong onto my bloody knee to staunch a little of the blood (it was red and angry-looking, but it didn't look like I'd actually broken too much skin). Then I turned around.

On my way back, I noticed YaYa Bar. I went towards it, but ended up dead-ending in a "cabana hotel". I went around in a circle (inadvertently, of course) and ended back at the bar.

I finally asked a man how to get to Railay East, and he said down the hill to the right. That made no sense to my sense of direction (and I do think he meant left), but I saw no option but to go back the way I'd come. So I did, adding the insult of not finding my way to my injury.

By now, my knee was really hurting, and I was having nightmares about how much cleaning it would hurt. From my mountaineering first aid, I knew the only way to clean a scrape like mine was scrubbing it with soap and water. I also knew that that would hurt like a bitch. More than it was hurting now.

I also knew that I needed a good book to read because the ones I had were a little too dry and scholarly. I also needed water, bandages, and beer wouldn't be a bad idea, either. Not that alcohol was a great idea, but it might help dull the pain and give me something to do while doing nothing in my room. And this was all going to have to happen quickly, because my knee was throbbing and I still had a 10-minute walk to my hotel.

I was fairly certain I could keep from crying on the walk back, pain or no. And then I stopped to grab a book, and I wasn't so sure anymore. To make matters worse, half the books were in German (oh, those German tourists!) and the rest appeared to be crappy romance novels priced way too high.

I turned to leave in anger and frustration when I saw a Stephen King book. I have never been so happy to see a fellow Mainer. I snatched it up, and practically ran through the mini-mart, grabbing a beer, a bottle of water, and a pack of Ritz cheeze sandwiches. There were no bandages. I could walk the wrong way to the pharmacy, or I could just continue on to my hotel.

Continue on I did. I did break down in tears upon reaching my room, and even allowed myself a bellow of pain as I tried to scrub my wound. As I thought, there were only two small gashes. Most of the nasty was more blood blister than torn skin.

For all I know, there is still some dirt jammed all up in there because I know I didn't scrub it hard enough and I don't have an irrigation syringe with me. I figured the blood thinning properties of alcohol would help it bleed a little more and rinse the nasty away. It certainly wasn't bleeding enough for me to worry about blood loss.

For a make-shift Band-Aid, I used a Chinese tissue (which is more like a napkin) held on with a piece of duct tape. I'm sure I'll laugh about that one of these days.

This morning, after breakfast, I walked down to the pharmacy. The nice lady gently cleaned around it with some alcohol, rubbed it down with some iodine-looking stuff, and put a waterproof bandage on it.

It still hurts which probably means I won't be able to go climbing because it is severely limiting my knee's flexibility, and while you shouldn't ever climb with your knees, chances are I would hit the rock with it at some point and that would really hurt. But, it doesn't appear to be bleeding, it's not swollen, and it doesn't look infected. It's probably just going to keep smarting for awhile.

Oh well. I took the long cut. I got to my hotel eventually.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Railay Peninsula

Hotel China

-or-
Why Didn't We Take the Bus?

My trip to Vietnam was largely influenced by TC3's and my friend, D. He had been top Vietnam over the summer, and he's one of those people who plan a vacation with Excel. He had the entire thing mapped out long before he set foot on a plane. That also means that he has concrete details to hand over to friends who are hoping to go to the same places he did (and have no patience for such minutiae). So, if D stayed in a hotel, we stayed in the same hotel (even if it wasn't in the Book -- and I am a firm believer in the Book).

To get from Hanoi to Hue, we flew. It cost a little less than the train, and it was a lot quicker. But to get from Hue to Da Nang, we took the train. It was about a two and a half hour trip, so it seemed like a good way to see a little bit more of the country and the people.

Since it was only a short trip, we reserved the soft seats instead of sleeper bunks. We arrived at the train the half hour before, like the ticket said. Although we had asked the hotel for a taxi, there was some meeting (or something) and taxis were hard to come by, so we got a ride with the hotel clerk on his scooter. One at a time, of course.

The waiting room was packed with travelers. It was rather China, or at least seemed so to TC3 and I. Of course, coming off of 5 months in China, we were a bit sensitive. We found a bare patch of ground and set down our bags. TC3 had done some scouting beforehand (she had the first scooter ride), and she had learned which door we were supposed to go through. We waited in the fog of vague confusion bordering on panic that haunts every traveler in Asia (or at least me).

We suddenly heard an announcement, and the crowd started making for the door. That seemed as good a cue as any, so we picked up the backpacks and joined the crush. Oh China, you are never far away. It was different though. When I got near the doorway, where a man was actually checking tickets, it was between me and this other guy, and instead of pushing through, he motioned me ahead of me. Yes, Gentle Reader, he was polite! I was just as shocked as you are.

Sadly, it turns out they were all waiting for a different train. Our train was an hour late, said the man checking tickets. He certainly didn't have any reason to lie to us, so we turned around and pushed our way back OUT of the crowd.

Forty minutes later or so, the scenario repeated itself. We waded through to the door, and this time it was our train. We waited outside for another twenty minutes until the train pulled up. We made our way onto the train and started looking for our seats. The train was pretty run down, so it was no easy task. The numbers were all rubbed off, and of course, most of the space on the overhead shelf was taken. But, a considerate man moved his bags, and we both found a place to stash our belongings. TC3 even got help clipping hers to the railing so it wouldn't fall on anyone's head.

Once we settled in, I noticed that everyone was looking at us. Not looking, but staring. Staring at the two obviously whitegirls on the kinda nasty train. TC3 had been trying to put the seat cover back over her seat to protect her from the un-defined icky underneath. I was trying not to stare back at those staring at us. I was tempted to toss a "Ni hao" in their direction, but I don't know how to say hello in Vietnamese (ignorant whitegirl that I am).

Once established, we began to bemoan our fate. Vietnam had seemed so different, so enlightened. There had been other Westerners, and the locals seemed to ignore us at worst, and engage with us kindly at best. And now we were just a couple of freaks, sitting up on a train instead of in a nice soft sleeper with all the other whiteys. We were female and traveling "alone". We were knitting and reading. We were on the grimy SE7 instead of the shiny new SE2. (To be fair, I thought we would be on the SE2, but the hotel got the tickets for us, and I have no idea what.)

We discussed our sorry state as one does in Asia: frankly and in English. These people did not look or act like people who had, or paid attention in, English class, so we assumed they didn't understand. I have no idea if they did or not, but no one said one word to us. I suspect we were right.

The fog of vague confusion bordering on panic continued as the train stopped and started at various stations. There was no map. There were no announcements (that we were aware of). But we endured.

And then there was the smoking.

We were sitting one row back from the center, so the four men in front of us were facing each other and playing cards. They were slapping down their cards, taking a break only to stare, and then they took a smoke break. They got up and went to the space between the cars. Some of the smoke wafted down the car, but that was only marginally their fault. I mean, smoking is still largely accepted in Asia. We were a bit to blame for being such prudes.

The men came back and continued their card game and occasional staring. And then one of them started smoking. Right there. In his seat. He didn't even bother to open a window. And there wasn't a window latch at my seat. So, I dealt. I sneezed. My eyes watered. I could feel the acrid smoke irritating my soft palate. The four prior days of near-constant aggravation from motor bikes didn't help my ability (or desire) to cope any, but my choices were rather limited.

And then the drink lady came by. Just like bus travel, I tend to dehydrate myself on trips, especially on trips in sketchy circumstances, and this definitely counted as one of those occasions. So I concentrated on my knitting, or more like, I let the known monotony of my knitting lull my brain into a Zen-like trance. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Pull on yarn. Knit. Knit. Knit. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I heard the man across the way talking to the Drink Lady, but it didn't register. And then TC3 turned to me and said, "They're Chinese. That's why."

I admit, I was confused. Oh, of course. He kept on saying "bin" because he wanted ice. "Bin" is one of the the words I know, as in "bin shui" or "binda pi jiou", "ice water" and "cold beer" respectively: all important in a country that finds drinking cold beverages wrong and bizarre.

But I still looked at her with some confusion. Why did I care what this man was drinking. It was mildly amusing that he was Chinese (and asking for ice), but how did this merit disturbing me from my "all-important" knitting? "That's why they were staring. They're Chinese," she explained to me.

Of course. Why didn't I see it before? Why didn't we recognize the language before? I guess by this point we are so used to Chinese customs, that while they are still frustrating and annoying, they are also invisible. Why? Because that's just how people do in Asia.

Unsaid was her implication was that the four previous days where we had lauded the Vietnamese for being accepting of Western tourists and pleasant to be around were not unfounded.

I leaned over to TC3. "Just wait until they start spitting."

Wouldn't you know. Not five minutes later, there it was: the deep-nosed hawk that comes from a place that only those who live with daily levels of pollution far beyond those in the West have. TC3 looked at me. I lost it. I let out that maniacal laugh that can cut through a crowd and have everyone looking to see who the weirdo is. I was too busy laughing to notice, but TC3 later said they all looked up at my laugh. We still don't know if they put two and two together.

Another 15 minuted after that, I witnessed Mr. Bin hawking his own loogie on the floor, but he was a bit more demure than the card players.

It was then the TC3 and I really started counting the minutes until we were off the train. Not that we weren't before, but it got a lot more desperate. It was to the point that even though I was pretty sure we hadn't been on the train long enough, when we slowed down, I set TC3 off to ask the staff if it was our stop (she had the aisle seat AND she's an extrovert). Sadly, no.

Every time the train slowed after that, we looked for the crew to tell us we should get off. When they didn't show, I knew it couldn't be a stop (because they are always there to help people getting on and off), but I didn't stop looking for them.

When I finally saw the word "Da Nang" out the window, I woke TC3 from her iPod-induced coma (she had given up and was really trying to disengage from the situation), and we spent the next 40 minutes staring expectantly out the window while trying to waft away Smoking Man's contributions to the atmosphere.

And then we arrived. We arrived at a gloriously disgusting, dirty train station after 10 and an hour and a bit late. There was rubbish on the ground and a profusion of chaos. Nothing looked so lovely.

We had requested a transfer from the station, but these things are always a source of consternation from me. I can't decide which is worse, asking for the hotel to pick me and worry that they won't show and I'll have to figure it out on my own, or just knowing from the start that I'll have to do it on my own. They both suck. Thanks Dad; the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

We walked outside, and there was the nice man with the piece of paper with TC3's name. We got into a comfortable, air-conditioned car, and rode in relative bliss to out hotel. When we got to the room, there were even flowers on the pillows.

Later, relating our trials to fellow travelers (TC3, the eternal extrovert, was constantly making friends with others), they asked the obvious question: why didn't you take the bus? The train cost us $17.80 apiece; the bus takes just as long and costs $5 (at most), even so close to Tet.

We had no good answer. Somehow saying that D took the train, so we took the train, doesn't seem honest. D took the train from Hanoi to Hue, and we didn't. So why take it to Da Nang?

I can only suggest that it didn't matter what we did; we have checked into the Hotel China. And as we all know, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.


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Location:Da Nang, Vietnam