Consider the source

Hanoi. A new place. The capital. We got in early this morning, maybe 1 am, and everything was closed. Even our hotel. Not much for nightlife? On a Saturday night/Sunday morning? Hmm. So we sacked out, planning a full day ahead.

Man, is Hanoi confusing. We're staying near a huge lake, which would normally be a great landmark for getting my bearings. But apparently not in Hanoi. Street names change from block to block. And there are more eleven-way intersections than I've ever seen in my life.

Hence, our taxi to the Temple of Literature. Whether a symbol of education or art, or homage to those ancestors who so revered study and teaching, the temple is highly trafficked by tourists and locals. Surrounded by gardens upon entry, visitors pass through four main gates. In the first section is a pool. I wonder if like in many of the temples in Cambodia, the pool was used for cleansing prior to prayer and/or study. Another section of the temple is devoted to doctors with rows of huge stone scrolls mounted on the backs of sculpted turtles. As we walked, children and their parents alike rubbed the heads of the turtles and dropped small donations at their feet. For luck, for honor, for health, many people I've met say the Vietnamese are a superstitious people. Whatever helps, I say. A building at the end of the temple showcases the history of the temple with shrines to its influential men.

Oh, almost forgot. The taxi fare was 15,000 Vietnamese Dong. Our driver tried to charge us 150,000...not so fast.

Next we visited the Hoa Lo Prison, known also as the Hanoi Hilton. Built by the French in the late 1800s and used to house Vietnamese prisoners, it was taken over by the Vietnamese in the 50s. As has been the case throughout much of my journey in Vietnam, I am familiar with names and places mostly because of Vietnam war history and movies. It's curious to think back in the history of humanity...is there a place, a plot of land on this earth where war has not occurred?

Walking through the exhibit, statues of Vietnamese prisoners are locked in foot shackles in a row. Winding further back into holding cells, getting to what must have been solitary confinement, peeping through the opening in the door, there sits another statue. I gasped. I wasn't expecting to see any representation of a body in the cell. And the detail of the sculptures? They may look goofy upon close examination, but at first glance, they're life-like.

Further into the prison still, is a section on the American soldiers who were kept there, most notably John McCain. Photos of American soldiers in the exhibit are shocking. In pretty much all of them, the men are smiling. There are photos of Christmas and the prisoners exchanging gifts. In others the men are exercising or cooking dinner. It seems that the Vietnamese are quite concerned with showing how well the prisoners were treated. I wrote down a quotation in the exhibit that I found striking, and hope there are no inaccuracies in my copying it. "American servicemen participating in the war of aggression by US administration in Viet Nam and caught in the act while perpetrating barbarous crimes against Vietnamese land and people should have been duly punished according to their criminal acts, but the government and people of Viet Nam, endowed with noble and humanitarian traditions, have given those captured American servicemen the opportunity to benefit a lenient and generous policy by affording them a normal life in the detention camps as practical conditions of Viet Nam permit it and conforming to the situation in which war was still on."

As has been the case here in Vietnam, I am learning a different perspective on the war. In history class, the Vietnam war was painted as the US defending south Viet Nam in a civil war. Here in Viet Nam, I haven't seen a single mention of it. The war seems to be viewed as an act of US aggression. Whether this is the propaganda the Vietnamese government is teaching its people, perhaps as is the US with its slant and version, or fact, who knows? Are there three sides to ever story: yours, theirs and the truth?

Dang, Danang!

The Danang airport is 30 minutes north of Hoi An. The airport itself? There were three people in line ahead of me at check-in. Red alarm clock font glows above each counter indicating flight and destination. At least it's not blinking. Simple security check, a scanner. Inside, there are three gates from which to board your aircraft. The waiting room is like a hospital, or maybe the Social Security Administration. Rows of 1970s beige round rump seats all attached to a metal plate at your feet. A souvenir shop, a restaurant and can beer bar, people playing cards.

We left Hoi An at 9pm, for our 10:55 pm flight. An hour and 10 minutes from Danang to Hanoi and it's 12:30 am. All for under 50USD start to finish, can beer excluded. Not bad, not bad.

Triple mint

"It's like Eskimo fairies blowing on my nether regions!" That's what Sean thinks of my triple mint soap. I think I've mentioned them before, Copa Soaps. I packed three bars, saving the triple mint best for last! I'm not fond of sharing soaps with people, really. Or tooth brushes. But on occasion, it does happen. Anyway, Sean was smitten. Go 'head, Copa.

I'm getting away from Hoi An easy. I only bought one jacket and one dress. We had planned to spend the day at China beach. Raining and gross, we took to the tailors. I guess no one will have these two new additions to my wardrobe in New York, right? And I'm flying out of the Danang airport tonight. Good bye, sleeper buses!

Just before we loaded into the taxi, Sean and Chen (one of our Israeli counterparts) jammed out. She plays guitar. Our going away song was "Leaving on a Jet Plane." I cried.

The uke

It's not easy this life. Well, I think it's much easier if you're lucky enough to have been born in a place like me. You can do things, travel the world, many things are just givens. But, I guess we all struggle in our own ways. Still, it must suck to see groups of tourists cruising your hometown if you can hardly leave it. Or do you see it, realize it's different, and prefer what you already have?

This afternoon, Sean and I met up with Andreas, a German from the Nha Trang boat ride. We sat in an open-air restaurant drinking beer, Sean playing his ukulele. He picked it up in Saigon. It's the best. Music. I love it. And miss it. At the restaurant, a toddler of a woman we came to know as Huong snuck out from the back and took over the ukulele. Giddy, he danced and played with Sean. And he ate a whole box of cookies. Good fun.

An instrument turns individuals into groups. A person with a guitar joining, voices, maybe someone has a drum or drumsticks or something. Walking down a street with an instrument, it's an instant hoot!

Hoi Anne!

Back on the night sleeper bus headed to Hoi An, the guidebook I have states that the stretch from Nha Trang to Hoi An is the fifth circle of hell. Great. One of the bus attendants strung a hammock up in the stairwell at the foot of my bed. At his insistence, any time I wanted to exit the bus, I had to climb over someone else in his or her bed. "Pardon me, bud, but you're working. Wake up. Move. Move. Please. Thank you." And piss off. Argh.

My blanket smelled soiled. And my pillow left my face feeling...waxy. Oh, the joys of traveling. The upside: I met a lovely Israeli trio and yet another bad-ass New Yorker! Funny how less than desirable circumstances can bring people together. We made it to Hoi An and scoped out one hotel before settling in at Hoang Trinh Hotel. The ladies of the house greeted us with cloths to wipe our faces (yes, still waxy) and glasses of cool water, even before the discussion of room and board began. Such a simple gesture, but so appreciated. It's so nice to be treated like a person from time to time, not just a disgusting, dare I say, backpacker. If you're in Hoi An, please stay at this place. A double is $12 a night with a full tub, t.v., air conditioning, internet, and the hotel even serves food. The upstairs rooms have balconies overlooking a Chinese temple. But really, the staff is what makes the stay worth it. They're just so nice.

Out and about, Sean (New Yorker by birth now living in Hawaii) and I cruised the town and the river. Hoi An is small and quaint. A city of wooden shophouses, streets and a Japanese bridge, and named a UNESCO world heritage site, it has some of Viet Nam's oldest remaining structures and streets. It's small and great for walking. And tailors. Hoi An is the spot to have clothes made. Mannequins of all colors and cuts, you can't imagine trying on winter coats, dripping with sweat. But it happens! All fit and cut for you, your measurements. This place is magic.

P.S. Did you see the classic pink Vespa??

Bites

To the islands around Nha Trang today, I hopped on a boat with 30 or so others. A short bus ride from town out to the marina, a cable car hangs above the water, spotted itself with a bit of garbage.

We snorkeled and swam for the first hour. Well, the locals drank beer, the tourists swam. In the water, I kept feeling small things biting me. Turned out to be mini jellies. Yikes! I'm not too big on lurking sea creatures. We lunched on the roof of the boat, squid, shrimp, spring rolls, spicy tofu. And after lunch came the entertainment. Our crew Viet Nam's number one boy band, our cruise director did a little karaoke in a coconuts bra. Hmm...

After the show came the floating bar and happy hour. Side note: it's always happy hour in Viet Nam. A life buoy chucked into the water, our bartender balanced himself and bunches of bottles of mulberry wine, served with a touch of pineapple. Too sweet for me. I met a couple from Sydney and a German, good people. The rule for the floating bar is that everyone drinking has to keep a foot attached to the life buoy, as much for silliness and to secure that none float off or drown. Our group turned into a chain of bobbers, all linked one to one. And I at the helm am amazed how much drag a baker's dozen of people can cause.

The clouds rolled in at our last island and we sat on the top of the boat in the rain.
Back in town the Aussies and I went to dinner at Mecca Restaurant. In usual form, I asked our host and server what I should eat. Canh Chua Ca is what showed up, delicious sour fish soup. When in Nha Trang, ORDER THIS! Carla and Chops helped me polish off the soup, there was so much of it.

Nha Trang

I got off the night bus this morning about 6 am to a swarm of motos and hotel hawkers. Walking has always suited me, even with a 30 pound bag on my back. I still haven't managed to switch successfully to metrics. Nha Trang is lovely. Beach? Hell, yes! I found accommodation pretty quickly and headed for a dip. My room is $14 with a balcony overlooking the street, a view of the ocean from one block away. There's a rooftop terrace will great views of the beach and town, too. While what I'm paying is probably expensive compared to what you pay traveling with others, I have to pinch myself from time to time, considering NYC prices.

To the Four Seasons cafe beach front in Nha Trang, I'm lunching on spring rolls and, yes, a cool beverage. Although, I imagine Viet Nam only has two seasons, hot and hot and wet. Ahh, what do I know? Yesterday, a woman shoved me out of her photo of Ho Chi Minh at the Parliament building in Saigon. I'm pretty sure she was Chinese. Personal and physical space here aren't a concern. Whatsoever. In Cambodia, people who bumped into you would turn to apologize but not so much here. Trampled, you may be, shoved, bumped, run over. Check yourself, before you wreck yourself.

Oh me, oh my...have I failed to mention Vietnamese coffee? Lord have mercy, it is the greatest thing on this earth...at least lately. Potent? Um, yeah. And they serve it with condensed milk. And over ice. Papa Joe Peek put it best. It is indeed "the elixir of the gods!" I'm up to two a day. One in the morning, and then the afternoon coffee. It's a culture here. In fact, I think it's Southeast Asian. Afternoon coffee. Fine, some of us may do it in New York. Or the US. But everyone does it here. Across countries. Across peoples. And condensed milk?! Delicious in your coffee. I have yet to explore its fat content, et cetera, and for now prefer to stay in the rich, bitter, cocoa-colored darkness. What we don't know, can't hurt us...cliche for a reason that I'm hoping applies to me!

Night moves

Viet Nam is known for having a good postal system...we shall see. So today I mailed out a whopper package for 1,000,000 some odd Dong. Yep, the money is called Dong. Quite efficient, a clerk behind the counter even packed the box for me. I haven't been buying tons of stuff, but it's a relief to unload as much as you can to lighten your load.

Here's what I've gotten myself into now. An eleven hour sleeper bus ride to Nah Trang. The bus has bunk beds, seven beds per row, three rows, two aisles running between them, each bed maybe six feet long and a foot and a half across. It's a sight. There's a shelf for your shoes, which the driver made me remove before entering the bus. Thank god I wore socks. It cost $23 for an open ticket of two overnight bus trips, Saigon to Nha Trang, then Nha Trang to Hoi An. It works out to about a dollar an hour, much like in Ecuador.

The all-night experience involves fifteen minute intervals of almost sleep strung together with speed bumps taken at such a pace that you're almost thrown from your bunk. That, in combination with repetitive blasting of the horn almost every five seconds spells a sleepless night. I have moved seventeen times, completed five full rotations. Were I the hands of time, I'd have circled the face of the clock following in synch minute by minute. We stop every hour or two as well for a break. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss the M14.

Seeing Saigon

I checked out of Yellow House Hotel first thing and into Kim Hotel just down an alley. Clean, a huge bed and balcony, now we're talking! A family run spot, they are all so welcoming. Oh, and there's a mini-bath tub, too!

I am a tourist today. First to Independence Palace, I toured what was set to be the fortress of Diem, who our guide referred to as the US puppet leader of South Viet Nam. Ok. The palace was build in 1868 originally by the French, refurbished by Diem, but finished only after his death. Built as the hub for receiving international and domestic guests, as well as housing the leader and his family, the palace has been left decorated as it was in the 60s. Conference rooms, a convention hall, a full bomb shell war room basement, a casino room, even an entertainment room with a view of the house chopper, the palace is a 1960s fortress. The dining room in the living quarters reminds me of my grandmother's house, now my uncle's place, totally renewed and refreshed. Leaning against the glass of the dining room I am transported back to Christmas dinners and pot roast. Fancy glasses and heavy silverware, soft light and gauzy curtains glowing in the light of dusk.

Next to the War Remnants Museum. First things first, you are greeted by US tanks and jets just inside the entry past the ticket counter. And once inside the exhibit, the first words you see are from the Declaration of Independence, also translated into Vietnamese. The stage is set, the ironies and atrocities soon to be revealed. Scary to say, I am thankful I haven't eaten yet today. My lunch would've come up. Walking through this museum, I alternate between shock and chills. It's a physical reaction to the visual displays. Disgust, horror cannot even come close. I am proud of my country and proud to be from my country. Looking at these images, war-torn bodies, you see what war means. Whether in the name of democracy, liberty, religion, gasoline, however complex, staring at the faces of the aftermath of war, it seems so unnecessary. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be a soldier fighting on foreign soil or to be a civilian living through a war waged in your own country. It occurred to me. What would happen if they were no armies? What would this world be like without any defense forces? Utter chaos? Or more harmonious?

The exhibit chronicling the devastation the war exacted on future generations was also gutting. Agent Orange and napalm not only affected those involved in the war at the time, but also generations to come. Birth defects in the children of civilians and soldiers alike, malformations, disease, reproductive malfunctions, limbs missing, it's hard to look.

Upstairs, there is also an exhibit about the journalists who covered the war, many of whom are still missing. Several countries sent troops into Viet Nam and several others sent journalists. Civilian, military and professional casualties, this exhibit is comprehensive and stark. I have never worn camouflage in my life and, from this day forward, hope I never have to.

See, taste, sell

First impressions of Viet Nam, the people seem to have a better lot than those in Cambodia. Fisherman sleeping on their boats just the same, only the boats just over the border seem to be three times the size. And houses are made of cement or stucco. Not bamboo, wood and tin. We just passed a church, too. Bright pink stucco, I'm a bit surprised to see a cross on its steeple.

Along a small river, everyone is relaxing in beach chairs. And every house has an antenna on the roof. It reminds me of passing from Ecuador into Colombia, Cambodia to Viet Nam. And again I feel free. A new country, a new adventure.

In Saigon, I've met an Aussie couple at Go2 bar just up from my hotel. As luck would have it, it's happy hour. The first taste of beer in a new country, somehow there's nothing sweeter. I am sitting outside and in the past few minutes, ten people have cruised by offering everything under the sun. Wallets, books, cigarettes, even marijuana. Interesting.

Back at the hotel (Yellow House Hotel--P.S. don't stay there! Unless you like rats the size of cats...), I met two New Yorkers. Funny how you have to travel half way around the world to meet people from the city! Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx, we're having a tri-borough ball, cursing NYC style.

Viet Nam bound

It's 8:19 am Saturday morning and I'm on the bus headed to Viet Nam. Wish me luck! In line for the ferry to cross the Mekong River, kids and salesfolk line the street offering sunglasses, lotus fruit and empty hands. A child weaves through the buses and trucks leading a blind man. They all bang on the luggage doors of the bus to get your attention. If you open the window, it's a swarm of hands and offerings. Once on the ferry, full of trucks and buses, one enterprising (or hungry, not sure which) kid has climbed up to the second floor of the ferry. Bird's eye view, he's scoping out who has yet to eat the snacks the bus company provides passengers. He knocks on every window and points to his mouth, a plea for food. With the first package passed to him through an open window, however, he pockets a croissant and drops the remaining snacks to the floor. Onto the second box, he passes it to a buddy just down the stairs. And with the third, he finally opens and eats a croissant. I can't tell if he's hungry, sharing food with family or hording stuff to sell.

Horns function as signals here, used more than turn signals themselves. Before passing, everyone honks a time or seven. Motos, trucks, pedestrians, all are honked at, seemingly as a form of etiquette.

If headed from Phnom Penh to Saigon, by all means take the Mekong Express bus. For $12 and a 7 am departure, the borders and visa process is a breeze. On the bus, the attendant takes your passports just after offering you a snack and water. You cross the Cambodian border about 11 am, your passport stamped and exit photo taken. The attendant gathers the passports again along with your entry card into Viet Nam. Then still on the bus almost at the Viet Nam border, a doctor entered the bus to take our temperatures. Granted, only foreigners are subjected to the procedure. I guess H1N1 has people on heightened security. Check. None showing fever, although oddly enough the local kid in the row behind me has puked three times so far. Gather your baggage and on to Vietnamese customs. Again, the attendant handles the process, all of us waiting for our names to be called. Check, check. Next running your bag through the scanner, and a final check of your passport, and welcome to Viet Nam! The border done in 40 minutes, and you're back on the bus. Little hassle, no trouble. Nice.

Tuol Sleng Prison Museum

While the Killing Fields yesterday were difficult to see, experience, understand, today we visited the prison where people (the elite, intellectuals, rich, city-folk) were detained and tortured for up to a week before taken to the Killing Fields for execution. Tung Sleng Prison, better known as S 21, was once a primary school transformed by the Khmer Rogue into a prison.

When trying to imagine even relive such hideous acts of human nature, it is much more tangible, human and devastating an experience having another person share his or her own story with you while you attempt to take it all in. Today, our guide was in her mid 40s. She had personally been held in a children's camp outside of the city during the Khmer Rouge, from age 10 to 13. From what she said, people were happy with Pol Pot's ideas at first, that the city and countryside would again be united, the rich and poor given equal opportunity and options. But in reality, city life and those in it were decimated. Taken out of the city, separated from her entire family, uncertain where they were, if even alive, hearing her story put a face, an individual experience to the horror. Prisoners were fed two spoonfuls of porridge three times daily, tortured twice a day. Within a week's time, none were able to stand. All in all, it didn't much matter, from what she said. The prisoners were sent to the Killing Fields to be exectued shortly thereafter, left in a mass grave. The cells were hardly three feet wide, many of which still have spots and smears of blood in them.

As you walk through the prison, you are met with the faces of those massacred. Soldiers were required to photgraph every person admitted upon arrival, as much for prisoner identification as for proof to Pol Pot that the soldiers were doing their jobs of bringing people in. A number assigned to each person daily, sometimes over 700 people were admitted in a day. The photographs of the prisoners fill the rooms that were once their torture chambers. Men, women, children. In some of the photos the people are smiling. They had no idea for what they are headed. It's horrible.

After the Vietnamese invaded and liberated the country, seven of those who had been held in the prison survived. A sculptor, two painters, one translator, two mechanics and an eletrical engineer, only a very few whose particular knowledge or skills had proved beneficial to the Khmer Rouge had been spared. Our guide shared with us her feelings upon being set free. She said all she could do was put her hands together in front of her chest in the sign of prayer, thinking, 'Please, let me find my mother...please, let her be alive.' Our guide's father was killed, as well as two brothers and a sister. She lives with her mother to this day. The prison requests that you give a donation to your guide, depending on your experience and what you think reasonable. Our guide put the money we gave her in the donation box at the ticket entrance. I wish she'd taken it herself but hope that whatever ends up in that box truly does go to help a country of survivors.

The Killing Fields

A short ride out of Phnom Penh is Choueng Ek, one of 300 of Cambodia's killing fields. Previously a Chinese cemetery, the Khmer Rouge turned the grounds into mass graves from 1975 through 1978. This location in particular was discovered in 1980 by the smell alone. Khmer soldiers had used DDT to hide the odor and prevent decomposition of bodies.

If I understand correctly, Phnom Penh evacuated, Pol Pot, the leader of the Khmer Rouge, ordered the extermination of a majority of people living in cities: the elite, the rich and the intellectuals. The idea being that all Cambodians should go back to living on the land, the city the root of evil and corruption. Foreign journalists as well were executed so that no information of what was happening would get out of Cambodia. As it was, Cambodians themselves had no idea what was happening, where they were being taken or why.

At the site, you first encounter a memorial stupa filled with skulls of many of the murdered. On the walking tour is a Boddhi tree against which soldiers are said to have swung babies by their legs to their deaths. Bodies have been exhumed from 86 of the mass graves, 43 still reamining closed. The graves three to four meters deep held 70 people. Larger ones, as many as 450 bodies.

Those executed were beaten to death with bamboo, so that no bullets would be wasted. They used bamboo as well so that no shots were heard. Music is said to have been played at the execution to mask screams. Many of the soldiers involved in the executions are reported to have felt justified. The rich and powerful had done nothing to help the poor in the country, so why would the soldiers who now had the power be merciful? The killings were in some form a revenge. As well, those who dissented would be executed themselves.

In 1978, the soldiers in the east and west split, the east wanting an end to the killing. Many fled to Vietnam for help, prompting an invasion in 1979. In total, two million died throughout the country in those five years, whether from exectuion, overwork or starvation. Criminal trials and investigations are still ongoing as of this year, the head judge claiming corruption and interference even as of this month. Our guide for the tour is probably my age. His father, a part of the elite, worked in the government in Phnom Penh and escaped with family to the countryside. So recent, any person you meet on the street has a story, the impact of which is at times hard to hear. Today we have walked hallowed ground.

Kids

The Mekong Express Bus. A contradiction in terms for us today. Neither were we on the Mekong, nor was it express. Nonetheless, we've made it to Phnom Penh. Off the bus, we were assaulted by tuktuk drivers and the price war began. "Miss, Madam, Sir! One dollar!" Everyone here wants to make some cash. And every buck helps. Cambodia's money is the rial, but the preference is the dollar. Outside of all the temples in Siem Reap, children offer you books and bracelets, tee shirts, anything for a dollar. Here in Phnom Penh, adults are hoping to pry you of your dollars. Somehow that's much better.

Another uncomfortable situation here is the sex trade. While in Thailand, the industry is made up of prostitutes and ladyboys, here in Cambodia there is a huge campaign against children in the sex industry. It's horrifying. One of the posters I saw today lists a number to call to report suspected activity. The number started with area code 027. And above each of the numbers listed was a picture representing a kid at the age of the corresponding number. Zero, a baby. Two, a toddler. Seven, a school girl with braids. It hurts my heart. And it scares me that there would actually have to be an ad put up against it. It's an awakening.

Sapped

Cruising the Psale market, you can purchase a number of items this morning. Crickets by the can-full, tiny clams with or without chilis, dried starfish, potato pancakes, breaded and fried bananas. Our guide admitted that when he drinks, he snacks on crickets. Speaking of our guide, if you ever need a guide in Siem Reap, contact Set Kim. I have his number. He's wonderful and has loads of information. Oh, and sugar cane juice! A popular drink, the cane is loaded into the juicer just a carrot, the juice caught in a small plastic bag, wrapped up with a straw. And off you go!

We visited the hospital temple after the market. Probably the most fascinating temple for me, back in the day, you had to travel to the temple via boat. A man-made lake surrounded the hospital, a physical barrier to separate the ill from those still healthy. Inside the temple were four pools and five brahmans. First you would consult the brahman on which pool you would had to visit. And after a dip, cleansed, you'd then enter the shrine where holy water would be poured on your head to heal you. The four pools represent the four elements in life: water, earth, fire and air. The shrines smell like the room underneath the back porch in our house on Hilo Court. Dark, dank, dusty. Mud and water. Moss and mildew. The air thick with minerals.

And on to the temple of the mother. The trees are overtaking the temples. It's beautiful. Spung trees grow on top of the temples, over them, through them. Nature is all pơwerful.

The last stop of the day, we took a boat ride to Tonle Sap lake. A floating village, Vietnamese and Cambodians live in boathouses on the water. They move more than ten times a year. As heavy rains and dangerous weather roll in, they float to a nearby mountain. The water is green with algae, full of life. The villagers use the lake water for everything. Showering, washing, you can imagine. While that may take some getting used to, along with living in a house so small you cannot stand up, the view is pretty incredible. The sky and sea meet in the horizon. Interestingly enough, we got stuck on the way back to the car. Fifteen boats all trying to pas through about three feet of water? Not going to happen. The one in the middle weighted down by lumber, all the others had to go around through the mud. Some captains are better than others, let's just say. Oh, and I cut my heal also. And got drenched in water. Yes, the same water that everyone dóes everything in. This cut's got infection written all over it.

Dedication

Cambodia is amazing. The history. The culture. I'm so happy to be here. It's not modern. People aren't running around on their iPhones worried about getting here, getting there. There's no, "I just couldn't be bothered..." The people here are willing to share of themselves, of their culture. Pride, even embarrassment.

We started the day with Bantay Srei, the citadel of the beautiful girl. Many of the temples were built in honor of a god and also dedicated to a person. Four kids were just inside one of the galleries playing with balloons, including, yes, one little, beautiful girl. They'd blow up the balloon, stick it in your face and let the air out, giggling all the while.

The walls built of different types of sandstone, with pinks and yellows, this is the most colorful of the temples. The stones are a direct reflection of the color of the earth from that time. The quality of the carvings and sculpture is shocking. Hands from 967 etched designs, symbols, lessons into these stones. And they are still here. What fragile lives we live, and yet the efforts of so many in special places of the world still stand. It's a testament to human will in homage to god.

Our second stop for the day was the Cambodia Landmine Museum. Aki Ra, a former Khmer soldier, who is spending his time out of the army undoing the work done while in it, has established the museum and a relief fund to aid the victims of landmines. According to information at the exhibit, thirteen countries in the world are still (or haven't prohibited) producing landmines: Russia, China, India, Nepal, North Korea, South Korea, Pakistan, Singapore, Vietnam, Iran, Cuba, USA and Burma. It costs $1 to build a mine and about $1,00 to find and destroy it. Aki Ra and his co-workers have been able to locate and diffuse up to 36 mines in an hour. Still, landmines have an activity life of 150 years, potential to affect people and their families for years to come. The CLMRF also houses a dozen or so children who've been exposed to landmines. Written consent is required to photograph any of the kids. As I was walking through the exhibit, a fifteen year-old kid strolled by, carrying a cell phone in his only hand.

Angkor

Siem Reap's main attraction is Angkor Wat. Temples upon temples pepper the city, built in the 10th to 12th centuries in Cambodia. Talk about amazing. A three-day pass for $40 and you, too, can visit as many of the 2,000+ temples possible.

The beginning of our Angkor Wat extravaganza started this morning with Angkor Thom. What once was the capital city of the Khmer empire, it was erected in the 12th century by King Jayavarman VII. Five main gates of entry and exit, we entered through the southern gate. Symbols of good and evil, the balance in nature, line the entrance. To the left, gods, the right demons, both supporting Naga, the snake deity. Nine square kilometers, five years, a million people and 4,000 elephants, and poof! You've got a city complete with temples, jails, dancing halls, libraries and then some. To light the city in the evenings, workers cut small holes in the trunks of gum trees and lit them on fire. For two hours the flames would burn in the trees lighting the paths. As you walk, you can still see this practice being used.

Kim, our guide, told us a lot about the Khmer kingdom. King Jayavarman VII, who ruled from the late 1100s to the early 1200s, erected many of the temples still standing in Cambodia today. A Buddhist himself, but respectful of the Hindu religion, many of the temples built under his rule honor both religions. His successor a Hindu and nowhere near as tolerant of Buddhism as VII had been of Hinduism, Jayavarman VIII stripped Buddhist temples of sculptures, carvings, anything reminiscent of Buddha. It's a shame. In many of the temples, ornate carvings and sculptures that have somehow lasted all this time center around a figure of the Buddha that has been stripped blank. In the Bayon temple, towers still stand in honor of Buddhism, but were augmented after Jayavarman VII's death to reflect Hindu influences.

On to Angkor Wat in the afternoon, I wasn't sure I was ready. There's something so magical about walking in the footsteps of those who lived a thousand years ago. And being in a wonder of the world? It's a big deal.

The only temple that faces the west, Angkor Wat was built during the rule of Suryavarman II, 30 years prior to Jayavarman VII. Dedicated to Vishnu, it is the only temple to face westward. Across the moat, along the esplanade entrance lie two pools covered in lily pads. Boys swam in one in the heat of the afternoon. Inside, carvings of ancient Hindu stories and morals cover the walls. The churning of the sea of milk, battles of monkeys and demons, Apsara dancers, it's exquisite. Struck with awe and disbelief, it's amazing to think that stones brought from mountains hundreds of kilometers away on the back of elephants, were pieced together to make this structure almost a thousand years ago. And it still stands. One must also give a 'merci' to the French and their efforts in restoration. Incredible.

We closed out the afternoon hiking a bit to watch the sunset from Phnom Bakheng. Built in the 9th century with 109 towers, there are six steep and narrow staircases to maneuver before reaching the top. Clouds rolled in on us and we made the descent just before the storm.

Smile and look pretty

Cambodia, anyone? We landed in Siem Reap today. Into the airport, you join a line for entry visa processing. Handing over your application, photos and money, the gentlemen behind the counter check the info, place your money in a briefcase and slide you down to the end of the counter.

I opted to write in a journal for a few minutes, leaning on the counter. Not wise. One of the officials approached me, leaned over to look at what I was writing and then called out something to another official. Oh, crap. Logging your observations of the visa procedure and processing? Wait until you've actually been granted the visa and aren't under the watch and scrutiny of officials. Sometimes, I'm just an idiot. Have I mentioned that lately? I wrote for ten more seconds, then packed up my notebook and pen. I make this joke from time to time that all my mother told me growing up was, "Just smile and look pretty." That anything in life will swing in your favor if you follow that saying. Not sure it works in Cambodia. I may be headed back to Singapore yet again, and sooner than I had expected.

Vietnamese Visa

To leave where you're from is to know the beauty of this earth. I have seen five continents in 32 years, and am hoping for all seven by 34. The majors still elude me: China, Russia and India untouched. But there is hope.

I dropped off my passport today at the Vietnamese Embassy. A tourist visa must be arranged prior to entry and takes a business week, or two days on rush and $70. The application filled out twice and two passport photos supplied, I hope it works! Winding down my last month traveling, I am shooting to visit three more countries. Wish me luck!

Out and back

Cruising high above the outback, it's fitting that roads writhe and wriggle through the red dirt like snakes. Clouds are the only shade offered in puffs and spots. Sometimes the roads or perhaps dried riverbeds crisscross one another. It looks like a plate of spaghetti, sauceless.

I made it out of Sydney. The customs official could tell my anticipation and played with me more than I'd wished. He prattled on about places I should have visited, and more places, and more places. "God's own country and you only spent a week?" he asked. "I'm no God," I replied and smiled. "But more saint than sinner." Phew. He believed me. Stamp's on! I do look forward to returning to Australia. There's so much more to see. But for now, that'll have to do.

Back in Singapore, at Changi, you are greeted with thermal monitors, scanning all passengers for heightened body temperature. Epidemics having devastated countries in this part of the world, they take serious security measure to prevent further issues. H1N1 has impacted life here, too, despite no cases having been found here yet.

Thanks

It's a rainy Sunday. And Mother's Day. It's strange and admittedly a bit heart-wrenching to be walking around Manly alone watching families gather. Everyone is all dressed up, drinking and laughing. It makes me miss my own clan.

For dinner on Sundays, Alex and his cousin have a ritual of Mexican. Worlds away, why not? Let's see how the Aussies do Mexican. And in the joint, turns out there isn't a single Australian working. Even funnier, relays the Italian at the register, this is the only day that no one of Spanish origin is working either. Tacos at the hands of a Romanian turned out just fine. In the spirit of my girl Keri, throw anything in a corn tortilla, and I'll love it!

My last night in Manly, Alex and I cruised to the Shore Bar again. This time the fellas were from Calgary and loved my hair. One had on a Guns 'n Roses tee shirt. First a skeeze-ball, now a Canadian? Knock 'em dead, Anne. We left and wound down the night with a few more beers. Nothing major, a chill goodbye to the beach.

I have to say a quick thanks to Alex. He made my trip to Manly educational, varied and exciting. I saw a side of Manly I never would have without his openness to show the random American girl around. Traveling normally spurs a desire to share, but I was surprised to meet someone in his every day life with that same capacity. The first day of the tour, the only word I said to him was thanks. And I said it a bunch. And rightfully so, it should live on as the last to him to. "Thanks!"

And happy mom's day, Mom! Love you.

Thirties

This morning, I strolled along a boardwalk from Mark's to the Manly Wharf. They put on a market every Saturday, I'm guessing. I gave Alex, my impromptu personal Manly guide, a ring and we headed out for the day on another tour of northern beaches. He showed me his former apartment in Dee Why, Palm Beach--apparently, the rich people beach, among many other neighborhoods and beaches. He brought his dog along for the ride, too, which was fun. The pup's small but named Zeus. This kid is Greek (technically, half-Greek, sorry, Alex), so go figure.

Now here's where the real fun begins. Apparently, Americans are, well, dumb. Oh, and clueless. That's Alex's impression, at any rate, of people from the US of A. Who knew? We are rumored to believe that kangaroos and koalas live in people's backyards here. Hmm. I'd never even considered that. And then there's the accent thing. I've gotten mocked and laughed at a bit, our slang and vernacular so different from Australian. All in good fun. At certain moments, though, I hope I changed the guy's opinion. The words I use and the way I speak is odd, as it is, I fear for even my closest of friends in the States. For the first time, I wished I'd had my own personal dictionary. Anne-to-English, English-to-Anne.

We talked about our lives, too, and the cities we live in. City culture seems to hinge on the notion that everything is more important. Work, deadlines, appointments, it's all more important than life. Than living. Sitting at the lookout point of a national park and wildlife reserve with Alex and Zeus, staring into the distance of the sea, the water and sky hardly seem separate. Nothing is separate, nothing different from any other thing. Alex says, "As long you can take at least 30 minutes out of your day to enjoy life and appreciate, you'll be fine." Funny. That's exactly what I'm doing. I just have to be sure to take it with me wherever in this life I find myself.

To the Shore Club back on the main drag for the evening, we were Anne, Alex and Anna. Dancing into the evening, we had fun. Anna attracted a guy 10 years her junior. The joys of being in your 30s! I fended off the affections of a scary, much older version. "You're so foxy," in his best Australian accent, was the lead-in line. How could I not laugh? Here's to me, meeting totally random strangers who turn out to be lovely and wonderful people.

And here's to Laurent! She's thirty-something today. Happy birthday, girl!

Touring

To the Argyle on Sydney Harbour last night for drinks, I met up with Ellen and Mark, two fellow travelers with whom I'd spent time touring South America. Both are headed out again themselves, Mark to France, Ellen back to South America. And Mark offered to let me crash at his place in Manly.

I walked into the bar with my pack and flip-flops. Not cool. The doorman, however, let me into a side room for a bag drop-off and quick change. Excellent. Fashion and presentation are important here. Thankfully, I did bring one dress. Oh, and a pair of heels.

After a few rounds, we headed to Manly. There we went for drinks, and more drinks. And this morning, rather afternoon, I woke up curled up on the floor with a cat. At the house of one of Mark's friends. It's not as bad as it sounds. Really.

Enter Alex. He slept on the sofa a couple of feet away from me and offered me a ride back into town. Score. That ride turned into brunch and beers. And then a tour. We explored the northern beaches, up into the cliffs looking out onto the water. I didn't take any pictures. Sometimes, although rarely, I prefer the moment to live only in my mind. Some memories, experiences I think you just prefer to keep to yourself.

My whole first day spent seeing the beaches of Sydney, Alex shared his country with me. He even let me drive! Now, I have wrecked my share of cars, driving like a loon. But when the gear shift and steering column are on the wrong side of the car? I turned into a grandma. And he, a tough guy, let me know.

We spent the evening at a bar on the main strip overlooking the ocean. One of Alex's buddies lives upstairs, so several people relaxed and enjoyed up there. Mesmerized. I watched the water and the night. I am thankful. A chance meeting with a kind stranger and I've seen a lot.

Manly, baby

Manly. Yes, I'm in Manly, Australia.

Let's just hope it lives up to its name! Tee, hee!

Sydney Harbour and Harbour Bridge

It's like a dream. I can't believe I'm here. Sydney Harbour. The Opera House. Who would have ever thought I'd be staring at it? Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. And the weather, gorgeous, pales in comparison. I booked a 4:15 Harbour Bridge Climb today. The sun sets about 5 pm, so I'm excited to see the cityscape at dusk and into the night. Cat, my customs official, recommended I hike the bridge. She did let me in the country, so here I am.

Quick word to the wise: if you're going to climb the bridge, and are on vacation like me, don't have more than one beer at lunch before doing so. I just joined my group and there's apparently a breathalyzer test. Right. If you blow more the 0.05%, no climbing for you.

The bridge climb preparation is quite an affair. Having signed a health and insurance wavier and passed the breath test (phew!), you are zipped up into a gray jumpsuit, your belongings left in a locker. No cameras, no spare change, no wallet, the climb has strict regulations, and understandably so. From the highest point, anything dropped onto traffic passing below could cause serious damage.

In the next section, you are equipped with a belt and rolling ball belay, a headlamp, fleece, radio and headset. With a trial run climbing metal ladders, familiarizing everyone with the belay, and a bit of instruction from our guide Chris, off we went.

A group of seven, we were two Aussies, six English and one American. Scratch that. Two Americans, including our guide. I have to admit, I was excited at the prospect of listening to the Aussie accent during our three+ hour climb. But, as it turned out, Chris was from the States. "Which state?" you ask? Georgia. Macon, GA. Small. World.

Somehow in life, I have no fear of heights. I enjoy climbing, love being up in the air. But of the women, I was in the minority. Lucy, the girl behind me, had asthma and a serious fear of heights. The climb begins just underneath the bridge and roadway along a metal grid see-through catwalk. Then you ascend maybe ten vertical ladders, cars whizzing by you on the roadway. Pretty cool.

Up at the top, to the Aussie flags blowing in the breeze, we watched the sun say goodbye and listened to Chris' stories about the city. Given that you cannot take a camera up, your guide takes all photos of you on top of the bridge. Then you have to buy them at the store once back at the bottom, my photos pending. The view is amazing. And the climb fun, though nothing strenuous. But to see the city behind you, the harbour under your feet, it's worth it.

Observations

Walking through Central Station, the Hare Krishnas and Jehovah's Witnesses are having a turf war! It's like West Side Story, only their weapons are hand cymbals and Awake! magazine.

So Woolworths is a huge chain here, which is surprising. The company in the US and the one here apparently unrelated, I'm shocked a company would choose this name to open a store, launch a brand. But when talking to people about it here, they know nothing about the segregation or sit-ins and boycotts in the 60s in the States. The sign out front even reads welcome. I guess we all have our own history. And I am half a world away, in a different hemisphere, among new generations.

And there's Krispy Kreme here. All of sudden, I'm 13 in the back of someone's dad's van cruising down Ponce to the main store in Atlanta.

And can we talk about another observation Australian? A friend of mine Paul, he's from Melbourne. And he's a bit obsessed with coffee. And now? I get it, Paul. Even at the junkiest spot in the CBD, the coffee annihilates any New York breakfast cart's. It is an art form. And my vow from back in the Cameron Highlands to drink tea instead of coffee? I take it all back. I bow down to the Aussie coffee gods. And will make many offerings.

Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. They drive these cars here, like an updated El Camino. Or some sort of scary blend of a sedan and pick-up. I am not a fan. But I fear I am all alone in that. They're apparently called Utes (yoots), as in utility vehicles. Oh, they make me giggle!

CBA

I met an old friend today for lunch. It's not so much that either of us is old, thank you very much, but that I've known her now almost half my life. We shared details of our lives over bowls of soup.

Originally, we met the first day of university, a long time ago now. The two years we were both there happened to be some of the most personally embarrassing, disappointing and trying moments of my life even still. It has always been difficult for me, feeling somewhat trapped by those memories, as though to her I've never been anyone different or beyond who she knew then.

A different person I am in many ways, still the same in some, I wonder if she feels the same. We grow. We change. We are at best vague reflections of those memories passed. And all in all, it's more comforting to know a person for a long time, I think, than to strike a match and watch your friendship burn out. To see the changes we all go through, input or none. To share.

And when I look back on it, she taught me how to share. At Runk Dining Hall (the horror!), she always used to nibble off my plate. To the point where I'd get more of things in order to accommodate. Looking back, we should have shared a meal today, in honor of those days.

Whatever happens, I'll be happy to know her, however long it may be. It's funny to think that someday we may be staring at each other across a table, grayed and withered. Til then, and even then, nothing but the best, girl!

Customary?

Ever heard of the Australian Inquisition? Neither had I. Until this morning. Boy did I get stopped at customs and searched. For over an hour. I'd asked the quarantine people (idiot!) about a stupid bag of pistachio nuts the bartender gave me last night. For free--ain't nothing in life for free. And they snagged my immigration card and mucked it all up. Awesome. Guess I'm the lucky one from this flight to get inspected. Me and my mouth.

Customs unpacked every single thing, from my purse, from my luggage. And then twenty minutes later, I got swabbed. Well, my stuff did, not so much me. And upon return, I was pleased to learn that my bag tested positive for narcotics. Oh really?!? Who knew my folks had using my bag to smuggle narcotics in and out of Singapore? Where the punishment for drug smuggling is, yes, execution.

Second swab of a different area of my bag, the bag itself carted off to be x-rayed, then came the rapid-fire. "Who are you staying with in Sydney? What are you planning to do in Sydney? Why'd you book your visa only three days prior? Where have you been traveling? Alone or with friends? What do your parents do in Singapore? Have you taken drugs since traveling? Anything recreational? Do you have any drugs on you?" My responses harried. "I have two Advil Liqui-gels in my bag..." Nerd. "Do you have any friends in Sydney? How did you meet them? Where did you go to university? What do you do for a living? How do you make your money? How much money do you make a week?" This cannot be happening. And on no sleep on the overnight flight, and two cups of coffee. Can you say edgy?

My turn, "So what if the second swab comes up positive?" My customs agent replies, "Then, we'll have to do a third and final swab." And me, "What if that comes back positive?" Her: "We'll deal with that when it happens." Great.

Back to her. "Do you have anything in your pockets?" My answer, "Just my baggage claim check." "Do you have anything strapped to you under your clothes?" And the best of the best, "No. I am not a smuggler. I am no mule!" Yes, I said that.

Blood pressure through the roof, you hear stories about people slipping things into your bags but it's in Bolivia or Kazhakstan or somewhere really far away from me right now and far more developing a country than Singapore or Australia, right?? Is this really happening?

"So, miss, the second swab came back negative." "WHAT?!?" "No, no...I said negative! You've been very cooperative with all your answers. Thank you for that. You're free to go." Shaking. I was shaking. So, my customs agent's name was Cat as it turned out. And she intimated, "You've nothing to worry about if you're innocent." HA! Right. I've traveled a fair amount of the world and never had that kind of treatment, innocent all the while. She then started helping me repack my bag. "Woah woah woah!" I pretty much shouted. "Please, please, step away from my bag. Don't touch my stuff, no offense. I've got it." After that kind of scare, I'd rather deal with my stuff with mine own hands.

As I entered the bathroom to gather myself, on the verge of tears, I turned to my right, and on the wall was a syringe disposal. The irony. Welcome to Sydney.

Fall in May

It smells like fall. "And the leaves that are green turn to brown..." (Simon & Garfunkel). Nice. Clean. It feels like late October. Football, pumpkins, sweaters, cider. Wait...it's May?!? Funny how the weather can confuse.

Sydney's fall is funny, with New York's as a touchstone. Some people are in full winter gear, hats, scarves. Others in summer dresses and flip-flops (thongs, as they call them). It's hot in the sun, cold once the sun sets. And at first glance, the city is much more culturally mixed than Singapore. Multicultural, even among native Aussies (pronunciation: Ozzies). I like. I have to admit, the people seem a bit more tawdry here, though. Bleached out beach culture, fashion trendier than classic. More LA than NYC. Granted, I've only been here for 6+ hours. Who am I to judge?

I'm having a Kilkenny at Paddy Maguire's, in homage to South Park. The bartender is from the Czech Republic, working, from what he says, among Irish. How is it that all over the world the bartenders are Irishmen? I guess we do what we're good at. And we do what we like. The song Joey just came on in the music rotation. I'm defecting.

Here's the next plan. To live spring and fall only. Travel the globe chasing the two, or perpetually escaping hot and cold. Forget the extremes. I'm going to live moderation in the moderate. Ha. What a laugh. To travel to spots all over the world that would allow me to live out those two seasons only for the next two years. Nothing dieing, dormant. Only life anew and the hint of winding down. Then, I'm off! But I wonder. Would you then spring forward in October? And fall back in May? Oh, me. Time is constant, regardless of who keeps it.

On dasher

Classic. Another classic move from this one.

Chilling, doing some writing, after a lovely salmon fillet and salad, my moms asks, "So. What time is your flight tomorrow?" I'm headed to Sydney for a week or so. Lackadaisically, I wander over to my email to check. "It says I leave Tuesday at 00:25 hundred hours!?!? WAIT...that's just after midnight, right? I'm leaving in a couple of hours??" Mad dash to pack. Thank god she asked.

A drink in hand, belly up to the airport bar, I've made it. Man, I am off my game. And here I'd thought I'd have a day or so to get an itinerary set for Sydney. Guess not. Going to dive right in. But I am the luckiest girl in the world. I can go anywhere. Do anything.

Chinatown

We spent the afternoon in Chinatown. Just inside the doors of the People's Park complex, you're hit with quite a strong odor. Tiger balm. It's referred to as the perfume of choice for the mature Chinese woman. And I'm guessing a whole of lot of them must shop here.

To Yum Cha for lunch, it's Singapore's most well-known dim sum spot. All sorts of steamed delights. Barbeque pork, prawns. Tasty. Chinatown in Singapore is much nicer than Chinatown in New York. Or Kuala Lumpur, for that matter. I picked up a few things here and there, a mahjong set being one of them. And you thought I was joking...

We closed out the day visiting the Buddha tooth relic temple. We did a quick stroll more than an intensified tour. As it stands, the tooth has been proved not to be from the Buddha's mouth. But those who believe believe still. Along the left side of the temple, workers were loading a truck full of orchids to be tossed. What a shame to see something of such beauty and rarity chucked in the back of a pick-up.