Home!

I added that exclamation point in the title so it seems like I'm excited to be here. (I was excited to vote today. We got in line before the polls opened.)

So we made it. The flight from Tokyo to JFK was long, as expected, but we managed to amuse ourselves with movies. Jordo chose the girliest movies he could find, including, "Made of Honor" and "Sex and the City." I refused to watch either on the grounds they would annoy me so I watched a depressing British film about a woman abusing illegal immigrant workers and a Discovery Channel special on the Great Plains of the Earth. (Odd choices, true, but still better than his movies.)

At the airport in Saigon, Jordo had noticed how a lot of people were spending extra money to have their bags wrapped in tape and plastic. Probably precautions in case someone stuck something illegal in there? We didn't know. We chose not to follow suit and take our chances with Tony Montana. Then, while we were waiting for our baggage at JFK, one of the drug/food sniffing dogs became obsessed with my bag. The handler asked what I had in there and, besides from some foreign peanuts, there was nothing in there to set off the dog's nose. The handler kept pushing: Had I had meat in there at some point? Fruit? No and no. I offered to let him search, but he declined. Since he kept asking about food, we imagined that he could go through my bag, pull out a few kilos of heroin, then put it back, and say, "OK, looks like there isn't any illegal produce in here. You can go."

(The whole incident sent me back to the early 90s, when Jaqui came back from France with cheese and was chased through the airport by security dogs.)

So Saigon flew by. On one of our last days, we went to the War Remnants Museum. (It was apparently once called "The House for Displaying War Crimes of American Imperialism and the Puppet Government (of South Vietnam)" but the name was changed to be more tourist-friendly.) It was a wow. One whole room was devoted to all of the journalists who died covering the war, including Errol Flynn's son. We got to see some of the last photos these journalists had taken before their deaths, as well as some of the shots that then became iconic of the war. Some of those who died did so in combat. A few were on helicopters that crashed. A few just disappeared and are presumed dead. One journalist, who had no wife or kids, left everything he had to a fund to help Vietnamese orphans.

Another room was about war atrocities, and so you can imagine it wasn't too "Go, USA!" It was just plain stressful. They had a lot of pictures and accounts from My Lai, which were chilling. There's a section of former Sen. Bob Kerrey, who in 2001 admitted to his involvement in killing civilians while a SEAL leader in Vietnam. More than one wall was devoted to pictures of people killed or disfigured by Agent Orange or Napalm or other chemicals, be it first hand or because they were the children of soldiers or villagers affected by this chemical warfare. (They included some American children, too, including a boy who was one of the first poster children for the March of Dimes, whose father had been a soldier.) They had deformed fetuses in jars to further show what damage the chemicals had brought to following generations.

They had replicas of tiger cages, where Viet Cong prisoners were held, and a guillotine used by the French. (And yes, weird tourists in front of us posed with their heads leaning towards it like it was Disney World. And I thought it was bad for us to take smiling pictures in the Cu Chi tunnels.)

There was a statue made of metal collected from bombs and ammo that was called "Mother." It purported to show a woman in agony during the war. It was fitting, as so many of the pictures we saw were of women trying to protect their children, women wailing before they were to be shot.

The guestbook was filled with anti-American sentiment, including things like, "Americans are the real war criminals." A tank was parked outside the museum, and "Fuck" had been written in the dust before "USA Army."

Oh, reputation in tatters. Here's hoping all that changes in the years to come.

Heading home, Pt. 1: Note from Tokyo

Not too long of an update as we are using Japanese keyboards and the keys are different enough that every time I think I am hitting the space bar with my right thumb, I am actually hitting the 'Switch to Japanese' key, so I get　cらpぃ毛ティsウェンI目案と差y染めティンg故mpぇ手lyぢっふぇ連t。 (Translation-- crap like this when I mean something completely different) And the punctuation keys are different. And just typing that, I hit the SWITCH key 3 times. だっみｔ！

So we've left Vietnam and are pretty sad about it. I have lots of thoughts on the last days. I'll share them later. (Aside:　Who moved the quotation marks? I could kill this ｺｵmﾌﾟﾃr｡）（And no, I did not do that change on purpose.)

Another aside: An older guy just came in and is freaking out about the keyboard. He has the wireless attendant by his side. 'Every time I hit the space bar, it goes bad,' he said, not noticing how what he thinks is the space bar is really the evil 'Switch to Japanese' key. He will not last long, friends. This is not a task for the old and weary. John McCain gets confused by the computer as it is now. This would be the final blow.

Anyway, we made it safely from Saigon to Tokyo and get on our next plane in about two hours. We hit JFK around noon, clear customs/get arrested for smuggling, then either take a car to my parents' house/get an attorney, get the car/see if we can post bond, and then head home/stay in jail once bail is denied.

Oh no. More oldsters just came in and are freaking out about the keyboard. I have to watch them now in case someone has a stroke/heart attack. This could add a whole new level of drama to this trip.

Later.　不c金g果てティsこｍぷてｒ！

Done and Done

We're now sitting in an internet cafe down the street from the hotel we just checked out of, waiting to get a ride to the airport to start the Bataan Death March of flights home. Depressing indeed.

The last couple of days have flown by and we did our last bit of touring this morning, going to Reunification House (basically the old south vietnamese government house where they surrendered) and a museum that was built chronicling the american war. Umm, not a whole lot to feel good about our country there. The oddest part was watching the swiss tourists pose happily in front of a guillotine used by the southt to behead spies and guerillas during the war. I mean, they were smiling!! It's not Disneyland . . .

So not sure what else to say right now so let's hand out awards.

Nicest Guide - Sa, the guy who showed us the Cu Chi tunnels, talked about Ho Chi Minh sleeping around and despite his love for McCain said he thought Obama should win. Thanks.

Worst Guide - Hai from our little DMZ trip. Too many jokes that fell flat, fascist in her desire to keep it moving and then lied to us when she said it was only 90 minutes home. You stink Hai.

Best Restaraunt - The little lady selling chicken satay sticks on the streets in Bangkok for 30 cents. You were the best,

Worst Restaraunt - Temple Garden in Hue. Never, ever go there. Lukewarm vegetables in some kind of goulash (important to note we didn't order veg goulash), crappy fried noodles that were like smaller tougher ramen and overpriced drinks.

Worst Named Areas - Thailand. Listen, I am a fourth grade boy at heart so when you have a placed named Bangkok, another named Phuk-et and a place you call Pee - Pee island you now I am going to have to giggle a fair amount. For shame Thailand, for shame.

Worst Place Most Like America - Bangla Road on Patong Beach, Bourbon street with more hookers.

Best Place most like America - Ban Thahn market. Italian market with more random meat to buy.

Section of Lonely Planet most in need of an update - Saigon, Vietnam. Not a single restaraunt listed in the four block radius of our hotel was still there.

Best Locals Trying to Rip you off - Saigon. Very respectful, not too intrusive, a brief no and they went on their way.

Worst Locals Trying to Rip you off - Paton and Karon Noi. More arm grabbing, aussie catch phrase using and outright lying than needed to sell me $2 sunglasses for $15 bucks.

Picture Show

Since we finally got internet in our hotel, we can upload pictures and such please come and enjoy our magic picture show

Heyyyyyy! Ho-ooooo!

So our Saigon guide rocks. He tells good stories, he's friendly and he's honest about what he thinks. We love him.

I asked him if it was true that all Vietnamese people have a shrine to Ho Chi Minh in their houses. He snorted and said, "Maybe in the North. If they're stupid."

I asked him the same "Was Ho a 'ho?" question I'd asked our guide in Hanoi. There, I got discomfort. Here, I got a very different answer.

Apparently, there's a politician who has risen very quickly through the party and some say he is Ho's son. His mother was once one of Ho's servants, so our bit comparing Ho to Jefferson wasn't that far off. When asked directly if he was Ho's son, the man replied with one of those standard, "All Vietnamese are Ho's children" bits.

I knew it!

Here's a link to a story about Ho's kid: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1291000.stm

Other news from Saigon:

1) Before coming here, other people on our travels told us how the traffic was a nightmare and the guidebook even gave a list of places were to go to watch the madness from the safety of a non-moving chair. Anne, a Dutch girl we met, told me that when she was in Saigon, she saw three accidents, including one that involved a girl and blood. She said she was freaked out, especially at rush hour when people avoid the traffic in the streets by jumping on the sidewalk, pedestrians be damned.

We haven't seen that part yet, but when we asked how long it would take to get from the airport to our hotel, we were told anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours, depending on traffic. It was somewhere in between that.

2) Another thing about driving in Vietnam: You must not only have a vehicle, like a car, bicycle or moped. You must have a horn. Because you must honk that horn all the time, not in a "Hey, jerk! Get out of the way!" way but in a "I'm here, driving past you. Beware." way. And since you must learn to pass a lot here, you must honk a lot. We were on a bus trip and the blaring horn was soooo getting on my nerves. Between it and a man I called "Typhoid Tyrone"-- he could not stop coughing -- I was completely on edge.

3) Jordo is like Magellan. He gets to a new place, pulls out the map, and immediately starts figuring his way around. He knows street names and, perhaps more impressively, north, south, east and west wherever he is. (He says it's from the sun. He also says he can tell the time of day from the sun. I say that when the sun is shining, I know a liar when I see one.) It's very impressive, especially since I get to a new place and start walking in circles. He's good to travel with. I was thinking the other day how much fun this trip has been and how we haven't had any of those disagreements that people who travel together have. I mean, Jesus Christ and Buddha could go on vacation together and even they're going to disagree about something. Or maybe not. Maybe we're just like them. I guess Jordan can be Buddha, since he was compared to that diety earlier. I'll be Jesus. We have a lot in common: We're both Capricorns. And don't forget our self-sacrificing natures.

4) Re: The tunnels again. Jordo and I were marvelling how, at the first series of tunnels we visited, all the townspeople had worked together to dig them out in such a short time period. We tried to imagine what would have happened if the people of Philadelphia had to work together to do such a project, and we had Johnny Doc complaining that non-Union labor was doing the work, Rendell wanting to make sure there was room for the casinos, Street saying things were racially biased. We also couldn't imagine living in caves with some of our neighbors, like the guy we call "RDD", short for "Republican Drug Dealer," since 1) he is a drug dealer and 2) he told me he's a Republican. He hangs at the corner near our house. I could live with the fact that he's a drug dealer, but the Republican thing would get old quick.

5) Earlier in our trip, we noticed quite a few couples -- usually Japanese -- who wore matching outfits. Even matching bathing suits. Of course, the day we noticed it we looked down and noted we were both wearing green khaki shorts and black t-shirts. I was like, "Oh no, do you think we're becoming one of THOSE couples?" Jordo said, "Come on. You know us. We just threw on whatever was on the floor." True.

War just f'ing sucks

How's that for a profound title? Thank you. I am a professional writer.

We've done a few tunnel trips in the last few days and they've left me chilled. Let me explain.

When we were in Hue, we took a day trip to the DMZ to see a series of tunnels that basically housed an entire village as well as fighters for years during the war. These tunnels had been carved by hand, handfuls of dirt at a time, over about 20 months. There were multiple entrances, some to the sea and others in the forest. Families had tiny carve outs, like caves, but teeny tiny caves where you barely fit even when sitting down. (We were imagining if we had to share a cave with another couple -- our thoughts went to the tallest couple we know, Chris and Don -- and we were like, "No way. We'd all be suffocated. Don's legs would take up most of our space.")

There was a maternity ward, and 17 babies were born there during the war. (16 survived and still live in the area.) There was a community gathering room and a cooking area. There were photos of kids having lessons and nurses at work. There were different levels, steps, and as I tried to get down one set without falling, I commented to Jordo, "They can build these complex tunnel system and no one thought to put in hand rails?"

The whole thing was a complex maze going off in all directions. Most of the time, I could walk upright. (So while my stature works against me when we play pool volleyball in Duck, it worked for me here. Except at one point I got too cocky and smacked my head.) Still, I felt like the walls were closing in.

And those, my friends, were the big tunnels.

Here in Saigon, we went to the Cu Chi tunnels. These are famous because the network is HUGE and were very effectively used by guerillas during the Vietnam/American War.

The first thing Sa, our rocking local guide, showed us was a piece of wood on the ground in a wooded area. I'd say it was smaller than a newspaper front page. That, he said, was one of the entrances. Jordo and I was dumbstruck. If I had to get down that tunnel, it would be like Winnie the Pooh in the honey tree and I'd just be stuck midway until I starved enough to fit in. One of Sa's pals showed us how to get down the tunnel, and when his hips and shoulders cleared the sides, I almost applauded. "Vietnamese people small," Sa said. (I wanted to say, "Um, we noticed." Lots of salespeople here seem to relish telling us how freakin' huge we are. "We have free size," they tell me when I'm looking at clothes. In one mall, this crazy woman kept rubbing Jordan's belly and calling him "Buddha." Meanwhile, her male compatriot was touching Jordan's arm hair and comparing his own hairless arm to Jordo's.)

Then we actually went down into the tunnels, which, we were told had been expanded by 40 percent to accomodate tourists. Oh my God. It was like being a giant in Liliput. I had to bend almost in half most of the time, and at one point found it easier to crawl. Sa told us that when the tunnels were in use, people learned to run without panting, communicate without speaking and cook without smoke. I don't know how they did the running/no panting thing. Negotiating those tunnels left me with a raised heart rate. (They did the communication thing with notes passed via children and the smokeless cooking by cooking around dawn when the air was heavy.)

Sa told us that during the start of the conflict, Americans soldiers were surprised because it seemed no one was in the area. When they figured out the tunnel system, they tried to get people out by doing things like 1) pouring water in or 2) pouring gasoline to set aflame or 3) using tear gas. Those things didn't work, Sa said. The people in the tunnels were actually thrilled by the fresh water, the gas was soaked up by the ground and didn't catch fire, and the tear gas was able to be isolated since the tunnels had different ventilation systems. (Please note: I have no idea how historically accurate any of this is. It's just what we were told that I'm retelling here.)

He told us how a group of men were specially trained as "tunnel rats." (I read something else that described these guys as "the smallest guys with the biggest cojones.") No way that's my job. The tunnels are creepy enough now and there's no one down there except guides and tourists; I can't imagine going into the darkness not knowing if someone was possibly waiting inside kill me by knife or gun, or if bamboo booby trap death was headed my way.

Because there were bamboo death traps, and Sa showed them to us. Some were formerly tiger traps, updated with spikes on the bottom to impale soldiers. He estimated that about 10 percent of American casualties were caused by this sort of warfare. Not that everyone of those people stepped on a spike or dropped in a spinning spike hole. Instead, one soldier would fall and the others would try to rescue him, leaving themselves open to ambush. We saw the many different bamboo spike based traps, including the ones that went into the water. A man in a military uniform demonstrated how each one worked - basically, someone would step on the trap and either fall into a hole or get caught by spinning sticks or something else horrible.

Horrifying. Simply horrifying. Someone, I think it was Sa, jokingly said to Jordo, "You want to try?" as we watched one trap and I was like, "Wow. That is so not funny and I have the most macabre sense of humor on earth." I didn't even like being near the traps.

On our way out, we heard an English language video playing in one of the huts and asked Sa if we should see it. He hesitated, saying, "Well, it's anti-American. Propaganda." That did not deter us. Indeed, the video spoke of the "American Imperialists" and the "brave (Vietnamese) martyrs, but it was to be expected. Still, I did find it It disturbing to see smiling women sharpen bamboo poles that would be used in one of those awful traps. (I understand the why, but I don't fully ever understand the internal 'how.' Sa had told us how women soldiers had so confused the Americans, making them extra lethal.) The video also had this boppy little song to accompany it, so you're seeing people hauling munitions and running and hiding underground with a merry tune playing.

After the video ended, Sa told us he normally doesn't recommend his tourists see it, particularly the older ones. "They start crying," he said. "They say, 'My son died here.'" Or, if they're younger, their friends or brothers or uncles or cousins.

I keep forgetting to bring my ipod on these long car trips so I'm stuck singing in my head while we cruise through the countryside. After this visit, stereotypically, I kept humming, "War! Good God, y'all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again...." for about an hour. Which was better than the other day, when I couldn't get Ricky Martin's "Livin' la Vida Loca" out of my brain. (Other featured songs on "Natalie's head's Vietnam playlist": "The Consort" -- Rufus Wainwright, "Wherever whenever" -- Shakira and "Blasphemous Rumors" -- Depeche Mode. The last one isn't one of my fave DM songs, not even close, but I think it popped into my brain because of the lines, "And I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors/ But I think that God's got a sick sense of humor/And when I die/I expect to find him/Laughing.")

In our next installment of "Hammers and Scales" --- "Ho IS a 'ho: Natalie and Jordan's South Vietnamese guide tells it like it is...."　We gotta lighten this up a bit!

Fairness Doctrine

Here's our girl, second before getting out of the Cu Chi tunnels.

I am not fat, just big boned

Though after scurrying through former Viet Cong tunnels I could be mistaken for either.

So there may or may not be an image next to this post, we finally bought a flash drive but the internet cafe is slow as dirt.

Anyway, we just got back from touring the Cu Chi tunnels, which are a series of, well tunnels, used by the vietnamese for fighting both the french and the americans. They were built originally in the 1930's and then during the american war they were expanded to the point that a few of the trap doors were actually in the middle of the US Army base in the area (yeah, kind of a problem). We wandered around the outside for a while and then wandered in.

The tunnels were tiny, tiny, tiny, although the insides had been expanded by 40% in order to accomodate the larger sizes of the Western tourists. We went down about three leves, each involving sort of sitting on the step and sliding your butt down, then crab walking about 25 feet to another turn or step down. Our guide was blazing through it, while my tall self was reduced to crawling at a glacial pace to avoid hitting myself in the head. Natalie, sadly, was stuck behind me, with nothing left to do but take pictures of the every accumulating amount of mud and water attaching to my backside (that's my girl). We did this for about ten minutes, though it felt a lot longer, and then we were back up to freedom.

Obviously wandering around in something this size raises the question of girth, or more accurately what happens when girth meets stone. Thankfully the only part that got caught at some point were my shoulders, though the way I have been eating I was a little worried that my gut was going to get stuck going into the third level.

After the relative calm of Hue, Saigon feels like we are back to the big city grind. Kind of like Bangkok, but more neon, more large billboards and many many more mopeds. The strangest catch to far has been the prevalence of arm socks on many of the female moped riders. Apparently light skin is extremely favored here, tanned skin being seen as vulgar (not sure if that means trampy or just low class). Given the obvious problem of heat and sun, many women opt to wear some sort of sleeves while stuck in traffic and then remove them when they are out of the evil rays of the sun.

Our guide, San, has been by far the best we have had on the trip. He is pretty honest about the failings of Vietnam and the problems in Ho Chi Minh City's gentrification, but at the same time willing to spend a half hour going through the various opinions and the reasons for state control of portions of the economy. The only drawback was his like of John McCain, but nothings perfect.

Khe Sahn

It's weird to travel somewhere and see destruction caused by your own country, even if it's allegedly in the name of good and freedom. (You know I'm talking to you, Iraq War mongers.)I felt my heart twist many times in Iraq when I'd meet someone killed by American guns or bombs, and I'm not talking about combatants; I'm talking about kids, like the boy who was basically playing peek-a-boo but the American soldier who shot him didn't know that, and the
teenage girl who was fleeing Baghdad with her family when a bomb fell near their car. (The dead girl's younger sister still had a piece of shrapnel in her head and the mother said it was giving her headaches and asked if I could help do anything about that. I asked one of the Army officers about this. I didn't get a real answer. I still feel like I failed that family.)

Now here we are in Vietnam, or "Iraq Episode I" as George Lucas would put it.

What I know of this "conflict" comes from school and books and movies and the few veterans I know -- Jaqui's dad used to talk about the war when we were teenagers but we totally didn't listen, being jerk teenagers; Walt told some tales from his Marine days, but being Walt, the stories meandered just a tad and they were mostly about him and Octave being crazy.

I didn't live through it and in it, like Iraq. (Although I suppose if I were a more savvy toddler I would have kept up with the news a little better in the early 1970s. US Troops left the country behind in 1975 but what did I know? I was probably eating a cookie and watching "The Electric Company.")

So I felt it was very important to see, learn, and listen to war stories while we were here. I think it's the respectful, right, thing to do.

As Jordo wrote, we took a DMZ tour yesterday. There's a lot to discuss from that -- like our guide telling us how three generations of Vietnamese have been affected by the chemicals used during the war, and how even today, people are killed by unexploded mines and grenades -- and I'll get to it later, but for now I want to focus on the final stop: the former American base at Khe Sahn.

Walt was at Khe Sahn. I know this not because he told about his bad ass Marine days at this famous battle, but because I organized all of his photos in a series of albums for him one year. (And let me tell you: If you know Walt, you know there were 100s and there were all over the place.) I've always had a hard time picturing the gentlest person I know -- WJP -- as a Vietnam vet, but there was the photographic evidence. He was playing cards shirtless, showing off his boxer's physique, and posing with friends. And in one picture simply labeled, "Khe Sahn," he had a look of shock and emptiness on his face as he walked through high grass. I have no idea now if I'm making this part up or not, but I imagine or think he had just seen the bodies of his fellow soldiers.

Khe Sahn was a f'ing mess. After months of fighting, there were hundreds of Americans dead, thousands of Vietnamese dead. Even today, POW-MIA folk come back and search the Khe Sahn hills for human remains. Those that they do find usually belong to the Vietnamese.

Now, where the infamous air strip was, nothing will grow. It's empty land. There is a bunker, probably a re-creation, but still oppressive in feel, so hot when you're inside with the low roof of bags above you. There are American ordnances, helicopters, tank parts. They've put a museum there, a small one, with photos from the battle. There is a definite slant to the presentation, as one photo notes how American soldiers are scared and preparing to flee and another superimposes an image of President Johnson over a fighting picture with a caption like, "What is President Johnson thinking now?" (I took photos of all this, but like J said, we're having photo upload issues.)

I sat down at the table out front to look at the guest book. It caught my eye: The latest entry, the page to which it lay opened on the table, was written boldly, in big letters, and signed by Frederic A Eidsness Lt, USN Riverine Forces, Republic of South Vietnam. It was also the longest. It read, "Every American who runs for national office, especially those who seek the office of the presidency, should visit this place to gain a perspective on how we would view an emeny who occupied our nation -- that we would take great care in our foreign policy not to use military force, nor occupy a sovereign nation except after all other options are exhausted and only in self defense."

But most of the writings were from tourists like me, wishes for an end to war or reflections. (I'll record some of them here, but note the names may be incorrect as it's sometimes hard to read other people's writing. I'm leaving in misspellings and grammar errors, too.) "We keep going on" and "Life is fight but war is mistake" and simply "Peace" with a smilely face. Jackie from Bingalong, Australia, wrote, "I pray for the souls of all who lost their lives here and their families. May all find peace."

Some of those who fought here and lived shared their experiences, like Sgt. Glenn E. Prentice said they fought for 77 days, from 15 Dec 67 to 22 April 68 and "We never feared them (the NVA) but we respected them."

Linda Bogert, whoever she is, wrote about what happened after Khe Sahn to the man who may be her husband, father or grandfather on "Peter Bogert served in the Marines and was hear in the 60' and survived to have 2 children and 1 grandchild. Semperfi."

The one that most touched me, was perhaps the simpliest, meticulously documented by someone named Bai Thi Linh Van on September 29, 2008, a Monday at about 10:33 a.m. It said just this:
"4-5-1968
My dad died here!"

While I was looking at the book, three little girls came and stood in front of me, just smiling and giggling. I smiled back, said hello and talked to them a bit but they didn't understand me. Later, I went outside to take a photo of them in front of the museum and the flowers growing there. They were so cute, posing. "Such beautiful girls," I told them, as I and another tourist snapped their image. The girls may not have known much English, but they understood, "beautiful" and giggled some more.

I'm going to send that picture to Walt when we get home, to show him that things can change and life goes on and it can all get better.

Apparently We Fought Some Kind of War Thing Here

Given that we have spent the last three days touring former US military bases and the DMZ, here's my only original contribution to the comparison between our work over here and our current woes over in Iraq:

I think that the US military in Vietnam had a higher rate of heroin use than the US military in Iraq.

I don't mean to be flip, but going through these tours seems like doing some sort of bad Iraq check list. Overconfident about traditional fighting tactics? Check. Losing support of locals possibly sympathetic? Check. Engaging in possibly questionable tactics involving the poor treatment of persons later found out to be civilians? Check.

Anyway, since there are people far smarter and better to write about these things I'll just give an update on Hue.

1. The past two days have been the downfall of our "all food over here is awesome" mentality. Two nights ago we went to a restaurant picked by the lonely planet as one of the better places in Hue. It was the worst we have eaten so far (thanks lonely planet). Then last night we went to a place recommended by (1) our guide, (2) our hotel (3) lonely planet. By the end of the night I had a raging headache and natalie's stomach was in knots (this was our first sickness like that of the trip). If this keeps up I am switching to an all hamburger diet or something.

2. Man does it rain here. For the past couple of days we have been stuck in an all day downpour, wandering out occasionally to go to a temple and then running back inside to get out of our now soaked clothes.

3. We spent yesterday traveling through the DMZ and Kae Sahn military base with a nice guide named Hai (as she said a couple of times "not hi, it's Hai!" with an inflection that was lost on the german members of our tour group). She attempted more jokes on the trip than any guide before, but most were lost in translation. Finally at the end of the day she said it was an hour and a half home, but for us three hours. Everyone laughed. This time, however, she was serious. It was 90 minutes to her office then 90 more minutes to Hue.

4. Sorry for no photos, but we didn't bring a flash drive and are relying on the kindness of internet cafes that have computers built some time in 1998, so it has been a little hard to figure out the photo posting. We will do something when we get back.

5. The weirdest part about this trip has been morning television. We have watched two presidential debates and various National and American League Championship series all before 9 am. Anyway back up to watch the world series now.

Hue

We are now waiting out a storm in some small internet cafe named "Jerry Net" (and really one of the things I love about vietnam is that every internet place ends with net, my favorite so far was a small shack in a small town we were driving through called "love net" Is it a requirement that everyone there is furiously refreshing their match.com profile? Is there a higher rate of porn downloads there?)

We have been in Hue for two days now. The first day we basicall wandered around the city checking out the 5,000 colleges and the main drag. We stopped for a snack and a drink at someplace called the DMZ cafe (no surprise, mainly catering to expats) and we given a flyer indicating that it was women's appreciation day. Actually it appeared to be occurring from october 9 - october 30th, so "day" probably isn't appropriate. Women's Apprecation fortnight and then some? Not really sure.

Anyway, we were expectant as to in what way DMZ cafe would honor women. Notes from the Seneca Falls convention? Spoken word pieces on the bravery of North Vietnamese women during the american war? Seminar on sex trafficking? No, just a free super sugary cosmo type drink for every woman in the bar. Carrie Bradshaw your people have spoken!

We spent today with our guide who was very excited to tell us all about the newfound freedom in Vietnam, up until he learned Natalie was a journalist and then he said please don't use his name in anything (not to worry tourist guide x, your secret is safe with us). No seriously he was a really nice guy, his father served with the South Vietnamese with the Americans and he was pretty frank about the various failings of US War policy here. Not the war itself mind you, he thought that was good, just thought we fucked it up in how we conducted it. It's really hard to actually have that conversation without thinking about our current little dalliance over in Iraq.

His whole tour was great, the various tombs, the temple that was home to the monk who immolated himself in Saigon to protest the war in the 1960's, etc. There was only one thing that bugged me from the second I met him.

His hair.

Well not his haircut, that was some sort of standard issue crewcut, but these series of hairs that came out of a mole on the right side of his neck. They were long, I mean from his just below his jawline down to his chest long (not that I saw his chest, again not that kind of tour). They were wavy and blew in the breeze and very hard to ignore (I kind of felt like Chong in Up in Smoke where he meets the guy big red marks on his face who asks him "what are you doing?" and Chong says "nothing man, I'm not looking at your face at all.)

Anyway about 24 hours after meeting him and frantic confirmation with Nat that the hairs were (1) real and (2) creepy, our faithful guide stands on the steps of the tomb of the last great emperor and says "so the hair on my neck, you have noticed this?"

I'm all thinking "how do I say I only see inner beauty in Vietnamese?"

As it turns out such hairs are a blessing of sorts, if on the right side from female angels and from the left side from male angels. To cut them off would be a great sign of disrespect so our guy has let it grow for all of his 37 years.

Of course, all my empathetic self could think was "what kind of asshole angels would want you to run around with all that neck hair?"

Uncle Ho and other things

Five bullet points for easy reading:

1. In Thailand, it was all about the King. In Hanoi, it was all about Ho Chi Minh, or "Uncle Ho" as he's called affectionately.

Our Hanoi guide told us so much about Ho: How modest he was, and how he lived in a house on stilts in the city instead of a presidential palace. (Complete with photos of Marx and Lenin above his desk. His books were there, too, but we couldn't see the titles. It would have been great if the Vietnamese version of "Thin Thighs in 30 Days" was among them.)How smart he was, speaking many languages. How much he cared about the people and how everything he did was for them. How he loved children and, since he had none of his own, all of the Vietnamese people are considered "Ho's children." (I had read something about Ho having a few girlfriends and possible illegitimate kids so, being that hard hitting journalist that I am, I asked Tuon, our guide. He actually blushed and seemed very put on the spot, then said there was no evidence that Ho had babies. Later, Jordo and I started speculating about a possible Ho relationship with J. Edgar Hoover, and then we heard the Gates to Hell creak open a small bit so we stopped.)

Tuon told us how his 5th grade son does well in school and each year wins the honor of being named one of "Ho's grandchildren." He described how every house has a shrine to Ho in a quiet place, much like the shrines they keep for their ancestors. Jordo and I were wondering if this is just rote memorization, like Tim in Thailand said she loved the king because she had to, and Tuon in Hanoi said he loved Ho or else he'd be killed. "Think about visitors to Monticello," Jordo pointed out. "They'll like, 'Woo hoo! Jefferson rocks! He's the best!' And then the Hemmings family shows up and they get all quiet."

Only Ho knows. We'll know more when we get to Ho Chi Minh city, which people here still call Saigon.

2. Some of you already know that when I was in Iraq, I was haunted by the music of Lionel Richie. It was everywhere, particularly the song "Hello." My translator would hear it, get all misty eyed, and start singing along. I wanted to kill both him and myself as well as L. Richie. (Years later, the AP or someone like that did a story that said Lionel Richie is HUGE in Iraq, no one's sure why, and Lionel was told and said he was very excited. Probably made him want to dance all night long.)

On this trip, other odd songs keep popping up.

In Thailand, at the musical showcase we went to, they played, "Dixie" and "When the Saints Go Marching In" --- on traditional Thai instruments. So they sounded just crazy and Jordo was like, "Um, should we be discussing repression people right now?" (Still, we sung along.) Our first night in Hanoi, we went to a bar that promised live music -- and it pretty much turned out to be a piano student playing from the Simon and Garfunkel songbook. (Painful.) On another evening, we enjoyed a bottle of wine in our hotel bar -- where the Thai singer was doing "Summertime" with thick accent and odd instrumental accompaniments. It was ... brilliant. I could have stayed there all night.

Last night, we went to a bar in Hue. They were playing the Monkees so I was all jazzed up and telling Jordo stories of my childhood love for them, particularly Davy Jones. (When, as a teenager, I met him at the all-happening Middlesex Mall in South Plainfield, NJ, I was like, "WE HAVE THE SAME BIRTHDAY! AAAAAA! I LOVE YOU EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE 2,000 YEARS OLD!" And he was so kind. He smiled and said, "God bless you." Probably thought I was escaped from somewhere.)

Earlier today, we stopped at same Hue bar and guess what they were playing? The Monkees. Same song, too. The internet cafe where I am writing this is playing "I'm all out of love" but not the Air Supply version. A special remix for the Asian market, I'll wager.

3. Honeymooning rocks. You tell people you're on your honeymoon, and next thing you know you get free wine and cookies and stuff. I think we're going to be pulling this honeymoon trick well into our 80s. When we got to our hotel room in Hue, there was a heart made out of rose petals on the bed, which was on the verge of cheesy, but still kinda sweet, and I was already inclined to like the place since they called us "Mr and Mrs. Pompilio."

4. We really like our guide here in Hue. His name is Nham. He's very friendly and eager to learn American idioms: "Piece of cake, right?" he'll say, smiling broadly. One of the first things he did was show us a picture of his 2-year-old son, who he sometimes calls "My Little Buddha" and other times "Tonic." Why "Tonic"? Two reasons: 1) He has a cousin named "Jin," so "Jin and Tonic." 2) Tonic was also very much a wanted baby -- and came like a soothing tonic to his parents' marriage.

How they got Tonic was another story: Nham and his wife had been married for 8 years and always wanted a baby but couldn't have one. Nham told us that they'd gone to doctors and had tests and been told that everything was normal but they were just missing somehow. It was odd, Nham said, because he has 7 brothers and sisters and only two of them had children but they all wanted them.

So Nham and his wife consulted a Feng Shui expert, who looked into their lives and eventually went to visit the graves of Nham's father's parents. There's the problem, he said. Your grandparents are facing the northeast, where the storms come in. It's bad. The Feng Shui guy told them to dig up the grandparents and move them to another cemetery so they could face the mountains in the west.

Nham thought this was crack-tastic, so he consulted another Feng Shui guy -- and got the same advice. So he and his siblings dug up their grandparents' graves -- in Hue, they generally don't cremate -- and he personally helped carry his grandfather's coffin to a new resting place, where it could face west.

Within two months, Tonic was on the way. And all of Nham's other siblings have kids now, too. Coincidence? You decide.

5. Most terrifying conversation ever that we had today during a delicious lunch: I asked Jordo if he would eat dog if it were offered to him. (Our guide book said we'd find that on the menu here but we haven't yet, thank God, although there is the word "Chien" everywhere but it means something else.) Jordo said he would try it. Then I asked him if he would try cat. He said yes, he would. Then I asked if he would eat human. He paused and said, "Well, not if that means killing the human for food, because that's wrong." I asked what he would do if there was some crazy cult of people who sacrificed themselves for consumption by fellow humans. Would he eat one of those people? Again, he paused, and said, "Nah, there might be diseases and that might push my gross out level. " MIGHT, ladies and gentlemen. I told him I was now scared to share a bed with him lest he feel an urge to snack in the middle of the night. (It's bad enough he argues with judges in his sleep. The other night, it was, "He's still in custody, Your Honor.")

I also think I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on him around the cats. "I'm not going to eat our cats!" he protested, a bit too loudly. Whatever. Rocky already likes to sit on pans on the stove. If I come into the kitchen one day and see Jordo rubbing her down with Cajun spices, we are out of there.

Hanoi Highlights

Back to city life, and we couldn't be happier. We like the noise and grit and action and just being able to walk through regular neighorhoods and see how people live.

1. My favorite part of the our Hanoi visit thus far was the Cyclo ride. For an hour, Jordo and I were driven around on seats attached to the front of bikes -- separate ones for each of us, or the poor old bike guys would have had heart attacks-- and we got to tour various neighborhoods. Street crossing here is an art. There's even something in our hotel room giving advice about it, saying to keep a steady pace and don't look back. Well, when you're on the cyclo, helpless to control the action, it's fascinating to look up and see a wall of mopeds heading right at you, death seeming imminent, and then somehow the wave parts and you survive. I just kept laughing every time we made a turn into traffic because, really, what else was there to do? The cyclo driver didn't speak much English, which was actually good because then I could just sit and take in. We passed the lake where John McCain was captured during the Vietnam War (The American War, as they call it here.) We drove through alleys where craftsmen were shaping metal for things like kitchen stove domes. We passed a few temples and vendors and it was just so interesting. Amazingly, although Jordo's cyclo was right in front of mine, and at times I was sure we were going to crash into it, we only bumped once. These Cyclo guys, they know their stuff.

2. We saw a tradiational Vietnamese Water Puppet Show. Water puppets are kinda creepy looking, especially some of the human ones with their fixed stares and crazy smiles. They reminded me, in a way, of the Shuffletown People. That reference will be lost on everyone except Susan, so a quick explanation: In the mid1980s, the three of us shared babysitting duties for a family that lived near me. One of the kids had a game called "Shuffletown." Basically, it was a little village with a firehouse and a school and a store and stuff and the people of Shuffleton glided along through the town to various locales. (You couldn't just lift them up. They were stuck on their shuffle track.) So I would play this with Zack, the oldest boy, and instead of a fun game of playing house and school, it became a shuffling town of horror. All of the townspeople, controlled by Zack, would try and get my one Shuffleperson, who would be frantically shuffling away and getting more and more frustrated since I couldn't just lift him up and run to safety. (I knew I could outrun a 6 year old.) I swear, Zack was like Damien when he was moving those Shuffletown People, surrounding my guy, and I would just scream and try to distract him with treats to save myself. It never worked. My player was always killed by the mob. (Ever since then, the Shuffletown People have appeared in Susan and my lives via postcards or notes they leave around. I think the little bitches even put something in my wedding album.)

But back to the water puppets, see here for more information and a few photos: http://www.thingsasian.com/stories-photos/1239 Basically, it's puppets moving on the surface of the water, their handlers out of sight, and it's pretty cool for the most part, except when your husband says things like, "Imagine them gliding towards you in the tub. Or the shower. Or any body of water, really. Or they'll be in the pipes, using their little puppet hammers to get out" (He says this knowing I had shower anxiety for weeks after seeing "The Ring.")

So the crowd was a bunch of white people like us who, most likely, had no idea what the Vietnamese narrator was saying. (Note: We've noted that at breakfast ,they seem to group the white people together, so we've taken to calling it "Anglo Alley.") Never mind, as the shows were largely without words, just music, and depicted different scenes from village life. Jordo and I danced with the music as it changed and cheered for the dragons and the phoenixes, who got it on right in front of us and produced an egg. We noticed that in many of the sketches, there was one puppet that wasn't quite like the others, so we made it our game to find him in each one. Was he the fish that couldn't jump in sequence with the rest? Had he been demoted to simply holding the water lily puppet in place? What was life backstage like for the puppet handlers? Was their jealousy? Rivalry? Disgust over their gimpy compadre? ("Jesus, did you see how Thi Ca is lead in the phoenix dance today? What genius came up with that idea? His phoenix has the grace of a water buffalo! That should be MY part.")

In short, we laughed and had fun throughout the show.

Not true the woman to my left, Hostile Helga. (She was German.) She glared at both of us for laughing and me in particular for coughing, sneered at the puppets, checked her watch repeatedly, leaned back so it looked like her eyes was closed, whispered to her husband, and seemed to roll her eyes a few times. Really, Helga, you gotta dance with the one who brung you, and with that attitude, you're not going to any OktoberFests.

3. Man oh man oh man, we have been eating so so so so much. Noodles and rice and fried rolls of all sorts and any sort of deliciousness that comes our way. On the plane ride from Bangkok to Hanoi, Jordo asked if he thought the seats were smaller than the ones we'd flown in on. I sadly informed him the seats were the same but our butts were bigger.

More later on "Uncle Ho."

Fonda Hanoi

On our third day in Hanoi now, the first one without any sort of plan or tour so are wandering around the Old Quarter looking for water puppet postcards, a mailbox and a little more propaganda art.

For the past two days we have been squired around by a nice man named Mr. Tuan, who has been very friendly and helpful, albeit a bit rushed. Everytime we are looking around somewhere he will give us a few minutes to look at the wing of a gallery or a collection of photos and then he will reappear hovering sort of passive aggressively until we make eye contact and then he will say we need to keep going. Mr. Tuan would make a good scheduler.

First day was a whirlwind of vietnamese tourist sites. Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum, the Ethnology museum established by the French (I guess after you've colonized a place, it's nice to build a museum to the people you've displaced) and the temple of literature (basically the first university in vietnam). We ended the day watching a water puppet show, which was either too cutesy or very scary or both (imagine the chucky movies, or if you are susan smith burns, the shuffletown people).

Natalie is writing an opus about our 2nd day in halong bay now, so I will be lazy and bullet point some stuff:

1. There are 85,000 people on mopeds at every intersection, very few stop lights and no real stop signs. We have yet to see an accident other than on a long stretch of road where somebody rear ended someone else. People cross streets in a sort of weird interlocking pattern that oddly enough, works.

2. Vietnamese tourist hucksters are far nicer than Thai tourist hucksters. I don't know if it is that they speak less English but they generally drop their entreaties after one attempt.

3. We have started every morning watching either a debate or one of the baseball LCS. It's kind of strange to watch the phillies or obama before 8 am.

4. Internet is $1 an hour. Coke is $1 a can. I know that there is an economic theory that explains it but I still find it weird.

Cruising Halong Bay

When our travel agent sent our first proposed itinerary and it included a trip to this place, I was like, "We can save the money and skip it." It's a 3 hour drive from Hanoi, each way, and then it's just water. I see water all the time, even if it's semi solid water like the Delaware and Schyukill Then we noticed how she'd made special notes about how amazing it was, out of the movie "Indochine," so we agreed to keep this and cut something else.

I am so glad we did that.

The drive from Hanoi was through small towns and fields, with farmers working with water buffalos and a very uncomfortable-looking cow strapped on the bike of a motorbike. (Alive! And probably quite angry.) (Mopeds, the main mode of transport here, are everywhere and I'll get to our near death by two wheeler later. But it's not unusual to see entire families- Mom, Dad, kid and baby -- on one bike. ) It amazes me how much weight someone can carry on the back of their bikes, like bags and bags and bags of vegetables and fruit that are taller than they are when sitting. At one point, I saw someone on a bike ahead and I thought, "Wow. That is some crazy lumpy cellulite" and I realized it was bags of fruit. Oops.

When we finally reached Halong Bay, the early morning fog was clearning and we could see it was a very popular tourist destination: There were busses disloading people and lines to get aboard one of the many sight seeing boats. But we didn't have to worry about any of that. We had OUR OWN BOAT, with OUR OWN CREW. It was the same kind designed for a whole tour group, but our Abercrombie and Kent folk do things in style so it was just us. Soooo coool. We sat atop the boat while Tuan, our guide from Hanoi, told us the legend of Halong Bay: Once upon a time, invaders from the North -- Could've been anybody as the Viet were fighting with the Chinese, Mongols, random folks who got lost, etc. at the time -- came into Halong Bay and started wreaking havoc, killing the fishermen who lived there and destroying villages. The survivors prayed to the heavens for help and their prayers were answered: A mother dragon and her babies came down to the bay and shot jets from their mouths. Those jets became the 1,000 or so rocky islands throughout the bay. The dragons stopped the invaders and made life safe for the Viet people again. Ha Long means "Descending Dragon" in honor of the Mrs. Firebreath who saved everyone. Her children, as children do, eventually had to get back to heaven -- they probably had dates or something -- and the place where she said goodbye to them is "Baby Dragons Bay."

Our first top was a limestone cave that was only discovered in the last 20 years. It was amazingly beautiful. I mean, it's a cave, and I wasn't expecting much, but the height and the design and the natural sculptures were truly awesome. We could pick out different animals in the structures: an elephant, a tiger, and lots and lots of long-tangled jellyfish going up the walls. Jordo and I surmised that when jellyfish rule the world, this will be their town hall. We hope they will be gentle overlords.

After the cave, we rode around the bay a bit and then lunch was served. It had been advertised as a fresh seafood lunch, but since I found that totally gross, they accomodated me with "seapork, seachicken and seabeef." Delicious. And so much food! They kept bringing course after course, with two bottles of wine, and between the good food and the great view and the incredibly hot company, I couldn't have been happier. After lunch, ignoring conventional wisdom, we jumped right into the bay, leaping from the second story of the boat and swimming around it. I could have stayed out there for hours.

Even though we'd really done nothing more strenuous this day but chew and some swimming, we were exhausted by the time we got back to Hanoi around 8 pm so we stayed in, watching bad movies. Message to Sawyer from "Lost" : Whatever possessed you to be in that bad Damien wanna-be film? Even your hotness couldn't save you there. And you know I am very forgiving wherever you are concerned.

More on Hanoi to come.

Phurther Phuket Phollies

So we've left Thailand behind with many promises to be back and arrived in Vietnam. Some wrap up thoughts of Phuket:

1) The first time I ever heard Phuket even mentioned was in winter 2004 after the tsunami. I remember seeing some of the photographs later recovered from people's cameras. They're in their bathing suits, just standing on the beach, watching the water recede. They were probably confused or excited or scared, maybe calling their friends and family to them to come watch the spectacle, maybe shouting for those friends and family to run. I read an article by Jet Li, who was in the Maldives when the tsunami hit, and he described how it didn't come as one torrential wave like in a cartoon. It was more like he took one step and the water was up to his knees and then another and it was at his waist and another and it was at his shoulders until it went over his head and he struggled to keep his daughter above the angry sea.

So we wanted to stop our mindlessness for a moment to remember those people who, like us, were just on vacation and having fun when the world changed.

We'd heard there were underwater memorials but we wanted to see one on land. When we asked the police officer at Patong if there was a memorial on that stretch of beach, a tourism hub, he said no, shrugging, "Thousands of people died here." Since we had read about a memorial at Kamala beach, we asked a tuk-tuk driver how much it would be to get us there. Amazingly, he wasn't even sure where it was, but gave us a price and agreed to look for it since we had a general idea where it would be.

The main memorial can be seen here: http://travel.webshots.com/photo/2020537860098531603SMCwPh
For those who can't open that link, imagine a spiderweb of metal, roughly shaped like a sphere, with what seems to be waves of the same material inside of it. It's huge, about 20 feet high, on a raised patch of earth.

One of the things that struck me was the wording on it. It was not angry or regretful. In part, it read, "“Natural disaster is caused by a shift of nature to obtain equilibrium of the earth. Motions and forces of nature are inseparable. Its dynamism includes connecting, flowing and changing things ranging from atomic structure, physical chemistry, human behaviour to inner universe as a cycle of life linking everything to one.”

A little further away, on the beach, there was another memorial placed by Japan. It, too, had a subdued tone, something about paying respect to the Andaman Sea so it would respect you -- us -- back. It made me think of the offerings we'd made on our boating trip. I hope to stay forever on the Sea's good side.

2) Back to frivolity: A bunch of Australians we met on our boating outing told us we HAD to go to Bangla Road and oh, wasn't it the bestest and funnest. So that's how we spent our last night, amazed at the skankiness that was Bangla Road. (Note remarkable restraint in not making any "Bang-her Road" jokes. And to the pervs out there who commented on where we're visiting: Phuket is NOT pronounced the way you think it is, so stop it with your little remarks.)

We were saying it was another Bourbon Street, Thailand. But much, much, much worse. The sex tourist quota was way high. The minute a guy entered one of the bars, he had a lady at his side, and he could buy her a drink at a reduced "lady drink" price so indicated on the menu.

Jordo and I camped out at one bar for a bit, drinking Long Island Iced Teas out of glasses shaped like naked ladies (Me: "Watch your hands, sicko! You're married now!" Jordo: "It's a glass!") We watched what was obviously, tragically, a relationship based on nothing more than the exchange of bhat develop near us. We noticed another couple watching, too, and I walked over to ask them if they thought they were seeing what we thought we thought we were seeing. The couple, from Holland, agreed.

We saw other couples find each other in this way. In one bar, the older white man was holding the young Thai girl's arm, as if she couldn't bear to touch his hand. (Well, Julia Roberts's big standard was she didn't kiss her johns on the lips.) (Incidentally, we've been talking about judging people based on superficial factors and how wrong and it and I had to admit it: I look down on people who like "Pretty Woman." I'm trying to be better about this.) (No offense, T.)

We saw another couple walking together and it looked like he was trying to turn into the McDonald's. Like, "Oh, I said I'd get you a meal, too? Have a happy one." The woman resisted and there seemed to be a little argument. Then the woman went down on her knees in front of the man, causing me to gasp. (Especially since we were like Stalker Jack and Jill, right next to them.) She got up and they seemed to make up and they walked on. Jordo mused that maybe she was just trying to show her submission to her manly man who has to pay for companionship.

It was disturbing. And sad. And it could have been funny, too, if Jordo had just heard me out and gone through with my plan to have him enter a bar alone while I stood outside and observed for a little while. He declined, possibly thinking I would evilly observe for way too long or shoot incriminating photos. Such trust issues, we have in this marriage.....

(That said, please note that when Jordo was getting a Thai massage, I pulled back the curtain a few times and took photos that could be seen as incriminating -- i.e., woman sitting on his back, smiling. I plan to keep these on hand in case he ever says he wants to run for public office as I will not be a good pol's wife. I had that reinforced while watching Michelle Obama's speech at the DNC, when I thought, "Michelle, tell these people to bite your tall drink of water self and vote for your husband because he's the best, dammit. That's what I'd do.")

3) Jordo did the "Palin, Palin" thing while we were shopping on Bangla Road and one man actually answered back, questioningly, "Palin?" Later, when we walked by that guy again, he shouted, "Palin! Palin!" You have to be flexible in retail.

More later.

Patong Beach is No Jersey Shore

Because as best as I can tell, the Jersey shore doesn't have prostitute bars.

Really, Patong is the worst. It's a bunch of young australians on something called 40 trip (imagine frat spring break weekend but more group songs), and old pervy euros with thai girls who are pushing 18 at best. Aside from that there was a group of Australian women way overdressed (it's a crappy beach town and they come in looking like extras for the Grammy's) and your intrepid bloggers.

So what do we do? Well we wander around for a while and finally settle at what appears to be some random dive bar with a bunch of australians. We get menus for drinks and below the list of beers and liquors is the little heading "lady drink". Does this mean women can only have soft drinks and the like? No, fear not, lady drink is what you order for the bar girl that keeps you company. We realized this after looking over at some white guy pushing 60 who was chatting away with a Thai girl who looked at best 22 (a hard living 22, but still).

Not wanting to jump to conclusions, we sought out the only other couple in the bar (dutch duo in their 30's or 40's) and asked their opinion. They were with us, they guy was a sex tourist all the way. As if to confirm our collective suspicions the old guy haggled with the thai girl for a bit, started kissing for a few minutes and then walked off hand in hand. Ahh Patong.

This repeated at each bar we went to. Some old whiteguy sitting their trying to hit on some remarkably bored looking Thai girl who was at best 1/3 of his age.

Did I mention the drinks we ordered? They came in glasses shaped like headless naked women. And our check number? 69. Same as everyone else's check there.

Stay classy Patong Beach, someone has to.

Phun Phactoids Phrom Phuket

So much to tell! But because we've got some serious leisuring to do here on our last day in Phuket, I'm just going to do a bullet point review of some of our adventures/observations:

1. "Boss! Madame!" That is how people try to get our attention when we walk down the streets any tourist-y place, be it Bangkok, the Floating Markets, or on Phuket's Bourbon Street. I've found I can dazzle them into silence by just rattling off a bunch of Italian, even if the English translation is something like, "I'm sorry. I love my cats! I'm hungry. Where is the Piazza Repubblica? Don't you know that a woman who doesn't have children doesn't have a house?" (That last line is one I had to memorize for a play I was in in Florence, "La Mandragola." It was just so ironic at the time, that I had to say this as I played the nagging mother-in-law, that I never forgot it. I will perform on request when I get back home.)

Jordo, however, has more problems blowing people off. He tried to say, "I'm sorry" in Italian but kept forgetting the words. Then he went Spanish with "Lo siento." Sadly, too many people recognized that and began speaking Spanish back to him. So he made up his own language. So far, it has one word and that's the word for "no": Palin. So when hawkers say, "Boss, boss. Good deal for you on shirts. Hand made," Jordo brushes them off with, "Palin, Palin" and keeps walking. Only I am amused.

2. Negotiating prices. We'd been told before we got here how people love the bartering and, let me tell you, I hate the bartering. It gets so dramatic! At the Floating Market, we'd automatically offer about half or a third less than the listed price, then it would take 20 minutes of heavy sighing and jumping up and down and arm grabbing (on the part of the sellers) to finally settle on a final price. Seriously, if they could just tell me, honestly, the lowest price they'd take, I would happily give them 100 bhat more (about $3) just to end this dance. Every transaction takes too long for my liking.

That said, we got some cool stuff at the Floating Market, including a spirit house. Spirit Houses are everywhere here, dwellings on the outside of homes to keep the good spirits close and the bad spirits out of the inside of the house. People give offerings to their spirit houses everyday, ranging from flowers to food to beer. We hope to get ours home safely.

Jordo also got some pants, and in the spirit of negotiating, he told me to act like I hated them when he put them on. So when he did, I started laughing. Then he got confused, not sure if this was a true mockery or savvy technique. I tried to indicate it was the latter, and when the girl handed me the calculator to ask how much I would let him pay for the pants, I put in all zeros. It worked OK, as we got them pretty cheaply.

3. Here at the beach and by the pool in Phuket, the Speedo craze is alive and well. One of our favorite gentlemen so nattily dressed has been nicknamed, "Admiral Partypants" as he wears his tiny black Speedo and a jaunty white captain's hat. He is about 65 or so with a belly to rival Santa's. That said, he still enjoys strutting up and down the length of the pool, letting all the sunbathers take a good look at him. Of course, J has dubbed him my boyfriend, and the various other older Speedo wearers --- including Mr. "I love my leopard print undies" -- are just shipmates on the Admiral's Cruise of Love. We have been here days and I have never seen the Admiral clothed in anything other than this outfit. (I'd also like to add I have never seen the Admiral clothed in anything less than this, just in case the rumors of my love for the Admiral go international.)

4. Yesterday, at the recommendation of friends, we went on a boat/cave junket. It was pretty awesome. It was an all day affair, starting before noon and getting us back by 9 pm. Loved it. Gorgeous scenary, like "Lost," with the jutting rocks and the beaches and trees. (We discussed how we'd do if we were stranded there like "Lost." Answer: Jordo would be well liked by the fellow islanders. I would be burned as a witch.) We got to canoe on our own, jump off the top of the two story boat and into the Andaman Sea, avoid jellyfish, see some caves where the tops were so narrow at times that we had to lie back in our canoe and visit others so cavernous that we could chat with bats squeaking from the ceiling. (No vampire bats, our guides assured us ahead of time, but like that would have been a problem.) As it got dark, we worked with our guide, Max, to make an offering to the water god, constructing it of banana leaf and tree, yellow carnations and purple orchids, three pieces of incense for Budda, his monks and his holy book, and candles. We let these offerings free after dark in an inlet, reachable by cave, that was surrounded by steep mountain walls. Our offerings, floating with all the others, was so beautiful. Very peaceful. On our way back through the cave, we splashed the water to see the plankton glow like fireflies. Jordo noted that because it was so cloudy we didn't have any stars in the sky. I said they were in the sea.

5. Throughout this trip, my traveling companion has taken to referring to himself as "J-Dog" and in the third person, as in "J-Dog doesn't roll that way" or "J-Dog can't help but be popular with the ladies" or, one of my favorites, "That's now how J-Dog does." (Wrong. On so many levels.) J-Dog started this campaign on the plane to Tokyo and had said it would stop when we landed. It has not. We leave for Hanoi tomorrow and I was reading in our guidebook about the "exotic" foods the Vietnamese eat, which includes dogs. Fair warning, J-Dog.

More later!

Phuket

After running all around Bangkok we finally reached the lazy beach portion of this trip. Phuket, an island on the central east side of Thailand, appears to be ground zero for Russian and Australian tourists.

The flight here, while short, at least provided the possiblity of our first real sex tourist sighting. Unfortunately it wasn't.

Right across the aisle from us was an australian guy, 50's, heavy set chatting up a Thai girl who couldn't have been more than 20 years old. Chatting up is probably incorrect, he did all of the talking and I didn't hear her say more than one word. He kept going on about his weight loss plans (needed) and that he doesn't talk to his daughter anymore (which makes sense, since he was probably hitting on all of her friends).

Immediately we were shocked. We had figured the sex tourist thing was sort of a one shot deal at a brothel or something, not a situation where you fly some young Thai girl to a resort getaway and force her to listen to you drone on about your previous trips to Phuket. All sorts of etiquette question arose. Do you pay for both flight? What about meals, do you get her something at the airport or just rely on the airplane food? What about bags, can she bring an extra over the 2 bag limit? Do you pay for that too?

Sadly are hopes were dashed when we realized at the end of the flight that while he may very well be a sex tourish, she was just some poor Thai girl stuck next to him on the flight. He offered her his phone number which she dutifully listened to and appeared to ask him to repeat, all the while never writing it down.

After the bad sleep in Bangkok, we both came down with a little bit of sickness, so have spent most of the paast two days lazing at the pool and drinking Orange Squash. It's not squash, but rather some orange juice concentrate that you add water to until it tastes, well, a little more like orange juice.

We're off to the beach town of Patong tonight, which promises to be kind of like the jersey shore, just more australians and transvestites/transsexuals.

Protest Thai Style

So far we have wandered around: 1. the garrison of protesters taking over the government building, 2. the euro travel street (now named Bourbon Street Thailand by Nat) and 3. the Patpong sex district. Only the first one was worth seeing.

Natalie already did a good job describing the kindness of the protesters but I wanted to add a couple of things.

First, they are insanely clean. Everywhere we walked there were people eating and drinking water, but you would be hard pressed to find an empty bottle or styrofoam food container laying around the ground. In the middle of one of the speeched that everyone seemed to be paying attention to. there were still 4 or 5 people in one area sweeping the dirt off of the main walk.

Second, they were a pretty mixed bunch. Old and young seemed mixed together relatively well and if there were divisions a la Move On and ANSWER during the gulf war you couldn't tell from looking at the signs.

Finally, it's sort of a weird mix between the actions of the protesters and the opions of the folks around them. It's not a bunch of long haired hippy types protesting and the establishment folks having at best a muted response and at worst Bill O'Reily type anger. Yesterday a group of doctors refused to treat the policeman injured in the tear gas incident because of the thuggish tactics. The day before two pilots for Thai Airlines refused to fly with members of parliament on board their plane. I keep trying to imagine what would have happened if people had taken over Capitol Hill and then there was a mini-scale riot just trying to push them back to the grounds they had already been holding for a month. Hard to see public opinion (much less doctors and pilots putting their jobs on the line) on the side of the protesters.

Zev

Yesterday we ventured out of the city, taking a tour to one of the floating markets and seeing a show in a traditional "Thai village" although it was a totally set up village for tourists. Lots of fun and good shopping and adventures to be had by one and all.

The bus already filled with people picked us up at our hotel in the early morning and headed into the countryside. Our guide filled us in on what we were passing, but it seemed like she only knew the word for "right" so everything was on the "righthand side." I was looking out the window, thinking, "Wait a minute. There's nothing on the right. But there seems to be something similar to what she's describing on the left. Does she want us to keep looking right until we circumnavigate the globe and turn up left?" (Jordo was listening to his ipod during this ride so he missed it but I filled him in later while I was climbing a coconut tree. Listening carefully to the guide, he concluded she was saying "left" sometimes but it sounded like, "ref" so the r-sound was throwing me off.)

Our fellow travelers were a mildly interesting bunch, including a group of three we called the "Romanian Dance Team" (RDT), which appeared to featured two parents and a daughter but whose relationships with each other were clouded later in the trip. (On the ride back to Bangkok, the alleged father and daughter were holding hands in a way I've never held my father's fand. "Dad" also kissed "daughter" fondly at one point during the ride.)

But the most memorable fellow tourist was Zev.

Zev was from Israel. He was travelling with a blond woman wearing sweatpants that said "Brasil" across the butt. He was completely bald, tall and husky, but in shape. He seemed a bit too suave for school.

We, of course, concluded he was Mossad and spent the rest of the day trip 1) trying to determine his mission and 2) thinking up ways to trip him up so he'd blow his cover: "Wow, Zev, check out that guy over there with the 'I (heart) Iran's Revolutionary Guard' shirt. Kinda crazy, eh? Where would someone buy one of those?" Then when Zev followed the man into the bathroomm then emerged smiling moments later while he put an "Out of Order" sign on the door, we'd know.)

Everything Zev did, we tried to tie back to his days fighting terrorists for his home state. When we met people with snakes around their necks who offered to let us hold the pythons for a small fee, Zev got as freaked out as someone with his military training would allow themselves to get. He walked away from the snakes while his companion laughed and kept saying, "Oh, give him the snake. He likes snakes" while Zev shook his head and, probably, readied the knife in his pocket. Jordo and I pondered this fear: Earlier mission gone awry? Overemphasis with Indiana Jones?

When we talked to Zev, he told us of the many places he'd visited in the US, including both coasts and Las Vegas, which kept us busy trying to remember if any world leaders had been assassinated lately in any of those places. He told us he lived outside Tel Aviv, but note he didn't say exactly where.

You have to be careful if you're Zev.

Jordo wondered if the woman with Zev was his wife and I guessed it was his girlfriend, partially because high-flying James Bond types don't have wives and, if they did, they left them at home to take care of the house while they toured the world with their dalliances. (Sorry, I'm standing in the way of your jet-setting lifestyle of espionage, Jordo.) We then turned her into one of Zev's missions: Her Brasil-loving pants revealed her familiarity with South America, her blonder than blond hair meant she could have been of German descent. Could Zev's relationship with her be part of a long-running mission to bring the woman's Nazi father to justice? "He's just like Eric Bana in that movie," Jordo whispered to me at one point, referring to "Munich."

Zev, of course, was completely unaware of our wackiness and did not notice the way we followed him around the Thai village. As we prepared to watch a Muy Thai and dance performance, we realized we had to move into the center seating area, but to do so would have put us right next to Zev. "He'll think we're following him," J said, even though we were. We chose to sit a few rows behind Zev and Eva Braun, amazed he even let someone sit in his blind spot.

When we parted with Zev, he told us he was leaving the city to go to the north of Thailand. God knows what will happen there. Please note:
Zev arrives in Bangkok = Formerly peaceful protest turns deadly and violent.
Zev goes to Northern Thailand = Myanmar border skirmishes? Declaration of war with Cambodia?

Stay tuned.

Fortunately, we are leaving today and heading south for the beach area of Phuket, which promises to be calm and soothing, even if it was hit by the tsunami. At least Zev won't be there.

But I wonder where he was in December 2004.

Where we work

Since Natalie is composing some sort of awesome opus next to me as a check debate stuff on the web, I'll avoid the tally of the day.

For the past three days we have been doing our interneting at a little place up the street from our hotel (which despite their claims does not offer free internet, well unless "free" means $5 hour).

We entered some sort of monthlong school holiday where all of the other patrons are boys under the age of 15. All are sitting around, wearing headphones and playing world of warcraft with each other. Apparently this is a big game in Thailand because last night the local espn channel showed the World of Warcraft World (?) championships during prime time.

There is one kid though, who may at best be 8 years old and when he sits in the chair in front of his computer his legs can't touch the floor. All he does is sit there with headphones on playing some version of Mario Kart and giggling. He has done this now both times since we have been here and when we came in today we didn't see him. Sure enough about 15 minutes later we hear the same giggle/scream from the other room. He's back on the racetrack.

Sorry we haven't gotten more picture up, but we don't have a flash drive yet. Will try and add more graphics as we can.

We Laugh in the Face of Danger ---- Then Run and Hide until It Goes Away

Watching TV yesterday morning, we saw shots of protesters outside the government buildings in Bangkok. It seemed awfully civilized when we were watching, with everyone kind of standing around and sipping water. At one point, it looked like a protester and a police officer were sharing water. We made up dialogue for them: "What are you doing for lunch? I'm thinking Pad Thai." "I'd come but I have to refill my tear gas canister. Maybe dinner?"

"Pshaw," we said. "This is not an uprising." Jordan noted that he would only start to worry if 1) someone died or 2) they were lighting cars on fire. "Learn from our people!" we shouted to the calm rioters on TV.

(What's going on: The government has been shaky since 2006, when the then-Prime Minister was ousted in a coup and accused of corruption and abuse of power. He is now in London to avoid trial. The first man who replaced him was accused of simply being a proxy and members of the People's Alliance for Democracy (PAD) took up occupancy outside government buildings six weeks ago and pledged to stay there until that man was removed from office. A court did that in September, but then the protesters were further pissed off when Parliament elected the bad former PM's brother-in-law as the new PM, and if you think people were shouting "conflict of interest" before, now they're bellowing it. According to The Washington Post, "The People's Alliance for Democracy include royalists, wealthy and middle-class urban residents and union activists, all of whom feel threatened by political and social change. ... The alliance claims Thailand's electoral system is susceptible to vote-buying, and that the rural majority, the [supporters of the original Prime Minister are] not sophisticated enough to cast ballots responsibly.") (A time line of events can be found here: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/10/07/AR2008100701425.html)

So last night, as you may recall, we'd planned to go to Rama V's statue for our pilgrimage -- and to check out the scene, since the Parliament was nearby, even though Tim said, "Do not go up there. Too dangerous. For me." (We were sitting in the backseat and I didn't respond to this and Jordo side mouthed, "We're going, aren't we." I nodded, "Of course.") She told us how perceived danger was driving away tourists, and tourism is the country's biggest industry.

BUT, when we tried to take a taxi from our hotel to that area, we were told no driver would get close because it was too close to the "mob," as everyone kept calling it.

This morning, we get to breakfast and pick up the Bangkok Post and it's all, "Brink of Anarchy!" Two people died, there was a picture of a car on fire, and some other people had lost limbs, including a man who allegedly had a bomb in his pocket that he was not happy to see. Tear gas had been used. Protesters were determined to interrupt the new PM's first speech to Parliament, blocking the building and refusing to let the members leave. PM, target of so much outrage, climbed over a fence to escape.

Uh oh.

So of course, we had to go to the government center.

We had to lie a bit to get there: We told our driver we wanted to go to the boxing stadium not far away. Driving along the main street, there were a few uniformed officers standing around, but they did not inspire worry or fear since 1) I outweigh every Thai woman and 2) I outweigh about half of the Thai men. (They are tiny! My monstrous American body would shrug off their attempts to club me. ) Plus, Jordo noted earlier when we saw soldiers at the airport that their guns didn't have clips.

So we get dropped off at the stadium. As our driver pulled away, Jordo was like, "Wait until he's out of sight. We don't want him to think we lied to him." Meanwhile, driver, happily speeding away with bhat in hand, never looking back at two dumb Yankees who are looking for trouble.)

So the mob scene: Today, it was anything but. In fact, it was one of the cleanest, calmest protests that I'd ever seen.

Since people have been camped out here since August, they have sleeping areas roped off, people cooking food and giving it away for free, vendors selling t-shirts, and massive amounts of bottled water. Many people were wearing their yellow PAD t-shirts and just hanging out, talking quietly. We were greeted with smiles and allowed to take pictures whenever we asked -- One man, noting that we had just taken a picture of a door mat imprinted with a "Wanted" poster and images of the former PM and his wife, gestured us back for another photo that featured his feet near their heads. There was a featured speaker in a separate area -- we were allowed in after a quick pat for weapons -- and the loudest people got was when they agreed with something she said and they rattled their plastic clapping hands like the ones people use at sporting events.

In one area, we saw police riot gear just lying about, as if the police had said, "Hey, do you guys mind if we store this here in case we need it later? It's a bitch to drag these shields around." I saw one man that appeared injured -- he had a bandage across his nose-- but it's unknown how that happened or if it even had anything to do with this situation.

But honestly, walking here and seeing this? It felt real. We'd gone to an area of the city for dinner last night that felt like Bourbon Street and it was icky and fake and filled with tourists like us. The scene around the government center was real life, whether we liked it or not.

And when you're in one part of the city, say near our hotel or at any of the monuments, you don't know bad things are happening elsewhere. Maybe people are talking about it in the streets and we just don't know it beause we don't speak the language, but I don't think so. Jordo and I were wondering if there'd been similar deadly protests on Capital Hill, would people in Georgetown act differently? You would think so.

We were told many times before coming here about how friendly Thais are and it's been true, to the point that we paranoid Americans are always like, "What's the angle? Why is this guy talking to us in the street? What does he want?" Most of the time, it seems, he/they want nothing more than to be friendly and help. We found that same welcoming spirit among the protesters.

Of course, later in the afternoon, multiple dudes tried to scam us and we got into a cab where the driver faked a break down after going around in a circle since we wouldn't agree to let him take us on a longer guided tour and then demanded money (He got less than $1), but we still believe most people are good-hearted. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Aside: Jordo suggested I name the future country that I rule as Queen, "Natistan." I am considering it. I like the idea of "Natistanis."

Day 2

OKay now finally on some sort of schedule that doesn't involve waking up at 5 am and then wanting to sleep all day. Spent the day touring the grand palace and riding the river on a boat. Got caught in the rain in the middle of the river.

Bangkok is hot hot hot. Ninety degrees before 10 am. This is great for Natalie, who really would love to live in Northern Sweatlandia. Not so good for myself, as if I don't get back into A/C every two hours or so I will turn into a pool of salt water.


Side note, I am on day 3 of election detox. Before I left I promised myself and Natalie that I wouldn't obsessively read blogs or poll websites. So far so good. Palin could have singlehandedly stopped the financial meltdown and captured Bin Laden and I would have no idea (if that didn't happen please don't tell me, I can save the grieving until I get back).

Some thoughts:

1. Man the Thai King loves to see himself in photos. Except we finally saw a present day photo and maaan has the king let himself go. Sort of like only knowing Al Pacino from "Scarface" and then seeing Al Pacino in "88 Minutes."

2. You can't walk 50 feet without finding some good small food vendor. The best part is that the food on the street runs the gamut from grilled vegetables to fresh fruit to fried chicken. Clearly I am leaning on the latter vendors.

3. I can't pass other tourists without thinking "I wonder if they are on a sex tour." I can't pass a tourist walking alone without thinking "that person is definitely on a sex tour."

4. I brought too many pairs of shorts. Only schoolkids or guys working construction wear shorts. I feel like an ass.

5. Bangkok traffic is a lot like Philadelphia, but with waaayy fewer stop lights and a lot more of those little pocket bikes that got banned from here.

Royalty

Throughout Bangkok, you see photos -- some billboard size -- of the king and queen. The King, the 9th of his line, is the longest reigning monarch in the world and is, according to our tour guide, quite beloved.

Still, in some cases, you would have thought he would have chosen better photos of himself to display. And maybe he could crack a smile once in a while, unless he, like Dwight Schrute, thinks bearing teeth is a sign of weakness. (I told Jordo that when I am Queen of Nataland, I will definitely have total control of which photos of me are displayed. In fact, I'm sure there will be quite a few incidents where my people come to me and say, 'Queen Natalie, all of those photos of you look just like actress Anne Hathaway. In fact, I will wager those are Anne Hathaway. Surely there is some mistake?" Then I will have that person beheaded as a symbol to all to not question the !ueen. If she wants to pretend she's Anne Hathaway, so be it. It's like the Emperor's new clothes. You just go with it.)

We had a fabulous day yesterday with Tim, our guide, who took us on a tour of the Grand Palace and filled us in on all things royal. We walked through a museum of royal relics, including ancient betel nut containers since, at one time, it was believed white teeth were for animals and the royal humans liked chewing this narcotic nut until their mouths were red and their teeth turned black. (Jordo had this in India and I was up for trying it until he described the constant spitting that goes along with it. ) We saw robes of real gold and jewels galore, all made more interesting by the presence of Tim. (My travel opinion : I'm a big believer in guided tours, even when you go to a museum to see an exhibit, get the audio headset. It's so much more enriching.)

One thing I noticed: When Tim talked about the King, it was with the fondness and respect one uses to describe a grandfather. "Our King," she's day, proudly boasting of his accomplishments like he was part of her family. In English, he is Rama IX, which is fortuitous as 9 is a lucky number in Thailand. (In your face, 7!) She had the same familiarity and affection in her voice when discussing Kings of the past, noting how Rama IV, 5 generations ago, negotiated with Europe to ensure Thailand in the one country in SE Asia that was never colonized. (That's the King featured in "The King and I," although he is not bald and Yul Brenner-like in museum images.) Another King, Rama V, now worshipped as a quasi-God, liked cigars and the color pink, thus those paying homage to him bring those items to his statue weekly.

Even dress is determined by the Kings, in a way. We were on a commuter boat and I noticed a lot of people were wearing yellow shirts. It was clearly not a school group as some were old, some young, and none of the shirts matched. So I asked Tim. Yellow was worn on Mondays, she explained, out of respect to the current king, who was born on a Monday. The practice started about 10 years ago to mark his birthday. (It was his 70th, I think.) Tuesday was a day to wear pink, as the past King I mentioned above was born on a Tuesday. Every day has a color to honor a past royal. (This Tuesday morning, Jordo and I noticed a ton of pink shirts going by -- and one or two yellow ones, prompting J to say, "Look at them, doing their yellow walk of shame.") (I guess during my reign, people will wear a lot of black. Or, to make myself look better, I'll make the common folks were ridiculously bright colors.)

Tim also knew the King and Queen's birthdays -- hers August 12 and his December 5 -- and talked about the celebrations surrounding those days. The King's sister died earlier this year but her final resting ceremony has been postponed until the end of rainy system. Tim told us how every day, monks from around the country come to the Grand Palace to pray for her. On the front page of the Bangkok Post this morning, was a photo of an elaborate gold ship on a float, going down the street, bearing the sister's ashes.

Tonight, we will go to the ceremony for V. We will be bringing him cigars and pink flowers.

Gotta go buy some silk, or at least look at it. More later!

Quick background information for those who asked: We are in Thailand and Vietnam until the end of October on a delayed honeymoon. We booked a lot of things through a travel agent, meaning we have people meeting us at the airports in Bangkok, Phuket, Hanoi, Hue and Hoi Chi Min City. Stylin'.

One Sleepless Night in Bangkok

After the monstrous 14 hour flight to Tokyo, we arrived to find our connecting flight to Bangkok delayed. Six hours in the International Section of the Narita Airport, here we go:

1. There were 4,300 different duty free shops, 50% of which had the same name and seemed to be selling the same brand name things (cigarettes, alcohol, cosmetics).

2. In one hour I think I spent rougly $500 dollars on ice coffee trying to get myself on schedule for Thai time and avoid jetlag. I have had this problem before with currency that starts at like 100 something per dollar. All of a sudden I think it is 1,000 something per dollar and start thinking I am getting the greatest deal on the planet. Then I realize later I am not. The last time this happened I paid $20 for oatmeal in italy. As there was neither gold nor cocaine in the oatmeal, it was definitely not a good deal.

3. Normally I like to buy a crappy thriller to read on the plane. Normally I read it all the way through. They are never very good, but at least it kills the time and is vaguely interesting. This is the first time that I ever had to throw it away. Thanks, author of "The Sanctuary" (I can't even remember his name now). You totally suck.

4. At least five people on our flight were sex tourists. I am positive.

Right now we are sitting in an internet cafe surrounded by high schoolers all playing some linked in dungeons and dragons game. Don't they have school or something?

One Night in Bangkok

We made it. (Tricia, stop worrying. You can look at the internet and watch the news again now.) The flight was fine, just a little long, especially as we had to wait 6 hours in Tokyo for our connecting flight to Bangkok. Some kind of delay, but don't ask us what kind as we couldn't read a thing.

We got in around midnight, met by a guide holding a sign with our names. We then made her pose with the sign and my stuffed 34-year-old Snoopy bean bag, who is playing "Flat Stanley" or "Travelocity Gnome" for this trip.

Big day ahead. More later, but we just wanted everyone to know we're fine! So excited to be here!
NXP

Completely random: Jordan would like to send the following message to the Facebook world: If you send another Lil' Green Patch request, he will kill you. However, in the interest of being green, he will compost your body.

In case of emergency....

We're going to keep Jordan's phone operational when overseas but people should call us ONLY IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY since it costs $3,000 a minute to talk there. (Or $3. Something like that.) Just remember: What you think is an emergency might not be something I consider an emergency.

A guideline:

EXAMPLE 1: Our house burns down. The cats are OK.
RULING: This is NOT an emergency.
If the house is gone, the house is gone. Telling us we've lost all of our worldly goods won't bring them back and would only ruin our trip. Take the cats to your house and give them treats and love. Save your Debbie Downer update until you pick us up from the airport.

EXAMPLE 2: Our house burns down. The cats are NOT OK.
RULING: This is NOT an emergency.
Because we are never going to know the cats aren't OK. Your job is to now find exact replacement cats and fast. Good luck finding a grouch like Bourre, a needy cuddle slut like Rocky and and a Lady Licks-A-Lot like Spike.

EXAMPLE 3: Some sort of professional or personal humiliation befalls someone we don't like; not fatal but amusing.
RULING: This is NOT an emergency BUT you must email details immediately. Perhaps send a text alerting us so we can run to an internet cafe.

EXAMPLE 4: A bizarre Bermuda Triangle accident causes the disappearance of the following major league baseball teams: Red Sox, White Sox, Blue Jays, Angels, Mariners, Rays, Orioles, Twins, Tigers, Rangers, Indians, A's, and Royals. The New York Yankees, the sole surviving AL team, are forced to represent the league in the World Series.
RULING: This IS an emergency.
Call immediately. Have a game schedule handy. Buy tickets if you can.

NXP

GETTNG BACK INTO THE GAME

Hello Internets, long time no see.

Since we are going back on the road we figured it would be a good idea to put the mass e-mails back up here.

Here's hoping they have beignets in Thailand.