SPAIN: Malaga-Granada-Capileira

SPAIN: Malaga
Fortunately, getting to the city center from the airport was a no-brainer, since very few of my brain cells were functioning at this point. I took a train into town and left my big bag in a locker at the main station (baggage all goes through screening @ RENFE for anyone entering), then summoned the energy from some mystical place to see what I could of the city. Hungry, my first thought was to find some food. Upon turning the corner away from the station, I happened upon a “Chocolate y Churros” stand, which was exactly what I needed: fried, sugary comfort food! And since my first Spanish textbook in the 7th grade was titled “Churros y Chocolate,” I took it as a good omen!

As for those Spanish studies, they were clearly going to serve me well. Suddenly, I could read signs! Communicate in complete sentences! Even express the occasional complex thought! Really, it was the first time in seven months that I’d been in a country whose language I spoke. Oh, it was so good and easy—and then I thought: “wait ‘til I get home—it’ll feel like I’m cheating when everything happens in English!” I even blend in a little bit here, not only because there are so many tourists, but because Spaniards have all different haircolors, so I can even pass as a native if I don’t have to talk too much…

I made my way to the pretty and colorful city center, where I took in the excellent new Picasso Museum, which was first on my to-do list. I walked next to the Cathedral, which was standardly cathedral-y, and then on to the Alcazaba, an impressive Muslim palace-fortress with pretty views over the coast. By then I was hungry again, and the only nearby quickfix was a Subway, and while it’s pretty much against my traveling religion to eat at a western chain, I wanted something I could get fast and carry, so I got a sandwich and a Pepsi Light (Hooray! I must be back in the west, where diet sodas abound!). I hiked above the Alcazaba to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, of which not much remains but the ramparts. They are vast and walkable, however, and afford almost 360 degrees of city views. I tried to descend on more foresty and less touristy paths, but they kept dead-ending, so I turned around instead of opting for the steep, cactus-ridden hillside.

Determined to dip my toes in the Mediterranean Sea, I walked to la Playa de la Malagueta and strolled the shore with my shoes off. The beach was pretty if not stunning, but it was nice to have sand in my toes and salt air in my nose. Of greater interest was the topless factor. I realized that I’d never been to a topless beach, and let me tell you, it’s distracting! I can look at boobs anytime I want, nudity is all good with me, and yet I still had to work hard not to stare. I was surprised at how the unfamiliarity of the scene was such a shock. I’d see a guy and a woman talking, she was beautiful and tanned and had darned nice breasts, and I just didn’t know how he could be carrying on a conversation AND keeping his eyes up. I guess he’d had practice.

I headed back in the direction of the train station, and along the way got info as to bus departures to Granada. I took photos and window shopped en route to picking up my bags and schlepping them to the bus station, where I got a snack (basically a huge meatball and fries) for the ride on what was a very comfy bus. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall asleep, as I’d been in serious danger of doing so while walking at several points during the day.

SPAIN: Granada
From the main bus station, I caught a city bus to the center of the old city, then shopped around for what seemed like forever before I sucked it up and paid for a double room (shared bath), as no singles seemed to be available anywhere. I treated myself to a trip to the ice cream place I’d seen, then collapsed, exhausted, for a good, long sleep!

Finally rested, I began the next day with breakfast of a Spanish omelet and coffee in a nearby café, got then walked down Calle de Reyes Catolicos, the main drag. I did a little window shopping and bought some excellent spring-green shoes, then found a single room for the next two nights and moved my stuff there.

I got some basic information and a map (it turns out that the office of tourism in Spain really has its act together, and every office has good maps, all in the same style) from one of the tourist offices, then began my mission to see everything I could, aside from La Alhambra, which I’d have to get up early for the next day. In the Albayzin neighborhood of narrow and winding cobblestone streets lined with white buildings, I saw La Iglesia de Santa Ana, La Colegiata del Salvador, Arco de las Pesas, Alminar de San Jose, and Mirador San Nicolas, an excellent viewpoint overlooking the town to La Alhambra. Then I headed up to Sacramonte, the gypsy neighborhood, to investigate flamenco performance sites and wander around. Strangely, my book made almost no mention of this area, where there were more astounding views of La Alhambra and more white buildings scrambling up and caves burrowing into the hillsides, all bordered by a huge wall running to the west. I had been told that you could walk along the wall, but a gypsy I met when hiking toward it (“you’re in my home,” –as in on his property–oops!) advised me against it, as it was a poor area that had seen some recent conflicts. Oh. OH. But it was a happy accident that I’d trespassed, as I learned a lot about their lifestyle and artistry and history, and he was pleased that I could speak well (I was having a good language day…) and forgiving of my honest error.

I went back through the Albayzin and the main street of tourist shops (a lot of the handicrafts sold seem to be souvenirs of the world that I’d seen all over Asia. Other items are newer versions of things that mom already collected forty years ago!). I was starving, so I didn’t stop to browse, and made a beeline for a falafel restaurant in Plaza Nueva. I enjoyed a bursting sandwich outside, made a reservation for flamenco that night, then went to see La Catedral, which was gorgeous and white and sunlit inside, and La Capilla Real, an elaborate mausoleum for the Catholic monarchs—kindof ooky. El Monasterio de San Jeronimo was a ways west, but worth the walk for its stunning colors and lack of tourists.

Somehow I found my way to a student-populated area, complete with trendy thrift shops, so of course I spent time there and bought a bunch of fun clothes, including a light leather jacket. Having accumulated even more bulk, I got info at the post office (mailing the box was going to be MUCH easier here) about shipping overseas, then tried new ice cream flavors on the way back to my hostal, where I changed for the flamenco performance. Downstairs, I met up with four Seattle women (Kim, Amy, Shauna—vascular techs, and Kitty—events planner at a golf club) waiting for the same shuttle to the show in Sacramonte, and had a beer (from the vending machine!) with them (of course beverages weren’t allowed on the shuttle that showed up as soon as we’d cracked them open, so the American girls all chugged on the sidewalk).

It took us forever to get to Sacramonte, as we seemed to take the longest, least direct route possible to what would have been a twenty-minute slow walk from the hostal. We got to the cave and got the last seats (we were on the back of the bus) the farthest from the action, and it was completely touristy, but I still loved every minute of it. Art with balls! They had the fabulously loud dresses you’d expect, and sang and stomped up a storm. I was a little bummed that there weren’t any male dancers, and it was way too short—well under an hour. The bus wended its indirect way back to town, and I joined the girls for tapas, but at that point it was too late to get food at the bar (?!?!), so we had beers while the local college guys hit on us. The gals hadn’t eaten anything and were going to be out all night, so they got falafel sandwiches and I went home early at 2am.

The next morning, I was lucky to get a ticket for morning admission at La Alhambra, as I’d not gotten there as early as I would have liked, due to the previous evening’s outing. But they had a single ticket left, so I was able to go right in (after about an hour in line. There are TONS of tourists and big tour groups here, but I think that’s always the case). I got an audioguide and first went to see the Summer Palace and Generalife garden, which wasn’t as impressive as I’d expected. It seemed unkept, actually, although it was pretty. Following the audio tour, I walked through the Medina, Garden of San Francisco, Calle Real, and la Iglesia de Santa Maria.

The main attraction at La Alhambra is the Palacio Nazaries, which is huge and a stunning example of Islamic architecture. Tiles and carvings in amazing patterns and colors abound, and the sacredness and utility of water is incorporated throughout. The audio guide provided commentary on each room/area: Mexuar, Cuarto Dorado and its patio, Palacio de Comares, Patio de los Arrayanes, Sala de Barca, Salon de Comares, Palacio and Patio de los Leones, Sala de los Abencerrajes, Sala de los Reyes, Sala de Dos Hermanas, Estancias del Emperador, Patio de las Reja and Lindaraja, Jardines del Partal, Palacio de Portico. WHEW. That took a while, jockeying amongst all the camera-wielding tourists.

The much less crowded Palacio de Carlos V felt almost like a bullring, and included a Museum of La Alhambra, but the Fine Arts Museum upstairs was under renovation. I passed through the Puerta del Vino to La Alcazaba, another important site, which is mostly impressive walls and towers, including the big (watchtower) Torre de la Vela, which had great views.

I had to go all the way back to the entrance to return my audioguide, so I passed through Puerta de la Justicia and walked along one of the outer walls, then turned around for the (downhill—hooray!) walk back to town. Happily, I spotted some newly discarded and unscathed cardboard boxes, and I grabbed one for mailing my formalwear and souvenirs, which I packed up at the hostal, where I also washed most of my clothes and hung them on my little balcony. I mailed the box (YIPPEE!) for a mere 50 Euros, checked my email, unsuccessfully shopped for walking sandals, then stopped back at the hostal to see if the girls from the night before were still going out for tapas. I missed them, though, and foolishly went out to dinner instead of going straight to bed. Oh well…the chick peas and spinach and sausage plate was good.

I slept hard and got up in time to pick up some fruit (I had to get a pomegranate!) and a traditional pastry for breakfast before packing up and leaving for the bus to the bus station, where I had to wait forever in line to buy my ticket. Walking to the departure area, I realized that my ticket didn’t list which bus platform I needed to be on, and none of the postings had my destination, and no one could tell me which one to go to. I’m no mass-transit novice, and I can speak and read this language, and in ten minutes I couldn’t get anyone to point me in the right direction, so I missed it. It took me another 15 minutes afterwards to find out where it had left from, which is ridiculous. At any rate, this meant that I’d lose half a day in Las Alpujarras, and that I had five hours to kill during siesta, which meant that all stores were closed. Grrrr.

So I walked. A lot. I found one big department/grocery store that was open and explored that (no sandals), and basically made my way back to the old city. I did find a pension that would be a good place to stay between my next two destinations, as the bus and train schedules all had huge gaps that would leave me with over three hours between, but I could arrive late and leave early… I had some pizza for lunch, but couldn’t taste it, as I’d developed a cold and my sinuses were a mess, although I felt okay otherwise.

Other observations after a few days in Spain:
These people SMOKE. A LOT. I think ALL OF THEM. EVERYWHERE. It’s killing me! Whenever given the option, I’ll pay the extra money to sit outside; otherwise, I try to choose my seat carefully. There are a few places where it’s supposedly prohibited, but the rules aren’t exactly abided by. Blech.

It’s great to hear Spanish music, especially the solo guitar guys sitting along castle walls or in Arabic gardens, IN Spain. Talk about atmosphere! In the plazas, however, they have a tendency to play Spanishized versions of western standard songs: Autumn Leaves, My Way, Blue Moon, Strangers in the Night, and lots of 1970-1990’s American pop music.

I’m enjoying the return to beverages to go in cups, vs. the plastic bags of Asia, and am surprised by traffic that stops for pedestrians and pedestrians who wait at intersections.

I hadn’t stopped to realize how pervasive the Arab/Muslim influence would be here in Andalusia, and of course it is. Nor had I expected the scruffy brown desert-like landscape that far outweighs the greenery. It all makes sense, but I hadn’t considered it all beforehand.

There is a lot of graffiti art here, and much of it is quite beautiful. I even saw some people at work, looking like they’d probably been hired to do it, possibly for a good fee. Huh.

SPAIN:
Capileira (Las Alpujarras)

I caught the later bus and arrived in Capileira in Las Alplujarras, at the base of the Sierra Nevada, via insanely curvy (those guardrails would not keep a bus from a serious plunge) and narrow (pull in your mirror!) roads before sunset. I was DYING for some cardiovascular exercise, but it was too late at that point, so I left my stuff at the hostal I’d reserved a room in and then walked at dusk through the little white town--twisting and skinny cobblestone streets dappled with colorful floral windowboxes--that somehow wasn’t sliding into the valley below. Many of the craft stores were still open, and some were quite nice and actually unique. I’m still regretting not buying a pair of earrings and a candle holder… I watched a man and two dogs bring their goats in from a distant pasture to the stable area, at one point standing at the downstream center of an SUV as the herd divided around it and me and merged again, inches in front of me.

The surrounding valleys and mountains were vast and extreme and dramatic, rugged and beautiful. Capileira is the northernmost of three (Capileira, Bubion, Pampaneira) white towns of Barranco del Poqueira (total population of 1270), at an elevation of 1440m. The highest peak in the Sierra Nevada is 3479m. I met some people at the tourist booth who had just climbed it and said that it was absolutely frigid, and they were wearing serious gear, so I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do that hike—which was fine, because that isn’t one to do solo, anyway. It was already much cooler here than in Granada, and I actually wore my fleece.

I woke up feeling much better, enjoyed the included breakfast (cocoa, juice, bread with butter and jam) in the sweet kitchen, then went on a much-needed run. Basically, I ran uphill for 35 minutes on the main road in the area where the Natural and National Parks overlap, then for about 10 minutes on a foresty trail, then downhill for about 25 minutes. I even saw a few mountain goat-type creatures.

I stretched, showered, packed, checked out, and grabbed some snacks before a 3 ½-hour hike to Cebadilla, along the sides of a big valley. It turned out to only take 2:20, and I had stopped to take a zillion photos. I ordered a traditional plato Alpujarrano at a little restaurant with patio seating, and enjoyed the meal of a fried egg, potatoes and onions, jamon Serrano, chorizo, black-pudding sausage and bread. Meat o’clock! Hearty, rich, and fortifying for the rest of my hiking day.

The second hike I chose was one that linked the three towns of Barranco del Poqueira. I made it easily to Bubion, not totally via the route on my map, through town to the trail to Pampaneira, which was far less straightforward and equally poorly marked. The towns are close enough together that you always have one in sight, and often two, but the paths dead end or split off or turn into impossible-to-follow goat trails. I made it to Pampaneira, but with enough difficulty that I wanted to leave plenty of time to get back to catch my bus, so I didn’t explore the village.

I got back to Bubion, then found what I figured to be the main path that I’d missed leaving from the southern part of town—and two men confirmed that it was the path to Capileira. Well…not so much. It went in that direction, more or less, but then ran into fences or veered off well below town. I dead-ended several times, used all fours climbing up the critter paths (after all, they have to get back to town, too) in hopes of being able to see where I was supposed to be, but kept running into fences. Any paths that seemed to head for the main road also disappeared or ended at impasses. At this point I was exhausted from the tough morning run plus all the hiking, and out of water and THIRSTY, not having refilled at the third town and not getting back in three times the amount of time it should have taken, and facing the likelihood of missing the bus—which would seriously screw up my plans, as not so many buses pass through these parts. I decided that my best bet was to run back to Bubion the way I came and to try to catch the bus on its way to Capileira, where I could pick up my bag and get back on.

I made it to the village, saw three people in a car leaving the tiny lot by the path, and asked if they were by any chance going my way, and then where the bus stopped. I had clearly been physically exerting myself in the effort to get there and was obviously flustered, and the woman in the back convinced them to take me to Capileira (a 5-10 minute drive, during which she offered her phone number for the next time I visited). I thanked them profusely (in Spanish—mis angeles!) and told them what had happened in greater detail than the original panicked version. They acknowledged that a lot of the paths did dead end, and that none from that starting point would have gotten me there. ARGH! Thank goodness for nice people doing their good deed for the day, though, and I promised to do nice things for future strangers in return.

I made it in time for the bus, which was late anyway, but didn’t have time to return for the souvenirs I’d wanted to buy (the stores had been closed at lunchtime), and which I should have had at least an hour to get. Alas. So much for maps… I marveled that I was actually on the bus after the day’s adventures during the hair-raising ride back to Granada, where I slept (after the owner got the singing drunk to shut up and turn down his TV next door) at the pension near the train station.

ITALY: Milan

ITALY: Milan
We pulled into Milan around midday, and I went straight for the extremely helpful tourist office, who said that there was a bit of a housing shortage due to a trade convention that week. As my flight the next morning was insanely early, and the bus to the airport left from the train station, I sucked it up and spent 50Euros on a room nearby. That’s by far the most I paid for a room in all these travels, but I was expecting Milan to be the biggest hotel expenditure.

I spent a little time emailing about the box and refunds and reimbursements, then set out, on my 7th or so wind, on the pretty town (with awesome mass transit). I picked up some yogurt and fruit at a grocery store and took the subway to the Duomo, which is enormous and beautiful, constructed entirely of pink marble from Candoglia. Many paintings were hung from the ceiling in the middle; I’m not sure if it’s always like that or if they’re there because the museum is closed this year. The most unique aspect of visiting this cathedral, however, is the access to the roof, where one can wander amongst the spires and peer through them over the square and city. It’s another spot where you just can’t stop taking pictures.

On the perimeter of the Piazza Duomo are several important buildings, including the city hall to the west, twin fascist structures with balconies where Mussolini delivered speeches to the south, and Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, a huge, glass-domed arcade abustle with shoppers, to the north.

At the other end of the Galleria is Piazza della Scala, with a statue of Leonardo da Vinci that celebrates his many talents and achievements. I treated myself to gelato and meandered through the area before going into La Scala Opera House and its museum. The museum is crammed with a collection of opera goodies: music, instruments, costumes, paintings, sets, etc. Included in the museum’s ticket is access to two little booths overlooking the orchestra seats and stage. I was sad that there was no performance that evening, but there was a rehearsal going on, which was exciting to watch—and honestly, I wouldn’t have lasted through a performance that night!

I walked the length of Via Dante, a long pedestrian-only boulevard, which led to Sforza Castle. All of its several museums were closing, but the grounds were big and castle-y, and there was a pretty park beyond. I walked around there for a while, then took the subway to Brera Art Gallery for a quick visit. Lots of paintings by prominent Italians, and well worth the trip.

They kicked me out at 7:30, and I bought a green and a pasta salad before taking the subway back to the hotel. I realized that my cheap-o flight allowed for only one checked piece of luggage, so I repacked and squished everything from The Box into my two bags and a little carryon extra. I FINALLY fell into bed around 11, totally exhausted, with the alarm set for 4am. Ooof. The shuttle was great, though, and got me where I needed to be. Ciao, Italy! Grazi! (except for FedEx)

ITALY: Venice

ITALY:
Venice, for the wedding of Mary Kallaher and Matteo Perale

Woohoo! Katie and Craig (Evashevski/Sovka) and Andrew and Ellen (Richardson/Denny—the first 3 are P’92) met me at the apartment, where I was thrilled to shower and collect my wits. We called the apartment office to arrange our picking up the box of my formalwear, other wedding stuff, and stuff for my travels in Spain that Don had FedExed from Korea, but it wasn’t there. After all those hours of hassleful travel and no sleep, that didn’t go over so well, and I didn’t take it so gracefully. This was Friday afternoon, and their office was closed on Saturday, as was FedEx’s. I dropped a bunch of money on internet and phone cards and started frantically running around Venice in search of phones and internet cafes, but couldn’t get in touch with Don, who’d emailed that he’d sent the package but hadn’t included the tracking number. None of us could find FedEx in the yellow pages, storekeepers didn’t know what we were talking about (of course there was one just outside the square)…PANIC. I finally had the genius idea to ask mom to get on the case, and she took heroic measures from the U.S. to find the thing. She was given all kinds of conflicting info, and we were hopeful that it might somehow be collectable on Saturday, but that proved to not be the case. Apparently two big deliveries in Italy had gotten switched, so it wasn’t going to get to me until Monday at the earliest—and by then I’d no longer be at the hotel it was addressed to, and it was addressed to Katie, who’d no longer be in the country. And it had cost over $150 to send. And I now had nothing to wear but shorts, t-shirts and sneakers to a semi-formal dinner, formal wedding, and nice brunch (I’d sent a fabulous traditional Vietnamese tunic/pants outfit I’d bought in Hanoi—where else am I going to be able to wear that?). This ordeal and all the stress that went with it got dragged out through the whole weekend, as we had to sort out whether and when and where and how I might be able to pick it up eventually, and stop it from being delivered to the hotel, let alone sending it on to the US, since I’d not be able to use most of it—and I was using phonecards and trying to find open internet cafes with available computers between events and meals. Let’s just say that I didn’t get to see nearly as much of Venice as I should have. Sigh. FedEx is not on my list of favorites.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to spend a ridiculous amount of time or money shopping, as Katie had packed an extra dress that fit well enough for me to get away with. I borrowed a skirt from Ellen, and wore plastic flip-flops to the dinner and Katie’s flats (with toilet paper stuffed in) to the wedding, and my cheap-o travel dress to the brunch. I was more or less presentable, if not particularly comfortable. Doh.

We did somehow manage to see the Basilica (gorgeous and big and impressive, of course!) and its museum before we went to the rehearsal “sagra” (peasant feast). Cocktail hour included bellinis (prosecco and peach juice) and special Paduan (groom’s family is from Padua) cocktails that tasted like Triaminic to me. I was pleasantly surprised at all the friends from Princeton who were in attendance: Hilary Malcarney, Becky (Jones) Betts, Alison Brower, Stacey Rukeyser, Ed Eglin, John Granholm, Laura Jo, Ben Richardson, Enoch Huang and Roya Monsouri, plus Mary’s family and friends whom I’d met before. It was most excellent to see everyone and know that I’d see ‘em again the next day.

We eventually sat down to several courses of tasty Italian food, then were treated to a fun slideshow about Matteo’s shady past, courtesy of his best man. Many speeches and toasts were made to bride and groom, and the party was still going when we left at 2am (47 hours up and awake for me…). We got reamed again by a water taxi, but got a cool ride under lots of little bridges and down back canalways, so it was worth it.

Thankfully, I slept like a rock, and we all got up and out for food and meandering and food…then home to prep for the wedding. Katie, Craig, Andrew and Ellen, who’d traveled in Italy for the week previous to the wedding, had a running joke about all the meat they’d eaten. Mealtime was “meat o’clock,” and if anyone ever proclaimed to be hungry, we all knew what time it must be…or whenever we were served meat, we knew what time it must be…etc.

We found our way on foot to the astounding church (Santa Maria Gloriosa del Frari), which is a must-see in all the tour guides, and for good reason. Beautiful and lush inside and out, and indeed the tourists were snapping all kinds of photos at the emergence of the real live wedding. Teehee! The service was all kinds of Catholic (but thankfully not as long!), half in Italian—they stated their vows in each other’s language, which was very sweet. We were all stifling hysterical laughter at some of the readings, which lauded the wife who is silent and submits to her husband…which ain’t a-gonna happen! They both looked stunning, of course, and the whole thing was magical.

For the reception, we paraded, often single-file through the alleys, to the Palazzo Pisani Moretta, which was old and beautiful and on the grand canale. Lots of cocktails, a multi-course sit-down dinner (I had a fun table of rowdy Princeton and Columbia singles), and a 1980’s disco-themed hullaballo. Andrew and I were the last of our team standing, and we left to stumble home in the rain at 4:30am. I slept from 5:15 to 6:15, then lay awake, exhausted, until just past 9.

We had to be out of the apartment by 10:30, so we scrambled in hungoverness to get ourselves cleaned up and packed, then schlepped all our stuff through a DOWNPOUR to the brunch, getting lost a few times on the way. We arrived, drenched and bedraggled, at least an hour before anyone else, and the groom’s parents ordered us out of our clothes so they could dry them. I managed to air dry, and Katie and Ellen dug a change out of their bags (Mrs. Perale is impossibly thin), but Craig and Andrew ended up wearing Mr. Perale’s pants…and all kinds of off-color humor went along with that, you can be sure (a quote from Katie: “Craig is prancing around, freeballing in Mr. Perale’s pants!” quotes from Mr. Perale: “Give me your underpants!” “Take off your pants. I must see you naked!”).

Yes, the Perales are a hoot. They’re old-school Italian charming—they chatted away about everything, including the fabulous house and its history, as if we hadn’t arrived horrendously early and disheveled to their party celebrating their son’s marriage. Eventually the rest of the crowd trickled in and it was a fun afternoon (aside from post-party pain) of more chatting with college friends and comparing notes on Venice (like Pontes Tete and Labia) and on the events of the night before.

Post-party, I brought my stuff to Shnook (Enoch) and Roya’s hotel (still pouring rain—I had a big blue plastic poncho over myself and my backpack and frontpack, and seriously looked like an Oompah-Loompah, so we waddled and sang the song a lot). I’d not had the time to find a place to stay Sunday and Monday nights, as I’d been spending every spare minute dealing with the FedEx box situation. We checked out a couple of places without luck, then decided to try again after we saw the Doge’s Palace, which was big and grand and art-ridden. Fortunately, the hostel that had been closed earlier was open and had a bed for at least one night, so I went back for my stuff and we went our separate ways, as we (especially me!) were super tired, and planned to meet for lunch the next day. I grabbed a panini and went to bed early, in a cool converted church—there was a fresco on the ceiling of my room (and I forgot to get a photo)!

The next morning, I went to the hostel’s breakfast (bread, butter, jam, cereal, coffee, cocoa—perfect!), then was all set to arrive at FedEx at opening, but was told that there was some plumbing problem at the hostel and that I couldn’t stay there that night and would have to get my stuff out of the room by 9, which meant doing it before I left. So I went to call FedEx, but realized that Shnook and Roya had the paper with the tracking number on it, which meant that I had to get to an internet café again, as the hostel’s service was out. Fortunately, mom had sent an email that the box would be at the FedEx office on San Marco by noon, so I could stop freaking out for two whole hours.

As it was (finally!) a gorgeous day, I walked around and snapped photos and even had an hour in the Accademia, which, as expected, had lots of astounding Italian art. I went to FedEx to get the box, and had to pay another 50 Euros in customs fees to pick the &%$@ing thing up. I got to the place where Shnook and Roya and I had agreed to meet for lunch, but they didn’t show, so I figured they were in the throes of some uninterruptible sightseeing (which we knew was a possibility). I left them a note at their hotel, suggesting a possible evening meeting time. Then I went to the hostel, where I’d left my stuff in the luggage room, and repacked the box, as it was pretty beaten up and I needed my Spain guidebook. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to think that I’d easily be able to mail it from Italy. I inquired at the post office and they said it would cost 120 Euros to mail to the US, which seemed a tad steep. I decided to wait until I got to Spain, where I could speak the language and where common sense is more widely practiced.

I sightsaw my way to the train station, keeping my eyes peeled for walking sandals, bought my ticket to Milan for the next morning, then scouted out another hostel nearby, as the train was an early one. Somewhere in there I emailed mom that I had the &%$@ing box and got a message from Shnook and Roya confirming dinner plans. Somehow, from the other end of Venice, I got turned around so many times on my way back to San Marco that I was REALLY late meeting S&R, but they had waited and we had a great night of wine in a plaza before dinner at a fabulous restaurant (Mascaron), where we got chatted up by a local hotelier/bookshop owner and a Japanese-Italian travel writer, and then dessert and bellinis at Harry’s, where a bottle of water was 10 Euros, and you can just imagine from there what the food and drink cost.

We managed to stay out well into the night, and it was late by the time I got my bag and box from the hostel and toted them to the other hostel, where I tiptoed so as not to awaken my two Asian (Korean?) roommates. I then did the sleep-for-one-hour-then-lie-awake deal (could it be prosecco?) until it was time to get up and out (and there was some crazy pedestrian traffic RIGHT outside our window for the last hour of lying awake) and on the train. Sleeeeeeeeepy. Very sleeeeeeeepy.

So, yes, Venice is very pretty, and was not at all stinky for our visit. Perhaps we were just there at the right time of year (aside from the rain). The city of canals is truly unique, especially in certain lights, and there are gazillions of tourists there to prove how noteworthy it all is. And because the streets are narrow and impossible not to get lost amongst, the tourists are always blocking traffic—either window shopping or map consulting. All you can do is try not to be one of the worse offenders… Sadly, I didn’t have time to wander outside the touristy area to where I’d heard it was a little less Times-Squarey. Hopefully I’ll get back for a more relaxed visit someday…

IN TRANSIT—OY!

IN TRANSIT—OY! (Sept 14-15)
Arrived at the LP airport with plenty of time to sit around before my flight to Bangkok, made it to Thailand without incident, and after much transportational ado, made it into the city for my 7-hour layover. Of course, in order to leave and reenter the airport, one must go through immigration both ways and pay the exit fee to get out of the country. Ridiculous: as often as not, layovers in Bangkok are several hours long—it’s not like anyone wants to sit around the airport for 7 hours. Whatever. I’d decided to do a couple of things I hadn’t done on my Thailand trip, like ride the skytrain (nifty and new), see the main train station (like a little Grand Central), and probably shop en route. There was a big promotional something-or-other happening outside the Siam Center, and I tried to figure out what all the lines people were in were for. Next door, at the HUGE MBK mall, I picked up some basic nice t-shirts and an ipod case and had some yummy thai food.

It was raining by the time I needed to get to the train station, so I took a cab. Of course, while at the airport I’d been told that there were trains every 30 minutes to the airport, they really meant every 90 minutes, so I had to wait around and get to the airport with only an hour to re-check in. …which would have been fine, except that I was sent to two wrong and long lines at opposite ends of the airport before I was finally given correct instructions. So by the time I got to the line for Passport Control, my plane was about to board. I asked my way to the front of the line and promised to repay 14 good deeds to the universe, and got to the gate, where they were at least a half an hour behind and nowhere near boarding yet. (Not that anyone at checkin could have given me that info…)

The flight to Zurich was long, and I slept very little, but had a great little personal TV screen with fun selections, including the Tour de Suisse, so between that and my journal and my reading, it passed quickly enough.

In Zurich (my bag had been checked from LP through Zurich, but not to Venice), my Tevas were missing from the outer pocket of my bag, where I’d had them strapped in. The strap was broken and the pocket ripped. I reported it all, and there was a SYSTEM! And they checked with both airlines—NATURALLY! And the woman in the other Lost and Found office, where I’d been told to check one last time before I flew again, knew all about it—so they must have COMMUNICATED! Oh, no, we’re not in Asia any more, kids! The airport even made sense! And people waited IN LINE!

Alas, the flight to Venice was delayed by over an hour—but at least they made regular announcements. It was quite a shock to be hearing romance languages, to see blond hair, to have personal space, and to get looks of “nice legs” instead of horror at the sight of flesh above the knees. Unfortunately, that all came with the return to loud, fat, tacky, American tourists traveling between tour buses, who manage to make English sound downright ugly. One of the great perks of traveling in Asia is the mix of nationalities (Asian and otherwise), and the hardy, usually younger, souls trekking around. I think Americans are probably less intrepid and more amenity-demanding than all other westerners. I suspected I’d see a lot less of the sturdy backpacking crowd in Europe, especially since summer was coming to a close.

(Suisse Air had my bag repaired and gave me $50 for the sandals—but I was still sad because they were the only shoes I had aside from my sneakers, they were fabulous walking shoes, they’d seen a lot of places, and heck, I had great Teva tan lines on my feet!)

At long last, our plane to Venice boarded and took off. When we arrived, I got my bag and got into the lost luggage line, as I’d been told to check there in case the Tevas had been found and forwarded on the flight. I waited for 30 minutes (Delta—“Don’t Expect Luggage To Arrive”-- had left an entire plane’s worth of luggage at JFK), and the lady at the counter just yelled at me—what did I expect her to do?!? How could she know?!? Oy. The phones in the airport weren’t working, and the buses and vaporettos were on strike, but, after many false directions, I managed to get a ticket for and board a bus that actually did take me to Piazelle Roma. Once there, I had to take a water taxi with a very high fixed price (they LOVE it when mass transit goes on strike) to Piazza San Marco. Finally in the neighborhood of the apartment where we (college pals—more info soon) were staying, I took off my shoes to wade through the flooded square (“I’m not walking through pigeon shit, I’m not walking through pigeon shit…”), found a tobacco shop with phone cards, and managed to contact my roommates. WHEW. This feels more Asian than European, except for the architecture… but 32 hours later…I’m in VENICE!

LAOS: Luang Prabang

LAOS:
Luang Prabang:
We arrived at the bus depot outside of Luang Prabang, and I gathered a group of people (2 English, 2 French) with whom to negotiate a tuk-tuk ride into the center. The French couple was rude in the tuk-tuk, rude to guys who tried to get us to look at their guesthouse, and when we arrived at the hotel the other three of us had noted in our guidebooks, they got out first and took the last room with a bathroom. Grrrr! The other couple (Helen and Robin) and I found another place quickly enough, though, and agreed we’d love to have a drink together later if it worked out.

I dumped my stuff and went out to see what I could in the remaining daylight: Wats (there are 66 temples from pre-French colonization) Saen, Sop, Sirimungkhun, Si BunHeuang and Xieng Thong (external only; it was closing), and a whole lot of well-preserved and less well-preserved French provincial and traditional Lao architecture (the city is a UNESCO World Heritage site for those reasons). The natural beauty is also to be appreciated: the surrounding mountains, interior wetlands and the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan. The mix of Lao people, tourists, monks, novices, and hill-tribers make for a people-watching extravaganza, too. (one fun thing I saw everywhere: checkerboard-tables with bottlecaps for pieces—right-side-up or upside-down)

In visiting any temple, because most of them are in active use, tourists will always be approached by novices eager to practice their English. This is how their half of the conversation ALWAYS goes, very slowly and with varying degrees of grammatical correctness: “Hello! How are you? Where are you from? How long have you been in Luang Prabang? How long will you stay? Where do you go next?” The questions were unfailingly in that order. I felt like I was back in auto-English Korea.

I knocked on Helen and Robin’s door, but missed them; they were going to rest first and then go out, but I’d wanted to take advantage of the light and of sites being open. I went to the riverside for traditional Luang Prabang cuisine: steamed veggies with jaew bawng (chilli sauce and dried buffalo skin—um, yuck) and khao kam (local, sweet, fizzy rice wine-good, although I had a bad glass the next day). I wasn’t particularly satisfied, but figured I’d find snacks at the night market, which was next on my list.

The night handicraft market was indeed a street full of handicrafts, and 100% touristy. “Madame, buy scarf, buy something, lucky, lucky…” UGH). I did buy a few things, as I was at the end of my Asia tour, and I sampled some fun snacks (a grilled chicken breast on a huge skewer, desserty coconuty tapioca-ey balls) before calling it a night.

On Wednesday I went for a morning run over a pedestrian/bike/moto-only bridge into an area of villages and small farms, and it seemed that I was quite a novel sight. I got smiles all around, though, and an occasional cheer!

I swung through Wat Maisuwannaphumaham before picking up a baguette sandwich (tuna, a foil-wrapped triangle of soft cheese, chili sauce, carrots, cucumbers, watercress and pepper—great!) en route to Talat Dala, the oldest market, which turned out to be closed and under major construction. So I moved on and saw Wats Wisunerat, with its ‘watermelon stupa,’ Aham, with two huge banyan trees, Pattuak, of ‘Buddha’s footprint,’ and Thammothayalan, halfway up Phu Si (huge hill in the center of town), where I had excellent views of the Nam Khan. I continued up to That Chomsi (a stupa at the peak) and back down to Wat Pa Huak, which was small but beautiful and very old.

Across the street, I took many photos of the National Museum, but had to wait until later to enter, as it was closed in the middle of the day. I tried to get info on evening performances at the theatre there, but it, too, was closed and seemed to have no regular hours.

Disappointed that the big market was gone, I took a long walk to Talat Phoysi and a Chinese market, both of which were pretty uninspiring. I had a detour through a small village in between before I realized that I couldn’t get out the other side, but found my way to the main road and enjoyed the scenery there.

On the way back into town, I finally found a recommended restaurant I’d wanted to try, but it was closed, so I ended up at another spot along the Mekong and ordered another LP dish, aw lam (spicy-bitter root, lemongrass, chicken, veggies—excellent). By that time, I’d missed the small window of time that the National Museum is open in the afternoon, so I browsed the neighborhood of silversmiths and craft shops. In the early evening, I tried a glass of the khao kam at a different restaurant on the water, and it wasn’t so good…but I sipped it and wrote a bunch of postcards as the sun went down.

A second trip to the theatre proved unsuccessful, and I met other tourists who’d also been stymied, so I picked up a few last souvenirs at the market, dropped them off at my room, then went to a restaurant for bamboo-fried spring rolls and BeerLao and more postcard writing.

On Thursday I got up and out early and picked up some expensive postcard stamps (about 85 cents!), got a fruity goodness shake, FINALLY got into the National Museum (some great wall decoration, lots of artifacts and history) and the Sala Pha Bang pavilion, then followed a little map I’d picked up to take the recommended ‘wetland walk’ that wasn’t mentioned in my guidebook. I saw lots of village nooks and crannies, lotus ponds, cool architecture and unique natural scenery. I’d never have known it was there if I hadn’t by chance looked at a random brochure and spent too much to buy it.

I stopped back at the guesthouse to shower, pack, check out and arrange for a ride to the airport, then went to Wat Xieng Thong to see the interiors I’d missed on the first night. This is the big-deal Wat of LP, and it included a reclining Buddha sanctuary, sim, and royal funerary carriage and carriage house. I picked up another fruit and yogurt shake (I’ll miss them!) before my ride to the airport.

All in all, Luang Prabang is certainly beautiful and unique and worth seeing, but yet it wasn’t all I’d expected it to be. It was interesting to be in a place where there were as many orange-robed Buddhists as otherwise-outfitted folk, fun to see the moto drivers also holding umbrellas for shade, wonderful (mostly) to try the food unique to the province, and otherworldly to walk around amidst all the wonderful architecture, but I was anticipating more majesty and more respite from tourists. To be fair, I was also somewhat Buddhaed- and watted- out.

LAOS: Vang Vieng

LAOS:
Vang Vieng:
We pulled into town, our mouths agape at the limestone karsts, unloaded our bags from the roof, and left in search of lodging. I’d chosen a hotel from my book (Vang Vieng Orchid Guesthouse), got there, and was thrilled with the location (outside of the center of the town, on the Nam Song river) and the views (karsts and river and Don Khang Island), although it was a splurge at $8 (I talked him down from $10, as it was a double room and I was a single person). I was on the third floor with a balcony and even had hot water! My next-door neighbors and I (we’d walked over together) had a quick, jump-up-and-down-and-clap-our-hands-with-glee giggle session over our good fortune, then retreated to our rooms.

The reason for wanting to be outside of the center of town is that Vang Vieng is all about backpackers hanging out and that specific culture, and the entire town caters to them. The restaurants and bars all have TVs playing day and night, either “Friends” or “The Simpsons” or a Hollywood movie—always loudly. There is more western(ish) food than Asian, classic and pop rock, convenience stores with chips, soda and beer, pool tables, and backpackers wandering around (often drunk, sometimes high) in cool-hippie attire. Not exactly authentic Lao culture. I can see where if you’d been traveling for a long time and needed a few days of English and chilling out, it might be okay, but otherwise it was pretty horrifying, and embarrassing that the town has been overrun (although probably with the natives’ blessing, since tourism provides jobs and income) by a not very pretty example of western culture. And I went knowing all this, because the place is renowned for it natural beauty and activities away from the town center.

Happily, I was based outside of that and could easily avoid it, as the guesthouse was very quiet. I got faint wafts of music from the bars on the island, but it was more along the lines of Lao-pop. I enjoyed my balcony until the sun had set, then went out for some dinner (curry chicken and sticky rice), a quick email check (there are, of course, tons of internet shops) and a little browsing—but I got out of there and back to my balcony quickly!

On Monday, I had a stretch and a cup of coffee (a hot water thermos in the lobby!) on the balcony, then went on a run to Vang Vieng resort and Thom Chang cave. I’d expected to be able to swim there, so I didn’t bring my camera, but the area where I think that was supposed to happen was unlit and possibly totally closed off, alas. I ran back and then went out for a late breakfast at the Organic Farm Café (mulberry shake and a big pancake served with lime and honey—delicious!). They had a great menu, unlike the identical xeroxed menus at all the other places, and I knew I’d return.

Across the street, I rented a mountain bike and then rode over a big bamboo bridge and on dusty and muddy roads through villages and green countryside and karsts and mist to Thom Phukham cave (about 7k from the bridge). It was an overcast day, but not as hot as it could have been, and the scenery was breathtaking. The climb up to the cave’s entrance was exactly that—a CLIMB. Not a hike. It was extremely steep and somewhat treacherous, but there was always something to hold on to and there were other people around, so up I went. At the mouth of the cave, we could tell that it was enormous, but it wasn’t lit and my little flashlight wasn’t going to get me very far. Plus it was VERY slippery…so I explored the entrance area, which included a distant view of a Buddhist shrine.

The climb down was slow-going, and was all about sitting between steps for security. I was head-to-toe grime at the bottom (nice of them to have a swimmin’ hole for us to clean off in!), but unscathed. I saw an English girl go up in flip-flops, which broke, and descend barefoot. Hiking in grossly inadequate footwear isn’t just for Koreans anymore…

Back on the bike, I rode hard through drizzle that felt like it might become serious rain, and got muddy all over again. But really, why bother to shower when you’re just going to go tubing down the Nam Song? Yes, I met up with people (UK/Australia) I’d met by the caves, and we signed up with the tubing folks (while I was waiting for the gang to get there, the manager asked for my help editing his release form and asked some other English questions: could I explain the difference between ‘city,’ ‘town,’ ‘district’ and ‘urban’?) and got transported a few kilometers up the river. The rain passed on, and we had good weather for the trip, which included stops at different bamboo bars (yes, bars—they toss lines or hold out bamboo poles to help you stop) that had some kind of water swing or trapeze or dive, plenty of booze and food and modern rock.

The ride in the tube was spectacular, and the bars were fun, although I would have been happy to only stop at one. I took one jump off a trapezey thing, which was exhilarating, but didn’t do the repeated trips that some others did. I had a delicious papaya salad and a big BeerLao at the second stop, and at the third one I joined up with a different group that was leaving, as I thought getting to the end before dark might be wise—and I got there just as dusk was turning to darkness. I was actually expecting that we’d end at the bridge I could see from my balcony and therefore didn’t realize it when we were at the end, which wasn’t there after all. Basically, if anyone doesn’t clue in (and there aren’t obvious indicators except for one little sign that’s easily missed) or is unable to reach the shore, a bunch of Lao guys scream and yell and run in and grab you and pull you in. And then you walk your tube back to the ‘store.’

So, even though I was mostly rinsed off, I was still stinky and enjoyed a nice, long, hot shower, then rode the bike to the shop to return it and have dinner back across the street at the Organic place (harvest curry chicken stew and mulberry tea! Woohoo!). Two people I’d met tubing came in as I was finishing, having had the exact same idea, as they’d seen the curry on the menu earlier, too.

On the way home, I decided to sample the Vang Vieng scene and watched half an episode of “Friends” on cushy cushions with ice cream. Very odd to do that halfway across the world. Weird that some people do that for days on end. Why travel? I went back to my beloved balcony and debated whether I really wanted to meet up with the tubers at one of the bars on the island across the bridge. I didn’t really feel like it, but I did want to walk over and explore, so I went. I must have beat them there, because I couldn’t find them, but that was perfect. I walked around, returned home for more balcony and guidebook time until I was sleepy. For some reason I had crazy dreams and I wondered whether someone had put ‘happy’ stuff in my ice cream (there are some ‘happy’ restaurants for those looking to add to the BeerLao experience).

On Tuesday I got up and had coffee and oatmeal (I’d packed them just in case—yippee!) on the balcony, packed up and had a long stretch before being picked up at 8:30 for the trip to Luang Prabang. Ultimately, we didn’t really pull out of the depot until 9:30, and then did a few loops around for no apparent reason before getting on the main road. The “5-hour” trip took seven hours…ah, Laos. It was another amazing and beautiful, swirly and sometimes bumpy ride on scary roads through the mountains, in a slightly more comfortable minivan (advertised as faster than the ‘bus’) than the last one. These vehicles take a SERIOUS beating out here. Villages clung to the sides of daunting cliffs, farmers worked along impossibly steep descents, and we marveled at how different this life was from any we’d ever know.

LAOS: Vientiane

LAOS:
Vientiane:
I arrived at the tiny airport and exchanged some dollars for Thai baht (about 40/$1) and Lao kip (about 10,000/$1), as all three are used (!). I took a seriously OLD cab, of which I sadly have no photo, to the aging Hotel Sasayana, where I secured a room with bath and excellent views from the 4th floor for $5. I left for a walk in what was left of the daylight past a few wats and along the Mekong to a beer garden (or so it was called…more of a shoreside restaurant with bottled beer), where I enjoyed the sun setting over the water. The whole town was so relaxed, even I slowed down! Drivers hang out in hammocks in the back of their tuk-tuks, and half-heartedly ask you, when you’re most of the way past them, if you want a ride (vs. frantic screaming and gesticulating from down the block until well after you’ve passed). Quite a difference from the Cambodian tourist spots!

Yes, Laos is chill. I could say “chillin’,” but adding the extra syllable would require countercultural effort. I hung out and flipped through my Laos guidebook, enjoyed a BeerLao and naem khao (fried rice and sausage broken up and eaten with fresh leaves and herbs—yum!) and eavesdropped on a German and Brit discussing the t-shirt industry. I later joined a conversation about cycling and the Tour de France between the German and a Frenchman at the next table. There are certainly plenty of expats in the area! I strolled home back along the river and went to bed early.

I was out by 7 on Saturday to rent a bike and quickly check my email, then rode by That Dam (Black Stupa) on the way to Talat Khua Din (market) for food and browsing and shopping. I had khao jii paa-te, a French baguette with Lao pate, veggies and dressings, and a sticky rice concoction. I wandered through the rows and rows of produce, meats, and animals that would soon be no more than meats. The vendors (mostly women) use plastic bags on sticks that billow when moved through the air to ward off flies. They amusedly watched the crazy western lady take photos of vegetables she’d never seen before.

I rode out away from the center of town to Patuxai, which resembles the Arc de Triomphe. I climbed up to the top and got some photos of the area, and bought one or two more t-shirts. On the way to the next site, Pha That Luang, the skies opened up for the daily dose of rainy-season wetness. I dismounted and got out my poncho before I was totally drenched, and continued on. As I arrived, the rain eased up and soon stopped altogether.

Pha That Luang is the big and bright gold national monument that is on the national seal, and, incidentally, on the cover of my guidebook. It is a symbol of the Buddhist religion and of Lao sovereignty, and is considered important and holy. It is visible from a distance, and is surrounded by high cloister walls. It’s the thing to see in Vientiane.

On the way back into town, I got some information on hiking trips, but decided to wait to hike at my next destination. I also stopped at the rental store where I was told there was info on Hash House Harrier runs. I got the scoop on that night’s run and said I’d be there. Hungry, I biked out to a restaurant that LP recommended as the best place to go, but it was closed! Boohoo! So I went for the plan B restaurant, stopping off at Wat Si Muang, home of the guardian spirit of Vientiane, on the way.

Lunch was tasty chicken laap (minced with lime juice, garlic, rice, onions, mint, chilli and served with lettuce and mint), a traditional and refreshing Lao dish. Refueled, I went to Wat Si Saket, with its gazillion niches for little Buddhas. Next and nearby was Haw Pha Kaew, an unexciting museum on pretty grounds.

In my cruising around town, I saw the same type of French-influenced architecture I’d noticed in Hanoi and Phnom Penh, but on a smaller and less frequent scale. Corrugated rooftops were the norm, many buildings were empty, roads were 50-50 paved-dirt. There was a lot of construction, which held true for the other two towns, which flies in the face of Lao’s slogan of “The Last Quiet Place on Earth.” I saw very few other tourists, but always got a friendly “hello” (“Saabadii!”) from locals. “Thank you” is “kawp jai,” and adding “very much” makes it “kawp jai lai lai,” which I ended up getting stuck in my head to the tune of “The Boxer.” I’ll not be forgetting that any time soon, which I’m sure will come in handy…

I returned my bike and scrambled for about a half hour retracing my steps for my missing guidebook, which it turned out was just strangely buried in my bag, and did a superfast change at the hotel into running gear. I ran to the meeting site, signed up and hopped into a pickup with a bunch of Laos and a 60-something Aussie expat. We followed a van full of other harriers (Aussie, US, British male expats, a few Lao women, a few Lao girls, and a few Lao young men) to a remote site 30 minutes out of town. This was Vientiane’s 499th hash—I missed the huge next one, alas!

Everyone began unloading the vehicles—lights, a small generator, stools, things I didn’t recognize, coolers, and I don’t know what. A guy from Ohio and a Lao woman had set the hash in the bush, using shredded paper piles as markers, and after some initial rituals, of bugling and such, off we ran. We went through rice paddies, mud, fields, mud, bushes and mud, past beasts of burden, small homes, and many, many perplexed people. Well, not so many, but the few people we did see were very, very perplexed. I mostly ran with the young guys, and even led for part of the course. I was filthy and scratched up from head to toe (the bushes whacked me more than I them), but it was great fun, and all the mud got washed off in the torrential downpour we correctly suspected was heading our way towards the end of the run, given the spectacular thunder and lightening (far apart) show we were getting. When it hit, it joined the whipping winds so that we could barely see where we were going, and finding the shredded paper piles became somewhat more complicated. The guy I was running with at the time collected two leafy branches, passed one to me, and demonstrated that I should use it as a rain-and-wind breaker for my face. Thusly armed, we made it to the finish, where we huddled under the one umbrella and whatever bits of plastic we could find while we drank beer and waited for the old and whooping expats to finish, which took another half an hour.

At several points during the hash, I found myself giggling at the improbability of running through the bush in Laos, of all places, with a bunch of people I don’t know. And it’s always fun when you find yourself doing fun things that most tourists don’t get to do, in places they don’t get to see, with people they don’t get to meet. Teehee!

One of the women who’d not gone on the run, got out a big plate of something involving little shrimps with the shells on and seaweedy stuff, which I tried and didn’t care for, but I had my beer, which is all the post-run nourishment ya need, right? Just be sure you keep drinking it! Right?

So, the last of the hashers came in, got their beers, set up the lights, and proceeded with the business of the post-hash circle. For those unfamiliar with H3, this involves lots of lewd songs, insults, and drinking. In this club, they erect a small bed of ice, on which those accused of whatever the ringleader so chooses, must sit bare-assed while hearing the full extent of the charge and then drinking to atone for the crime. It goes on for a long time. Which is why there’s lots of beer. Yes.

So, Lao folks, and especially women, being a tad more conservative than we westerners, the rules were somewhat modified for the ladies, as in a sip of beer and shorts on the ice. You can imagine whose rules I played by—no girly girl, I! Yes, I think I can say that the Lao guys were psyched for a woman to keep running and drinking pace with them (when the expats kept fining me drinks: “It’s okay—she LIKES to drink beer!”) and even bare her ass with them. Hey, I aim to impress.

For the hashers: The only snippet from the songs that I sortof remembered by the time I got to writing it down: “For he’s a hasher through and through or so he says…no good to anyone, and a pain in the asshole to me!” Hmmm. Not so complete. Well, anyway, the rest was crude and filthy, as were all the other songs, including “drink it down, down, down, down, etc.”

After we’d taken care of all the ceremonial hoopla, we drove back into town for a pre-arranged buffet dinner of all kinds of fabulous stuff that tasted great with beer. I got to hear the interesting stories of how people come to relocate to remote places in the world. Some of these guys had been there forever (they had fascinating stories of the major changes that had occurred since they’d been there) and were fluent in Lao, most had at least a great working knowledge. Two of the Lao guys wanted me to come with them to a nearby town the next day to watch some traditional boats practice for upcoming races, but I had already planned to leave the next day.

We all drove back to the initial meeting place after dinner (it must have been about 11 or 11:30) and I went back to my hotel, sweaty, in running clothes, and drunk, and took a much-needed shower. It wasn’t until I got out that I realized that the far half of the room was flooded, and that all of my stuff (papers, clothes, my bag), which I’d left on the bed, was on the floor. In the water. I think that was the only hotel I stayed in that actually had a cleaning staff come during my stay, and it was definitely the only room I stayed in that flooded (it was from the heavy rain, not faulty plumbing).

So I went down to the front desk, still drunk and now upset, and we got me into another, dry, room. I spent a good long time washing stuff, wringing it out, spreading things around the room in hopes of their drying sometime soon. By the time I got to bed it was quite late.

Upon waking Sunday morning, of course, I was plenty hungover. I readjusted the stuff that was still damp and arranged for a bus ticket to Vang Vieng that afternoon, and a late checkout so that my stuff could stay spread out. I ran around slowly for about an hour to sweat it out and check out some new territory, then showered and went to Wat Ong Teu Mahawihan, got a baguette/pate lunch, and browsed around Talat Sao, the big market of all kinds of goods (I got a camera bag and some little desserty things). Disappointingly, I’ve seen the exact same souvenirs in all the Asian countries I’ve been traveling in, which makes none of them seem unique to the place (except the shadow puppet!). It’s a challenge to find something really special, but at least it reduces the temptation to buy everything.

Back at the hotel, I was picked up by what I thought was another shuttle bus to a larger bus, but the shuttle WAS the bus. It was…snug. There were 24 of us crammed in, and there was no transfer. We made about three unnecessary long stops for food and smoking, and arrived much later than we expected. Unfortunately, there is no option to travel by night, as the roads aren’t lit and you would NOT want to be on those roads in the dark—you’d surely not be on them for long, and the alternative is usually a steep drop. The view was pretty, though--gorgeously green scenery, with mountaintops peeking through rolling fog and rice paddies glistening with moisture--and once we’d given ourselves over to the talents of our driver, we were able to enjoy the ride. We also realized that a larger bus would have been scary on the curvy, loopy, narrow roads that carved through the mountains. I wrote a lot, read and planned a lot, and chatted some, mostly with Brian and Alice, two Irish travelers sitting next to me, all the while taking in the views.

Cambodia: Phnom Penh

CAMBODIA: Phnom Penh

On Thursday morning I was picked up by a 6:30 shuttle van to the bus depot, where I got on a cushy tour bus to Phnom Penh. We stopped two hours into the ride for about half an hour, and I found the market just past the tourist strip, where they clearly weren’t used to blond female giants like me. Being stared at here, where they haven’t seen the likes of me before, is much more friendly-feeling than in Korea, where they have seen plenty of westerners, but stare anyway. Something of a laughing “with” vs.”at” distinction. I also had my first experience of being followed by kids begging outright in the market, and adults and adults with kids outside the bus stop. It’s a tough thing, as tourists are discouraged to give to them because there are social services for them and because it encourages more begging, but then, there they are. I ended up giving away a lot of Mr. Mao’s oranges, as I couldn’t eat them all and they were heavy!

We arrived in Phnom Penh about 6 hours later and were swarmed, SWARMED, by drivers. I got into the office, where they seemed to be officially unwelcome, to get info on buses out, but didn’t get much help, so I turned my attention to finding the hotels I’d noted in my guidebook. A driver who’d gotten into the office and was wisely employing soft-sell techniques said he’d take me to the guesthouse I asked about, and we walked to his taxi in the lot nearby (hmmmm, as opposed to the tuk-tuks lined up on the street), and when we got there he said that it was closed, so I got pissy and said that he should have told me that at the station, if it were true, and not now, and that he should take me there (It’s a common scam to tell tourists that things are closed in order to steer them to places that give a commission to the guides). It turned out that the place had changed hands and had a different name, and I agreed to look at another place nearby that had $5 rooms. It was decent and in an acceptable location between a market and the Mekong, so I took the room there and arranged for my Lao visa with the clerk.

That done, I walked to the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda (enjoying fresh fruit on the way). The walk there was a good tour of part of the city, which is part pavement (main roads) and part dirt. The Palace itself was big and impressive, but not nearly as much as other places I’d seen in recent travels, and none of the buildings were accessible. And the young monks practically hunt you down and rope you into a conversation so that you feel like they’re either stalking you or trying to sell you something. It was creepy, actually.

I left there and walked by the Cambodia-Vietnam Friendship and Independence Monuments before having a very late lunch at Amoc Café. I had a set menu meal of chicken satay, sweet and sour pork, chicken amoc (chicken, curry, coconut, veggies, mint and other herbs, served in a coconut—AMAZING!), rice and dessert of mango and sweet sticky rice, all for $4.50. I ate it all, and it was goooood!

I walked it off by wandering through some of the busy parts of town to the river promenade and did some further looking into buses to Kratie for two days later. Upon arrival back at the hotel, the clerk told me that he’d been unable to get my visa processed as promised (i.e. he didn’t leave in time to get there before they closed), which meant that I’d have to delay my leaving for another day (I’d already lost one to the camera fiasco), which would then leave me zero scheduling wiggle room to get to my final destination before my flight to Venice. Which meant that I’d have been stressed out the entire time, and wiggle room is necessary when traveling in this part of the world. Frustrated, I finally ended up booking a flight to Vientiane, Laos, and skipping several places I would have seen on the way via boat and bus. Again, the budget takes a hit—but more upsetting was the itinerary abbreviation. Bummer.

Friday: up and out to the central market for browsing and breakfast. I passed by lots of people eating various dishes, then sat down next to someone with something especially yummy looking and indicated that I’d have it, too. Again I got the feeling that I’d wandered beyond the normal tourist boundaries, but felt perfectly welcome. I went back to the travel agency to pick up my ticket, then along the river to the National Museum, which was EXCELLENT. It was a beautiful building with a gorgeous courtyard and wonderful sculpture and artifacts—all with great English information.

Outside the gate, I negotiated for a moto ride to Tuol Sleng Museum, a former high school that Pot Pol turned into a notoriously cruel prison, from which most were taken to be exterminated. It is an appropriately horrifying and upsetting place. Cells and rooms of torture are left as they were, barbed wire is everywhere, and there are photos of prisoners and Khmer Rouge soldiers and the killing fields. I’ve been to concentration camps in Germany and WWI museums in Japan, and while they are all testaments to the terrible things people are capable of doing to each other, what really struck me here was that these atrocities had happened during my lifetime, and disproportionately to very young people.

I didn’t have time to go to the killing fields (despite the collection of drivers at the museum’s entrance who really want to take you there), and I don’t think I would have wanted to go anyway. My final planned stopped was the Psar Tuol Tom Pong, the other huge market south of town. I felt like a jerk to be shopping after being at the museum, but having a deep moment in a park wasn’t going to make me a better person, I figured. I bought a bunch of BeerLao t-shirts for gifts, some Gap tops (I also saw a lot of Polo and Lacoste), and a leather purse, plus some pineapple and papaya.

Another moto driver brought me back to the hotel to pick up my bags, and I hailed a tuk-tuk (that was on its last legs, it seemed) to the airport.

Last notes on Cambodia:
Siem Reap:
almost totally tourist-oriented
Begging at markets but not at temples
Kids scruffy but seemingly healthy (and yet there was a children’s hospital where people waited for over 24 hours to be seen; there was always a huge line outside)
Majorly strong sun and high humidity
Thatch and bamboo homes everywhere, often on stilts
Barefoot or flipflops
Kids with rotten teeth asking for candy
They live close to the land, lots of farming
Hammocks everywhere
Monkeys

Phnom Penh:
City-er, Tuk-tuks and motos super aggressive about getting customers
Faster pace and busier
Classes are more apparent
Begging everywhere
More expats, more exposure to westerners who aren’t just tourists
French influences in architecture, as in Hanoi (and vendors call you ‘madam’)

Next stop: Laos!

Cambodia: Siem Reap

CAMBODIA: Siem Reap:

I arrived at 9:30, and a driver (Mr. Mao) from my guesthouse was waiting with his tuk-tuk for the 15-minute ride, more or less a straight line, back to town. He said that he was also available to take me to sites in and around the park during my stay. I told him that I was excited to bicycle around the Park, which bummed him out, because he was hoping for a fare. Of course—a reminder that I’m back in the 3rd world and these people are dying to work for tourists. Note to self on etiquette…at least I already knew I’d want to hire a moto and driver for one day in Siem Reap…

It was hot and humid and tropical-feeling, but not raining and the breeze felt great. I was shown to my room by the young owner (Mr. Hak—17, I think), who also explained the basics and gave me advice about my agenda, which proved to be very useful. I arranged for Mr. Mao (I’ve redeemed myself!) to take me to three relatively distant sites the next day, and was to be ready at 6am (fortunately it was 2 hours earlier there than in Korea!).

I settled into my single room with bathroom ($4/night) and packed my daypack for the next day’s excursion before going to sleep. The guesthouse was on the main drag into town, a friendly place with a restaurant and pool table. The only drawback was that the walls didn’t reach the ceilings (maybe 6 inches shy), so you could hear your neighbors. Fortunately, it wasn’t really an issue, as most people in Siem Reap are there to see Angkor Park, and since the daylight hours are from about 5:30-5:30, most alarms go off between 5 and 6-- not too many people are partying late. So I was awakened maybe 20 minutes earlier than my alarm was going to go off…I considered it my Cambodian snooze alarm feature.

I met Mr. Mao at our appointed hour, and we first went to the Angkor Park office, where I bought a 3-day pass ($40—hugely expensive by Cambodian, even for tourists, standards, but well worth it), requiring a photo ID, even. We set out for our first destination, and he proved to be a great driver, which set me at ease, as the roads were plenty potholey or puddly or populated with people and very large critters.

Our first destination was Banteay Srei, a pinkish-brown Hindu temple dedicated to Shiva, famous for its amazingly elaborate and detailed carvings of divinities and scenes from the Ramayana. Every possible inch was covered with intricate, 3-D work, and I kept marveling at how many hours must have gone into the place. Breathtaking. And Mr. Mao provided me with all kinds of additional info on the site in general and on specific carvings.

We toured this site relatively quickly, as it was not very big, and passed by a zillion souvenir stalls going back to his moto. Next, we drove to Kbal Spean, usually called “River of a Thousand Lingas” in English. It’s a riverbed with carvings under and around the water, and is absolutely beautiful. Normally, Mao would have hung out at the parking area while I went on the hike, but it was a) not peak tourist season, and b) still pretty darned early, and no other tourists were around. He didn’t want to send me on my own, so he came with me. It turned out that I was their second tourist of the day.

It was great to have him there, though, as he pointed out things I would have missed (some of the underwater carvings and descriptions of the many pictures of ‘leg massages,’ and we got to chat about our backgrounds and start to joke around—which we continued to do all day.

After this hike, he suggested that it would be a good time to have a meal, since the next place was a ways off. I was hungry and agreed. I sat at the restaurant closest to where we’d parked, and he settled in a hammock; I would have been happy to eat with him, but I think they are used to giving their charges space. After I’d ordered, a young girl, who’d tried to sell us stuff when we’d arrived, came over to try again with her wares. I got her talking about herself (her English was pretty good), and I tried to ask her some basic questions in Khmer with the help of my guidebook. She came over and sat next to me and coached me through pronunciations for at least 15 minutes before my food came. I raved about her as my wonderful teacher and got a photo; I think she was quite proud to be helpful, as well she should have been.

During these travels, where there are so often children, so clearly underprivileged, relentlessly selling stuff, well-informed as to how to guilt-trip tourists and unafraid to be persistent (an understatement), I found that the best way to deal with them was to first say that I couldn’t buy anything and then to just start talking to them. A few wouldn’t stray from the sales pitch, but 99% of them immediately just started chatting, asking and answering questions. I suspect that more often than not, they’re avoided as expeditiously as possible, as they truly are everywhere and it is exhausting to fend them off all day, every day. And yet…and yet. The disparity of wealth and opportunity is heartbreaking. I would guess that the kids we do encounter in these jobs have it good, comparatively speaking. If only I had the funds and room in my bag to buy from them all…

After a delicious lunch of something noodly-chicken soupy, we hopped back on the moto for our final, more remote, destination. It was a long and bumpy but beautiful and perfectly comfortable ride, on a gorgeous day, over both paved and unpaved (just as you’d expect in Cambodia) roads, through amazing countryside. He kept asking me if I were sleepy, which I thought was strange—how on earth, on a moto, in this scenery, could I be sleepy?!?!?

We’d ease through the smaller ends of huge puddles (“Time for your bath!”), over the lesser of the bumpy evils (“My, how heavy you are!”) past waving children at play or travel, and through the dust, dust, dust. At one point, we saw a very young boy contemplating something or other in the road, who didn’t at all seem to register our approach or passing. We both laughed, and Mr. Mao said he must have been “thinking about a political problem,” which got us both hysterical—that he found the perfect English words for the joke, and that the joke was funny for both of us.

Mr. Mao offered that we might stop along the way to see another temple, which would involve a climb, but was on the way. Of course! Again, he schlepped with me up a mountainside, where indeed we saw another temple that was actually on the back-road route to another tourist site that I hadn’t selected (they charged exorbitant fees for tourists and it was supposedly comparable to Kbal Spean). There were some guys doing some restoration work, and he chatted with them and explained the irrigation systems in use in Cambodia to me, as this site was the source of some of the area’s water.

After the climb back down and some confusion over the parking and beverage costs, we were on our way again towards Beng Melea. And I began to be lulled by the ride and the scenery and was, indeed, sleepy. I was amazed, as I’m not really a sleepy-in-the-middle-of-the-day or sleepy-in-a-car kind of person, and I was excited by all I was seeing. Somehow, though, a moto ride is different than being in a car, and you certainly don’t want to doze off while riding one. When we got gas, he gave me some caffeinated candies, which, combined with the stop, tided me over until we got to Beng Melea.

Beng Melea…wow. Mao hit the hammock and I hit the trail to the jungle-subsumed temple. I had a guide all to myself; I think they’re on hand and take whoever shows up (probably usually tour buses). And, amazingly, we had the place to ourselves. Granted, the place is a bit remote, but it’s in all the guidebooks, so I don’t know where the heck everyone was, but am glad they were somewhere else. He led me up and over and around and through and between and pointed out all kinds of things and took photos of me with cool backgrounds. You’d never find all these nooks and crannies on your own, or trust that the routes we took were safe without someone knowledgeable, so I was glad to have him show me around. After we’d been all over the ruins, he left me to hike around the perimeter a bit, which was very pretty and provided new views of the temple’s demise.

The temple was built in the 12th century to the same (huge) floorplan as Angkor Wat, but has been left to the forces of nature. And havoc has been wreaked, let me tell you. It is collapsed and crumbled and overgrown and under-grown and around-grown and through-grown and twisted by plants and trees and the topplings of gravity. Light peeked through in strange formations, doorways yielded piles of rocks in huge brick-shapes. It was truly wild and beautiful and awesome, and well worth the cost and effort to get there.

Before rousing Mr. Mao, I hit the restroom behind the roadside restaurant, where a little girl waited outside for me, and held up a small bill as I left, as a suggestion for the price of having used the facilities. Not having such a bill on hand, I indicated that yes, I would pay her, but that she should come with me into the restaurant so I could buy water and get change. I got the water, got change, paid her and had a few rounds of peek-a-boo, then packed up and hopped on the moto behind Mr. Mao and vigorously waved goodbye and thank you (aw kohn!).

Beng Melea was the last stop on my itinerary, but Mr. Mao had already asked me, as we were going to pass by his home village on the way back, might we stop so he could visit his family? Hell, yes! Twenty minutes away, he pulled into a maze of dirt roads and houses on stilts and small farms, and greeted 99% of the people we passed by name. And I’m sure it was fun for him to be bringing the blonde western chick along, though he was hardly the show-off type—more as a point of job-pride than machismo.

We got to his family’s land, where his mother, who wasn’t feeling well, was getting a curative massage. His brother’s child slept in a small hammock that his sister-in-law rocked by pulling an attached string. His parents had a house and the rest of the land (very small plots—although this could have just been the land for housing and the farmland could have been next to it or nearby) was divided into three sections for the three sons. Two of them had similar houses on stilts; his two brothers are married and farming. Mao’s plot hadn’t been cleared and he got a bamboo pole and eased down branches from orange trees to pick the fruit. Three neighborhood girls had, meanwhile, gathered nearby to check me out, and he explained that they’d never seen a foreigner here in the village before. He offered me an orange and a knife, and I cut a small piece of the rind off and started to peel it with my fingers, which set them all roaring with laughter. He took them from me and pared the whole thing, then showed me how to peel the white rind off…which didn’t seem any more efficient to me than my attempted method, but whatever. Always glad to be a source of humor…

It looked and tasted like a juice orange. Not much to say there. It was all over me after I’d managed to eat all the pulp, and I showed the girls a wet-wipe and let them smell it. Little marvels… Meanwhile, Mao had pulled down about a dozen oranges and insisted that I fill my bag with as many as would fit, saying that they’d make me a shake at the guesthouse. So I started to pack up my bag, and wanted to get my camera to take a few photos, but couldn’t find it. I emptied my bag twice, and determined that I must not have put it back in my bag after paying for the water and playing with the girl, as I’d taken a photo of the back of the restaurant.

So we went back to Beng Melea, sure that it would still be there, as there were only the locals at the restaurant and the one other tourist who’d come by tuk-tuk as we were leaving. But it wasn’t there, and Mao spoke at great and agitated length with the very concernced and surprised people there while I looked all around several times. Having no choice but to leave without it, we did. After a few minutes on the road, he began to relay part of the conversation he’d had with them: that the only other person who’d been there was the other tuk-tuk driver (during our time at the village, the tourist had seen the temple and they left as we re-arrived), who had been acting a little strangely and who they’d heard comment on my nice camera before we left the first time. My understanding at the time was that it was possible that he’d taken it or knew something, and Mao proposed that we catch up to them (easy, as we were on a moto and they had a tuk-tuk) and ask without accusing. We caught up to them and I spoke with the tourist, who didn’t know anything and said that his driver had said that their brakes weren’t working well. Huh?

It turned out that I’d misunderstood and the folks at the restaurant were actually quite sure that he’d taken it, that he was acting shifty, and he wasn’t wearing the taxi driver’s id vest that I didn’t know they had to wear whenever driving. Had I known any of that, I would have suggested that we pull up to him and I’d cry and offer money along the lines of $20, which might well have done the trick. Having missed that chance, we pulled over so I could buy a phone card (his phone was out of minutes), and we called the tourist police, and Mao said that they should look for this specific driver and meet us at a specific point on the only road back to town.

The tuk-tuk driver passed us again during this brief stop, and we set out to follow him and keep him in view. Somehow, though, either he stopped and pulled out of sight off the road, or took a really out-of-the-way, roundabout route back to town, because we didn’t find them. We think he must have realized we were on to him and going to do what we could and came up with some excuse about the tuk-tuk to get rid of his fare, or we don’t know what.

The cops weren’t at the appointed place but did show up soon after and said that they’d cruised the street looking for the tuk-tuk…we didn’t see a lot of tuk-tuks that day, so he would have been spottable. Mao wasn’t convinced that they’d actually done as they’d said and was angry in general over typical police behavior. They suggested that I file a report, but Mao wanted to wait and see if the guy had just delayed his return to town by this road, so we did. Mao and I and a bunch of Cambodians who emerged from a house sat around the side of the road, while I listened to Mao relay the whole story for the zillionth time with great dismay and angst. We hung out there for a couple more hours, then wove through town, then finally went to the station, where I filed the report and was told to call the next day around 2pm.

Sigh. Of course, the next day, they said that they couldn’t do anything because it was the next day…and we called in the morning because Mao spotted the guy in town—aaaaaaaaargh! At least I knew better than to have much hope after we’d not been able to stop him that night on the road. So Mao took me to two camera stores that the guesthouse recommended, and I bought a new camera and gigstick (of course they don’t really bother selling low-end stuff—anyone who can afford a digital camera and a vacation to Cambodia can afford the expensive models, right? How to put a dent in your low-budget vacation… And they only take cash, so the owner drove me to the only ATM in town. But it was definitely a legit place and I got what I needed). Unfortunately, I lost the photos from possibly the most amazing day of my trip, and lost almost a full day in dealing with it. Fortunately, I lost only that day’s worth of photos, as I’d transferred them all to my computer before I left EV, and my travel insurance company, when I filed a claim after I got home, said that they will reimburse me, AND a friend from EV visited Siem Reap later in September, took my recommendation and went on the same daytrip, and will be sending me her photos. So, I was actually relatively lucky, and at least had a unique experience with Cambodian authorities and chase scenes and local detective work…

Once I had the camera and collected my thoughts and stuff for the day, I rented a bike from the guesthouse (the expensive, $2 ‘charity’ bike, not so-called because of any kindness for my butt) and set out for Angkor Park. On the way, I stopped by a strip with lots of street-stalls and got some little dishes for about 25 cents a pop: beef with pineapple, beef with cucumbers and other veggies, curry.

(As for the dollar vs. the Cambodian riel, the dollar is accepted everywhere, and necessary in most touristy or large-purchase places; the riel is accepted at the local markets and shops. Some places accept both, which is handy when you want to pay in dollars and get change in riel)

I found the spot where bicyclists can lock up their vehicles, which is usually a place to put them and lock the tire to the frame—here, at least, you could also lock it to a rope between trees. The kids selling stuff swarm you and say that they’ll watch your bike, and follow you with their postcards, books, jewelry, scarves and trinkets. They all have the same spiel and sell the same stuff at each site. When you tell them you don’t want to buy anything, they say “ok, when you come back you buy from me, ok?” And when you return, they tell you “you said you buy from me when you come back”; most people probably say “okay, okay,” when they go to the site, just to get rid of them. Some of the little kids offer for you to take their very cute picture, after which I expected they’d be asking for money. I didn’t take them up on it, but later learned that most of them just want to see their photo on the digital screen. Aha…

Occasionally they do the full-out guilt trip on how they need you to buy from them so that they can have money to go to school or eat—which to some extent has to be true, but they really work it—and they must get results. I saw a couple of kids work up fake tears, even. Some of them count to ten in different languages, recite countries and capitals or quote statistics on different countries. Again, the best method seems to be to say “no” and then to chat them up. If they’re primarily concerned with the sale and there are other tourists around, they’ll leave you alone, and if they are happy to just talk then they’ll stay, which works out best for everyone. But it is still exhausting to be consistently pursued in this fashion, and is a true test of patience.

So. Angkor Wat—finally! ‘Tis a most impressive site, to say the least. It is a huge temple surrounded by a huge moat—190m wide, no less. It faces, unusually, the west, and the entrance is via a causeway to the outer wall and its chambers. And then, emerging to the inner courtyard via the elephant gates, is the stunning, magical, beautiful view of the temple. It’s been well maintained, and closer inspection reveals all kinds of carvings, bas-reliefs, altars and passageways. I easily spent almost 3 hours there, including a steeeeep climb to the top.

I finally emerged, fended off the kids, and pedaled through the gates (stone sculpture of churning of the ocean of milk) of the fortified city of Angkor Thom and on to the first temple inside, Bayon (any time you near the entrance of these places where there are groups of restaurants and shops set up, the women will scream out “Lady! Lady! Laaaaady! You buy water! You eat something!” waving water bottles and identical menus. It’s downright circus-like). Bayon is unique in that it has 54 gothic towers with 216 oddly smiling faces of King Jayavaraman VII (who had many, if not most, of these places built). It looks like another ruined temple from afar, but once you’re in it and especially up top, it is really different in look and feel. Here, too, there are elaborate bas-reliefs; these are scenes of 12th-century Cambodian life.

As it was a slow day, some of the kids who work around the site and live in the park with their families were playing at the less-crowded ruins (anything other than Angkor Wat). At Bayon, there was a group playing hide and seek, in the ULTIMATE setting of corridors, stairways, columns and statues. I helped one girl who was ‘it’ to sneak up on some hiders…

I biked to the next bunch of ruins and got a delicious late lunch of fried noodles, veggies and chicken with little bananas for dessert. It seems to be the norm that the kids will come to your table to try to sell you stuff but will leave when your food comes. Young Doam was hawking bracelets I didn’t want, but we had a fun swap of English/Cambodian tutoring and a couple of high-fives.

Happily full, I crossed the street to see Baphuon, which is still being put back together after it was taken apart for restoration--during the Khmer Rouge years all the records and plans were destroyed. Yikes—talk about a puzzle!

Next door, Phimeanakas is a pinkish-brown temple with steep stairs that were sadly off-limits—they would have led to a great view of Angkor Thom. Continuing on to the comparatively secluded Preah Palilay, I found it overgrown with huge tree roots, but still well groomed. Tep Pranam was the nearby Buddha terrace.

Back out on the ‘main drag,’ the Terrace of the Leper King is a 7m-high structure with tiers of carvings of apsaras and royalty figures on the outside, and a recently discovered inner terrace that feels like a secret passage, with more carvings. Next to it is the 350m-long Terrace of Elephants, with, appropriately, elephant carvings.

I hopped back on the bike and rode up to Preah Khan, again with a Churning of the Ocean of Milk gate. Inside, it was a temple of ruined corridors and carvings, overgrown and collapsed in places. It’s one of the largest sites, and I’m going to venture a guess that it may have the most moss.

After a relatively quick visit, I took off down the road towards Preah Neak Pean, but was stopped before I got there and told to turn around, as the park/road would be closing before I’d get out (yeah, they hadn’t just seen me racing the local boys and kicking their butts!). At first, I coasted by them, as they looked totally unofficial and I didn’t know why they were stopping me, but then I realized that they were legit and obeyed. I took out my little flashing reflector and affixed it to my backpack, as I’d need to turn it on at some point on the ride home. They LOVED that.

I rode the reverse route, hauling past other bicycles, cars dribbling out, beasts of burden, and yet more bicycles, racing some more locals (they get a huge kick out of that, too, especially the boys who couldn’t drop me—remember, these are junky one-gear bikes) and eventually stopping back in town at a huge souvenir store. Everything was way overpriced, but you could look without a gazillion kids pushing things in your face—although salespeople do follow you and try to talk you into buying things far more aggressively than they’d ever do in the west. I bought some postcards (you can’t find a decent postcard in Cambodia—it seems to be a hugely unexploited market) and donned my rain poncho, as a downpour had begun when I arrived.

I stopped by the local convenience store/gas station for snacks and beer, then returned to the guesthouse for a shower (I found that the easiest and most efficient thing to do was to take a shower in my clothes and wash and rinse them there, as one wearing will render them sweat-and-dust-drenched attire) and planning for the next day.

Wednesday morning, I had a papaya shake and coffee at the guesthouse, then went in search of Wat Preah Inkosei, where a small House of Peace Association sells handcrafted shadow puppets, used in traditional shadow puppet theater. I bought a small $6 Apsara puppet (I would have loved a big elephant or a jointed character, but the limitations of my luggage nixed that idea). They’re leather, cut into shapes, and with hundreds of holes punched in them for the light to shine through. Puppeteers maneuver them with the sticks that are attached.

Satisfied with my sought-out souvenir, I embarked on the long ride (another day on the bike) to the other side of Angkor Park (the traffic is similar to what I’d experienced in Hanoi, but not nearly as crazy or congested or loud. Be one with the flow…). I got lots of waves and ‘hellos’ from locals of all ages, on foot, bike, cart, or working on the road. The first site I hit was Prasat Kravan, with its five brick towers, two with carvings inside. They were built for Hindu worship, and indeed, a busload of Indians was there, getting a detailed tour.

Sra Srang, “pool of ablutions,” was next, and then Pre Rup, a pyramid-shaped temple/mountain with great countryside views. Quite a few of the walls and columns were propped up in unconvincing and precarious manners. It was probably totally sound, but the enormity of the structures and the general atmosphere of ruin didn’t lend themselves to a feeling of sturdiness.

The Eastern Mebon was a lot like Pre Rup, only with nifty stone elephants at the base. I offered to take a photo of a Korean couple and scared them by counting to three in Korean and saying “kimchi!”(instead of “cheese!”) before snapping it. Hah!

Ta Som was the next ruin down the road, featuring a big tree overgrowing its walls. Preah Neak Pean, at which I arrived from the opposite approach I’d tried the night before, was a small central temple, surrounded by 2 serpents in a central pool. Banteay Kdei was a ruined monastery with enormous outer walls.

The next major site was Ta Prohm, a Buddhist temple of overgrown corridors and courtyards. It was similar to Beng Melea, but not nearly as wild or tumbled or secluded. I was so glad to have made the trip out, as the two are often compared but were very different in the extent of the natural chaos.

I had some pineapple while touring the temple, then had a lunch of fried noodle, veggie and beef soup outside at one of the stands. I then pedaled back into town (via another stop at Angkor Wat) to investigate evening theatre options and the main market. I made a reservation for a shadow puppet show at La Noria, and had just enough time to shower and book a bus ticket to Phnom Penh for the next morning before going to the performance.

La Noria is a guesthouse and restaurant that puts on a weekly puppetry and traditional dance show, all performed by kids who are mostly orphans and otherwise underprivileged. The food was pricey, but the performances were wonderful—the range of ability and bravery and pride of the kids was amazing and touching. It certainly wasn’t of a professional standard, but was culturally rich on many levels.

After the show, I had a great talk with the Canadian manager who had lived in Korea for a year in 1998 and who has now been in Cambodia for a year with her husband, who was a NY photographer. We compared notes on Korea, traffic outside of the western world, the personal adjustment of defining ‘clean’ in Southeast Asia, and she gave me more info on the program she was helping to run there. The history of the arts training and school was fascinating and impressive: these former street kids leave with marketable skills that they can use to support themselves while carrying on cultural traditions.