hello sunshine!

The Emperor's New Whale Shark

2008-12-20T14:11:00.000-08:00

Roatan, Honduras. I am convinced that whale sharks are the Emperor's New Clothes. Everyone tells you they just saw one on their last dive and it was this big. Then I rush like a bumbling fool to sign up for the afternoon dive and the only sea life I see is one tiny eel. Been there, had that with teriyaki sauce. I was a little disappointed with the diving in Roatan. I think it's been hyped up too much as the premiere dive spot in the caribbean. It was definitely cheap and the dive shop people couldn't have been nicer.

I see Roatan being the black hole of suction for investment bankers on vacation who decide to quit their day job and live the cliche life of Tom Cruise in Cocktails. I read that the layed-off financiers are descending on Buenos Aires to maintain their bubbly infused lifestyles with the favorable exchange rate. I imagine the type who deem themselves "nature lovers" (i.e. rented a land rover and went camping once under the guise of loving nature when really just want to drink a ton of beer, bbq some beef and make gastral-intestinal jokes with bffs) will probably flock to places like Roatan and Panama. Currently, the mix of domestic tourists and foreign tourists is about 50/50. I'm curious what that ratio will be a few years from now.

Roatan is an ideal place to go to just get some rest along a sandy beach. There are no "scenes" there, no "must try" cuisine, no "must see" ruins and definitely no discovering local life. Really, the only thing you can do, after walking the sandy strip of Main St. is sit in a beach chair and soak up some rays. I didn't do much snorkeling (maybe that's where all the whale sharks are) but other people tell me that's pretty fun as well. In fact Roatan is so uneventful that I am at a loss for anything scathing, glib or perceptive to say. Heavy is the crown.

But if you go, just remember its pronounced "roe-tawn", not "row-a-tan" and you can avoid looking like a stupid gringo like me.

Potato in Mouth Disease

2008-08-14T14:44:00.000-07:00

Portugal. No wonder the Portuguese were such good explorers. They're maps suck ass. What is "exploring" but seeking without direction? Vasco De Gama, a tip of the hat to you my Iberian way finder.

Portugal is now what Tuscany and Provence was 50 years ago - before the buses of tourists descended like beehives falling from a tall, tall tree. The Tourist Pollution Quotient is at the lowest levels compared to anywhere else I've been in Europe and you see it in the eyes of the Portuguese. In areas with high TPQ, the locals have one of three looks in their eyes:

1. Wariness - Here comes another SLR-toting wannabe framing shots of

my house, blocking my path and ordering "lee-o" with ice at my restaurants;

2. Avarice - I can probably sell her a Duomo key chain for five euros but I can definitely sell her three key chains at the lower price of fifteen euros;

3. Snottiness - I live here and you don't so therefore I'm under no obligation to move a muscle as I barrow straight into you on a sidewalk and if you woke up lucky this morning, I'll give you my best "move bitch, get outta the way" sneer. Oh wait, that was me on Prince St. yesterday.

Lucky for me the Portuguese has yet to inhale my volume of ornery in their attitude towards tourists. They are charmingly helpful even when they don't speak a lick of English and just the right amount of friendly so you don't feel like they're going to try to sell you the new, collectors edition Shamwow. Cab drivers won't immediately interrogate me with "where are you from?/no, where are you really from?/I know a guy from China - do you know [blank]" when I get in the car but once the ice is broken, they are very charismatic conversationalists. A cab driver in Lisbon told me Portuguese is like speaking with a mouthful of potatoes in your mouth. That has to be the singularly most insightful simile I have received from taxi drivers in all my globe traipsing and trust me, my lazy and lit ass took many, many taxis.

*RANT ALERT*

This brings me to another ranting tangent. Why do people always gush "oh my golly goodness, [foreign-ese] is such a difficult language. It must be impossible to learn!"? Of course it's hard to learn for you, you miserable idiot. That's why it's a foreign language! And being that you don't speak it, how do you know it's impossible to learn? Do you have a nose for linguistic difficulty? How do you know Romanian isn't just Italian in pig latin? Really, what language would be "easy" to learn for you? British English? They do say "jumper" and "lorry" instead of "sweater" and "truck". Quick! Start making flashcards!

*RANT FINI*

Mapmaking skills not considered, we did find our way out of Lisbon, down to Albufeira back up to Porto and through the flaxen Duoro Valley. The entire drive cost approximately $120 in tolls. I take back all my support for infrastructure privatization. Renting a car was the best decision as it allowed us to visit the tucked away vineyards that hold tastings in the overseerer's family kitchen. On a mission to find the exclusive and opulent Romeiro, we drove up a steep, windy, rocky, narrow path in pitch darkness for about 30 miles and got completely berfluxed in this tiny mountain village. The Nanna who tried to give us directions only spoke Portuguese and French so she gave Ali directions in French who then had to translate to me as I mustered all the manual transmission mojo I had to back up a 65 degree hill without running over Nanna.

I Heart HKG Food

2008-07-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

Hong Kong, China - If Hong Kong is the mall of Asia, it wins first place for the best food court. My friend tells me they have the Hong Kong 15 for new transplants to the materialistically driven port city. Ironically, sizes in Hong Kong run like the rest of China (and pretty much Asia): XXS, XS, S, and Fat. Where does all the chow fun go? It's certainly not burned off climbing the Peak. Lazy Cantos built an outdoor escalator for that. Maybe it's like pregnant women drinking Castor Oil to speed up birth. Their intestine is like one giant slip 'n slide for greasy food.

You know you're entering a culinary wet dream when even the airport has scarf-able cuisine. Zurich airport, I dined on wine. Frankfurt airport, I dined on bottled water. Heathrow, I threw up (turbulence). Hong Kong, I dined on har gow and 24 flavors of mochi ice cream. The two outliers has to be Charles de Galle and Lisbon, nasty airport food but pretty good indigenous nosh.

Who's Got Varnish and is not Afraid to Use It?

2008-07-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

Bangkok, Thailand - Holy shitake! This is where tacky goes to die. I now must issue my first retraction (even masters have a blemish). A few entries ago, I lamented over the varnished path to hell all historic Chinese buildings are doomed to traverse. I eat my own words. The refurbished Forbidden City is positively Gehry-esque compared to the Emerald Palace in Bangkok. Hell, Walt Disney World is an icon of minimalist-chic compared to the aesthetic eye of Thailand. To each is your confection-coated own I guess. But what do I know, Asian women have three colors in their wardrobe, black, grey and charcoal so I really have no right to comment on the technicolor of others.

Every tour to Ayunthaya (poor man's Cambodia) involves a tour of the Summer Palace and it is apparently seen as rude to not want to see it. You have bigger problems than disrespecting your king's summer crib if you have to "trick" people into going. Effectively, you're putting the Summer Palace on par with all those stupid ceramic factories you make us go to. At least there were cute topiaries of elephants smelling each others asses.

The Safety Dance

2008-07-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

Koh Tao, Thailand - How do we seek safety when we travel? What criterias define comfort? Are degrees of separation inversly porportional to isolation? Naturally, commonality builds bonds but does differences cause opposites to converge? Drops of oil don't mix naturally but when immersed in water, they cling to each other.

Koh Tao is a small diving island in the Gulf of Thailand. Every guesthouse or resort that dots the beach is a dive shop and all other businesses on the island support the diving community. You and all the other people from your ferry are in Koh Tao for one purpose only and that is to go diving. Now you don't just share a common culture and language but a common activity. In the backpackers' warped world of relationships, you might as well be blood brothers. The resorts are so communal that sitting down for a meal is like a high school cafeteria. You just pick a empty space and start chatting with your companions about what they saw on their recent dive. When the check comes, you each shell out an equal portion of Bahts. (Marx couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams that western tourists would be the ones to currently espouse socialist ideals in Southeast Asia.)

I can't imagine there are so many tourists interested in diving in Thailand. Yes, it is one of the nicest places in the world to dive but it's expensive, certification takes time and you can't really get drunk. In venn diagram of what 18 to 25 year old travelers look for, I'd suspect the union of those three characteristics to be empty. The dive schools does however offer easy access to friendships with people on similar paths and it offers safety to the traveler who is a little wary of diving (no pun intended) head first into a foreign land, culture and language. And to continue the trend of cheesy dive metaphors, it is a safety stop before going too deep.

Ebb and Flow, Booze and Snow

2008-07-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

[A creation story of the Full Moon Party. Dramatization.]

Thongchai was the illegitimate son of a military junta and a student protest. Because of his dubious birth, he was given the least visited island in the Gulf of Thailand, Koh Phangnan. Eldest song Somchai was given Koh Samui, an already established port town of western holiday-makers and second son Supaporn was given Koh Tao, the spiritual mecca for divers. Thongchai was sad and he cried constantly into his green papaya salad.

Luck would have it, one day Thongchai stumbled upon the Spirit of Debauchery and the Spirit of Unrest fraternizing, even though his father had just decreed the two to enternal separation. Thongchai was just about to go tattle when the two Spirits made him an offer for his silence. They would make his island, Koh Phangnan, the most visited island of them all. Thongchai thought long and hard and finally conceded so long as the promise could be made true.

The task wasn't an easy one. As Debauchery knows, Koh Samui is already Daytona of the Oriet and even Unrest couldn't deter the avid divers from going to Koh Tao. Finally, the had an idea. From years of inciting student uprisings, they both knew to get people to show up, all that is needed is a little direction and a lot of marketing. Thus, under a luminous sky, the Koh Phangnan Full Moon Party was born.

Revelers flocked to the island on the eve of every full moon to drink, dance and make merry. The Full Moon Party became so popular that Thongchai had to launch a Half Moon Party to house the overflow. And that my gentle reader, is the creation of the Koh Phangnan Full Moon Party. Unfortunately for Thongchai, since selling his soul to the two spirits, he'll never see the day of a peaceful government but he's already drafting plans for the Waning Crescent Party to launch in early 2009.

Time Locked

2008-06-30T15:03:00.000-07:00

Luang Prabang, Laos - Idyllic is often the word use to describe Luang Prabang and while that is certainly true, I am again troubled with what is real and what is a thick layer of tourism topcoat. The houses of Luang Prabang whisper of its royal past and waft of its French colonization but every building's purpose is to cater to tourists. It's English speaking menu after internet cafe after tour vendors. In the evening when

the market is open, all the items sold are souvenirs. Is it then accurate to describe Luang Prabang as an idyllic village where time stood still? Where the wearied tourist can go to see how life has been for the past hundred years? Clearly, fifty years ago, the women of Luang Prabang were not selling t-shirts that read "Sabadee" in Lao (hello) and no local were purchasing day tours of the Plains of Jars, lunch included.

I understand the wealth that visitors can bring to a place like Luang Prabang and to give credit where it's due, every historic town should adapt tourism in the graceful and unassuming manner that Luang Prabang has done, but I don't think its accurate to describe anywhere that I've been in Southeast Asia as a place where time stood still. A cruel oxymoron of tourism is that if you make it into the pages of the guidebooks and the travel articles, you have already lost the luster that brought you there. A more appropriate description is a town that succeeds in preserving the integrity of its identity. Which to a traveler who's purpose is to observe, is enough.

Floating Down Frat Row

2008-06-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

Vang Vieng, Laos - I had been warned about Vang Vieng in all the guide books. It is the hedonistic paradise of the backpacking crowd. The main activity in Vang Vieng is river tubing where you go down the Nam Song river and get pulled up to river bars along the way to drink Lao beer and jump from rope swings. Finding ourselves unable to make it to the Gibbon Experience (trekking and ziplining in the jungles), we decided to fuck it and go revel on the world's only floating frat row.

Tourist and locals co-habitate on two parallel planes. They share the same streets and weather the same sun but that is about it. As a tourist, you have no concept of time other than feeding, sleeping and checking out. You have a completely different set of needs. For example, how many times while on vacation have you inadvertently planned an activity only to discover the place is closed because it is Sunday? Now how many times have you made the same mistake at home? Because you are conscience of the day of the week and the operation time of businesses when you're home. We take pictures of people going about their daily lives because it is new and interesting. We pay exorbitant amounts to see what locals see every day. The two planes rarely meet and when they do, it's only in the tourism industry where by now, all the locals speak passable English.

Never has my two plane theory been so evident as in Vang Vieng. Backpackers arrive in long distance buses from Vientiene or Luang Prabang and descend on the small river village that is the love child of Animal House and Woodstock. They cram themselves into guesthouses and ride down the Nam Song in river tubes upwards of 3 times a day. Along the 5 km journey, they get pulled into riverside bars to drink, jump off the rope swings and play muddy games of "volleyball". By the end of the day, everyone is sloshed, wet, muddy and ready to go at it again the next day. In full disclosure, I loved it and recall drunkenly declaring an extension of stay to go tubing again. The ride was exhilarating, the bars are fun and the view was beautiful.

It was however, glaringly obvious the distance between local life in Vang Vieng and the playground created for the backpackers. Just as quickly as we descended, we packed ourselves back on buses and in less than 2 minutes, our floating playground has transformed into the village life of local Lao farmers going about their day. It was almost like for about 3 miles and 24 hours, a parallel universe opened up, we reveled, and left in the morning with monstrous headaches and list of new facebook friends with whom to share pictures later on.

You Buy Later, You Buy From Me

2008-06-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

Siem Reap, Cambodia. I will sheepishly admit that I'm a victim of travel porn. When I see a glossy picture of a place in one of those travel magazines, I get it in my mind that it will look exactly like that when I show up - oblivious to the fact that the photographer spent hours getting the shot just right; photoshopped out all the tourists and peddlers; and mosquitoes and fire ants don't bite through a picture. The reality is usually a little less idyllic and I am stupidly disappointed. It's like when you got a toy that doesn't talk, dance or sing like the cartoon on the commercial.

Angkor Wat is one of those places that is at par in person as with its travel porn. Even with the Taiwanese tourist groups and their fluorescent hats marching like ants through your line of site, Angkor Wat is breathtaking. You can't help feeling like Angelina Jolie (before she sold out to only weepy, serious movies) standing in Ta Phrom in her daisy dukes, guns ablazing. I'd probably be swatting mosquitoes rather than trying to turn back time to thwart the evil doings of the Illuminati but that's just the way I roll. Regardless of Hollywood, climbing the ruins of the temples is still mystical. Unlike some of the other "ruins", the ones in Siem Reap have only felt the destructive forces of nature and man. Huge trees grow amidst piles of fallen stones giving you a timeline of when these temple stood in magnificent glory and when they met their demise from earthquakes, floods, storms and bombings.

At the gate of each temple are Cambodian children waiting to sell their wares. At first they seem to speak teriffic English but by the time you get to your 5th temple, you realize they just speak 10 phrases really well. The usual repertoire goes:

"Hello lady, you want cold drink"

"No, thank you"

"You, buy later?"

"Maybe"

"You buy later, you buy from me. I remember you, you remember me?"

"Sure"

"What is your name?"

"Christopher Columbus"

"Where are you from?"

"I am commonly and inaccurately accredited to discovering America but really I just got lost, tired and called it quits on an All-Inclusive resort in Punta Cana"

"America, capital Washington, DC. You want postcard? 10 for one dollar"

"No thank you"

"You want to hold bracelet?"

Imagine where these kids will be if they could demonstrate that level of tenacity in school. I guess you can't eat an education. For a culture that believes strongly in karma, you have to wonder who the heck Cambodia pissed off to be so unfortunate. Squeezed between two giants in Asia, Cambodia experienced very little peace. King Jaya-something-or-other must have been so sick of his military briefings. It's like "oh my Vishnu, who's conquering us this time?" No wonder they built so many temples. I'd triple up on deity protection if I were them too.

Cambodia didn't fare so well in modern times either, with ongoing border disputes and a civil war that led to the reign of the Pol Pot, the baddest of all the baddies. Pol Pot is not just a member of the Evil

Dictators Club, he's the president. Our driver told us his harrowing story of being torn apart from his family when he was 14 and forced to guard the boarder under heavy enemy fire and landmines. He had barely any education but taught himself English through a dictionary which he still kept in his car to read while he waits for his passengers. His English is surprisingly good and he's constantly trying to learn new idioms and vocabulary. Most shocking is the matter-of-fact, cheerful way he told his story. Tonally, it sounded like he grew up in the suburbs, became an accountant, drove a Honda Odyssey and had a dog named Muffy. All of Cambodia was like him, cheerful, laughing, going through their day with an exclamation mark rather than an ellipsis. It's like someone took the smile out of Vietnam and gave it to Cambodia. There is a foci with suffering I guess; after a certain tipping point you just laugh and go on.

I'll Show You My Cu Chi If You Show Me Yours

2008-06-24T16:31:00.000-07:00

Cu Chi Tunnels, Saigon-area. What was once the elusive underground network of dastardly Vietcong is now the Disney World of Saigon. First you're treated to an informative and non-partisan documentary about the tunnels, the war and the displaced villagers. You learn that the Vietnamese military does not bother with the silliness of distinguising levels of valour. You are either a Top American Killer or just a regular American Killer. I feel for the other nations also fighting in Vietnam. I don't think they made flairs for Top Kiwi Killer.

You also learn that American troops only bombed women, elderly and children with a keen eye for those from the poorest villages. (Where is this highly accurate missile lock function and can we re-program it to find richly follicled Al Qeada operatives in the hills of Pakistan?) In the afternoon you'll be walking through the Madame Tussaud of a Vietcong's life in the jungle including various torture devices used on those Americans brought down by undoubtedly a Top American Killer.

Finally you'll be shown a few openings in the tunnel where your guide will continuously remind you of your capitalist gluttony by pointing out that the tunnel had to be enlarged by 40% so your tubby, processed-food eating asses can fit through them to get your moronic grinning pictures taken at the other end of the ride.

Ho Chi Mama Says: Fakes For Real

2008-06-24T15:17:00.000-07:00

Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon (yes, if you have a date in HCMC, she'd be waiting in Saigon), the denouement of America's fight against the iron curtain. Like Shanghai, there is not much to see in HCMC but what it lacks in history it makes up well with the trifecta (eating, drinking and shopping).

The Ben Thinh Market sells just about everything you could ever need and everything you would never need. It is also the mecca of fake luxury goods. I'm almost positive I saw a couple of American tourists drop to the floor five times and pray facing the Louis Faux-tton stalls. I know all designers hate the counterfeit market but I have to say, it's really a milestone in the longevity of your brand to have made it into the hallowed stalls of Ben Thinh. No one is rushing to copy Girbaud jeans. Ho Chi Mama didn't raise no fool here.

Conversely, the designers left out of this race to authenticity must feel pretty shitty. Do they berate themselves for not being good enough for PVC and the shoulders of an overweight British lass? Any designer worth his French seams know these days, it's not about the 1% profit margins of the haute couture, but about mass merchandising. And what better way to reach the masses than through stall number 1024 at the Ben Thinh Market? Not to call myself out but oftentimes I rely on the bag hawkers on Canal St. in Manhattan to keep me in the loop of what's trendy now. Those motorcycle bags with the tassels from a few years back? Walked into Saks one day and exclaimed "Oh my god, I've seen those on Canal and West Broadway!" Didn't know Anya Hindmarch from the moving musak of Enya until Auntie Wang started selling those fake I'm not a plastic bag totes.

What I don't understand are the people who rush past the imitation l'ombre Prada bags and beeline straight for the embroidered signature Coach totes. Those glorified Nine West bags sell like Pho after a late night of partying. If you're going to support child labor and organized crime, dream big! It's not like that Coach is any less fake than the Gucci. I think it's a believability factor. No one back at home would believe you went from Jaclyn Smith to Balenciaga overnight but a good Christmas bonus and that 65 Year Anniversary Coach bag is all yours.

Phu Quoc is that Smell?

2008-06-20T21:10:00.000-07:00

Phu Quoc, Vietnam. A little teardrop shaped island off of southern Vietnam made famous during the "American War" for it's large "Re-Education Center". The Sylvan Learning Institute for the wayward bourgeois, if you will.

Phu Quoc Re-Education Center At-A-Glance Statistics:

Student Enrollment: 13,000 give or take (mostly take) comprising of approximately 55% educated middle class, 25% merchant capitalists; 15% high-browed academics; 5% filthy rich landowners

Academic Departments: Art of Persuasion (Mental and Physical)

Mechanical Engineering (Artillery only)

Chemical Engineering (Testing center only)

Biological Engineering (Testing center only)

Physical Re-education

Tuition: Reclaimed property

Mission Statement: We strive to enable our comrades to unlearn years of capitalistic greed through physical and mental persuasion.

Today, Phu Quoc is only famous for its fish sauce, inflicting torture of a different kind on visitors. I personally love the pungent condiment; could bath in that shit. A British couple said Phu Quoc is what Phuket was 10 years ago: pristine white sand beaches so isolated that you want to find a volleyball and call it Wilson.

Hue A Minute

2008-06-17T13:54:00.000-07:00

[Disclaimer: The author concedes that she is a close-minded, racist, one-sided bitch. Yes, she thinks anything Chinese is by birthright better than anything non-Chinese and if she ever concedes that something not of Sino origin is superior, she will find a way to argue that the Chinese invented it first.]

Vietnamese relics suck ass. They are not completely void of charm and quaintness (euphemisms for suck ass) but as a whole they are not awe inspiring and basically looks like a poor man's China. Ali makes a fair point that I can't compare Vietnam to China, with is larger size and longer history of self rule, but hell even the Native Americans managed to carve some cool totem poles and their monetary system comprises of melon seeds, sea shells and wampum. Alas, I am a hopeless optimist who ceaselessly tries to see the positive so let's not dwell on Vietnam's sucktitude.

It is nice however, to see what Chinese-style buildings would look like today if not for fervent restoration and that is what you get out of Vietnam. There comes a point where the Chinese sites are so restored that you really looking at Benjamin Moore #462 instead of the original facade. If a piece of the wall is missing, the Chinese will just call up the local cement maker and order a replacement wall. Vietnam hasn't had the luxury (or the demand) to restore its Imperial City so what you see is what the Forbidden City would look like true to age. The Purple Forbidden City in Hue was the seat of power for the Nguyen Dynasty and all that remains is really a big stone wall. There is the front gate and not much else beyond that. You can't complain about paying the ticket price to look at an empty field because as the Vietnamese shrewdly points out, the Americans flattened the area with bombs during the American War, destroying much of Nguyen's crib. So suck it up, pay the entrance fee and repent for the mistakes your nation's mistakes.

Hoi-te Couture

2008-06-15T22:53:00.000-07:00

Hoi An, Vietnam. Old town Hoi An is a cute riverside city and is closed off to most motorized vehicles. Unfortunately mopeds (aka chariots of death) and their horns are permitted. Not quite ready to join the Hogs of Heaven club just yet, Ali and I rented bicycles to get around town and I'm quite certain that my lungs now look like that of a 50 year old chain smoker. As god as my witness, I will never mock the surgical masks again.

I try to stick to just complaining on this farce of a blog and shy away from giving actual travel advice but I have to just this once. If you are ever in Hoi An, do not buy the entrance fee to the old town unless you want to spend 75,000 dongs to repeatedly come out asking "is that it?" You can walk the old town without having to buy a ticket. The guide books make it seem like you have to pay the entrance fee to get in but the fee is just to see 5 special "sites" in old town. Given a choice of watching a blind man thread a needle or going to these 5 sites, I'd pick the blind man. I almost missed the Japanese covered bridge completely if it wasn't for the ticket collector running after me to collect my ticket. Color me surprised to find out old town is a UNESCO world heritage site. Honestly, Russian whores are more discriminant than UNESCO.

In addition to underwhelming relics, Hoi An is home to a huge number of tailor shops who will fit and sew anything for you. Each tailor shop is just a store front with some sample designs and fabric. The actual tailoring is done in a few factories outside of town and motorbiked back in amazing turnaround time. Don't expect french seams or exquisite darting here (come on, what do you expect out of a 6 year old?) and Fashion Week ready it's not but $10 to $20 for a fake Catherine Malandrino dress made out of highly combustible nylon isn't too shabby. Also, if you are genetically asymetrical, this is your heaven because everything is made to your measurements. Tara Reid, can your lopsided boobies hear me?

Halong Bay - When Good Nature Goes Bad

2008-06-14T22:35:00.000-07:00

Oh Halong Bay. You beautiful land of the descending dragon you. So inherently majestic that even with Bob's big head in my face, you're still a stunner. So magnificent that tour companies and hotels didn't have to trick us into voting for you as one of UNESCO's next Seven Natural Wonders. While we're on that topic. I have two pieces of bo (Vietnamese for beef) with UNESCO. First, everything is a UNESCO World Heritage site. I'm surprised grandma from my banh mi cart didn't make the cut. Second, UNESCO really needs to stop this "New Seven Wonder" shit. The whole point of SEVEN wonders is their rarity. No one is going to say "hey honey, how about going to 39th wonder for vacation?" I'll make allowances for the New Seven Wonders of the World because lets be honest, the original list makers were a wee bit racist. (Seriously though that Jesus statue in Rio is not a "New Wonder".) In fact, let's set some guidelines here. Nothing after the industrial revolution, nothing rebuilt, nothing constructed with power tools and nothing made out of metal, concrete, fiberglass, plastic, rubber or yarn can qualify.

Ali and I went kayaking in Diesel Juice (ahem Halong) Bay and found a rock in a cave that looks suspiciously like a pair of something-that-rhymes-with-malls. Displaying new found poise and maturity that comes with experiencing poor people, we only took 85 pictures each and only turned our kayaks around three times to "capture the right light".

Sapa - Rice, Rice and More Rice

2008-06-14T22:07:00.000-07:00

Ali and I took an overnight train from Hanoi to Sapa on the luxurious Victoria Express (don't judge, we're easing ourselves into budget traveling). It felt like a scene from China Beach when Catherine Deveneux glides along French Indochina with her native porters in tow. Except Ali would be Catherine and I would be the porter or the handmaiden if I'm lucky.

In Sapa we took a guided trek to the village of Cat Cat ("villages" in asia usually mean only 2 things, peeing in a ditch and fowls). The trek provided magnificant views of rice paddies and introduced us to various Vietnamese hill tribes. The local farmers carved beautiful congruent tiered paddies into the slopes of the mountains. It had just rained recently and the paddies glowed like layers of mirrors. It is exhilarating to see both in Yunnan and in Sapa that sometimes the human footprint can actually enhance nature rather that just destroy it.

The Black Hmong tribe that dominates the hills of Sapa were given their ominous moniker from the black dye they use to color all their clothes. The plant used for dying is actually indigo so after a few washings the outfits look more blue than black. I see the potential for a great laundry detergent ad here. Tide: Helping minorities retain their identity. What's more impressive is the means the Black Hmongs still go through to make their clothing the traditional way from planting the indigo to weaving the cloth. I don't think its the prohibitive costs of modern clothing that prevents them from dressing in a t-shirt and shorts (please, the Nike sweatshop is probably an ox cart ride away). I think once they lose their way of dressing, they lose their identity.

Oh Hanoi You Didn't!

2008-06-09T08:59:00.000-07:00

There is no love loss between the Vietnamese and the Chinese. In the days of yore, we conquered and subjugated them to second class status. In more modern times, we took hold of their economy and infrastructure (China currently builds many of the much needed power plants in Vietnam). While the worst of this hatred has subsided, a little bit still lingers on. For example, hawkers only approach Ali and never myself. When talking to us, everyone is only interested Ali's name and what she has to say and directs all their questions and explanations to her (i.e. at the Metropole, only Ali was told by the receptionist that breakfast was served on the top floor).

I know some might think that I'm being paranoid but really, I've never met anyone in Asia THAT interested in Canada and how a group of people who can't pronounce "L's" always manages to remember Alison's name over the Asian friendly "Connie" is beyond me. It could just be because Alison is so different from them that stokes their interest but I think it's a little more than just innocent curiosity. When inquiring about vacancies in hotels, the front desk clerk won't even talk to me until they see Ali standing outside. I know they are always weary of prostitutes but I'm pretty sure my piss poor Vietnamese and perfect English pretty much eliminates the oldest profession from my resume.

I don't mind their apathy. In fact I enjoy it. I don't get harassed to buy trinkets and I get to enjoy Vietnam without someone asking me when Canada gained independence from the United States.

Chinese Exclusion Act aside, Hanoi was somewhat of a disappointing city that looks like any other over-populated, polluted Asian city. The hyped French influence was lost on me (except maybe the smoking and the funky b.o.) and it's not like the French to leave an invisible footprint in their colonies. Heck, they changed the entire written language of Vietnam. The oppressive heat and humidity probably stoked my dislike even more. I swear, I would have defected to anywhere that had A/C in those few days in Hanoi. So basically, if you're white and visiting Hanoi during their cool season, this might be a fabulous city after all.

Shanghai - Propaganda Forever! Free Speech Never!

2008-06-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

The only reason to go to Shanghai is for the shopping and/or the drinking. Since the prospect of taking on more luggage was as appealing to Ali and I as a case of Scarlett Fever, we were left with just the allure of drinking. The plan was to party until 6 AM, sleep to 2 PM, eat, rinse and repeat. Luck be with us, we ended up in Shanghai right at the beginning of the 3 day mourning period for the Sichuan earthquake. By decree of head commie, all leisure activities (bars and clubs but not restaurants) were to be closed during the mourning period. Unlike NYC, Shanghai clubs do not serve overpriced dinners to those not hot, rich or famous enough to get into the club during regular hours. Now I feel for the earthquake victims, I really do, and I'm fully supportive of the idea of a MOMENT of silence. Heck, I even think the mourning period is a great gimmick to increase philanthropic contributions but honestly, isn't drinking the best cure for suffering (I believe it falls right after denial in the Wheel of Pain and Suffering and right before anger)? I mean, just look at the the poor Brits... drunkards, the whole lot of them.

I think this is just the governments way of forcing people to stay home to watch the 24/7 propaganda ridden coverage on how well relief efforts were being handled by the People's Liberation Army (PLA). One news radio reported that "the PLA was so strong and gallant in the moments after the devastation that a westerner called them the new great wall of China". First gag me. Second, can we please be more specific? Everyone is a "westerner" to my people. That's why China is called the Far East. Finally, like all walls built to keep out the enemy (ahem Maginot Line), the Great Wall of China systemically failed. Every invading northern horde scaled that wall with as much effort as Yao jumping over chihuahuas.

The Shanghai Daily had some even more hyperbolic and sickening quotes but I just had some awesome noodle soup and I don't want to lose it.

A Monk, a Meal and a Car

2008-05-29T05:37:00.000-07:00

Yunnan, China. My pre-conceived notions of a monk is a stoic, gentle, bald guy who eschews the temptation of modern greed and chants "oh mi tofu" all day. They don't eat meat because Buddhism espouses the idea of reincarnation (that extra crispy colonel's original recipe might really be the colonel himself). In fact, traditionally, monks are supposed to beg for their supper. Sitting in the picturesque old city of Lijiang I saw three young monks walk up to the street food lady and order 3 hot dogs on a stick, 3 yak skewers and 3 chicken wings. Ali, ever the optimist, thinks maybe the food is for someone else but given the lip smacking and the grease stains, I'm pretty sure they just ate Grandpapa.

Then, when leaving the Songzanlin Monastery (home to 600 tibetan monks), we ran into monks making the daily morning delivery of goods.... in a Hummer (H2 to be exact). Even the pope-mobile is only made by Ford Motor Company.

If someone shows up on Oprah claiming to be love-child of the Dalai Lama, I'm converting. (Yes I know I'm a practicing Atheist but the only places of worship I've every honored are buddhist temples so that brings my heathen ass halfway to nirvana by my books).

My First Marriage Proposal

2008-05-29T05:27:00.000-07:00

Yunnan, China. I sat next to a young man who was from Hunnan on the bus from Lijiang to Shangri-La. He came from a farming family and set out to Lijiang to start an air conditioning and heating company. He's doing pretty well and recently started a second office in Shangri-La. He told me his first real paycheck was for $1,100 RMB (US$160) and with that he went a bought a suit for $600 RMB (US$90 ish). He was afflicted, like many villager-cum-business owner, with an inferiority complex to the city people. With this sense of unworthiness comes a prejudice against his own origins. He pointed to the log cabins of the local Naxi farmers and said with an air of superiority "look how destitute those farmers are." I said I don't think they're destitute, I think they need less. He scoffs at me and reiterates that they are so poor that even the richest Naxi farmer only makes $40 RMB (US$0.55) a week. To him, words like "poor" and "wealthy" are always quantitative and never qualitative. My over-privileged guilt complex wonders if only people who need nothing can glorify and romanticize the people who can afford nothing. He then asked me to marry him. I think my mom would have a hard time receiving 8 cows from my potential in-laws so I politely declined.

We Don't All Look Alike

2008-05-29T04:45:00.000-07:00

* Not blogging in order of pilgrimage because inspiration and genius cannot be confined to a timeline.

Yunnan, China. Part of my fascination with Yunnan is the wealth of minority tribes who live in the mountains. Due to the treacherous terrain, many of these tribes have been left alone from the numerous tyranical Chinese ruling parties (Qing - damn mongols; PRC - damn commies). Alas no one can hide from the omnipresent Chairman Mao for long and road construction in Yunnan began in the late 60s. After the 1996 earthquake, Yunnan was put on the map as a top tourist destination forever. The region however, was already steeped in local traditions, culture and history that persists even to today.

Most Chinese people (certainly anyone you know) are from the Han ethnicity. Yunnan however, is home to 56 other ethnic Chinese and over 50% of its population is non-Han. The main tribes are the Naxi, Dai, Bai and Wosu to name a few. So no, we really don't all look alike.

Each tribe has their own language, couture, religion and culture. The Naxi and the Wosu are the most interesting in that they are a matriarchal-based society meaning the women rules the roost. Children take the last name of the mother (Wosu only) and the women control the finances and makes the big decisions such as when to harvest. Words are more significant when the woman participal is added to it. The Wosu tribe has a tradition of the walking marriage in which the woman can choose the man she wants to sleep with for the night. In the morning the man is kicked out and does the ultimate walk of shame through the village. (All you women, independent, throw your hands up at me).

Naturally, with development and modernization, traditions manages to get clusterfucked and now the Naxi men are becoming lazy and sit around drinking and gambling as the women toil. The perverts from the city are journeying to Wosu territory to exploit the women in what is basically prostitution, like a two-yuan ho.

A Tree Grows in Beijing

2008-05-26T21:10:00.000-07:00

My first surprise upon arriving in the brand new international terminal in Beijing is the smell. It no longer smelled like China. In all my past trips back to the mothership, I could always tell when I arrived in China by the smell. Some of it was due to childhood memories but most of it was a result of a nation modernizing too fast while the infrastructure struggled to keep pace. This time, it no longer smelled of diesel mixed with dust.

While waiting in a brisked paced customs line (much improved over the mob scene of yesteryear) I watched the janitorial staff switch shifts. A long procession of women marched precisely in a straight line in their matching, starch-pressed gray uniforms. The scene reminded me of Brave New World when Huxley describes the roles of the Gammas versus the Alphas. The Gammas were workers void of all humanity and self identifying features. They answer in unison that Ford is the greatest leader and vow to honor their duty of servitude. I wonder if these women would chime in unison that Chairman Mao is the greatest leader and cleaning their greatest pleasure.

Beijing has greatly improved for the Olympics. The city is much greener and even though a thick layer of soot covers the leaves and petals. The people are nicer too. Especially to a rich white woman (Ali) who can afford to hire her own personal tour guide to accompany her 24/7 (Me). I should have gotten a t-shirt made that says "Not Her Bitch" in Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Lao and Thai. I guess I can't escape preconceptions anywhere.

Also greatly improved since my last visit to Maoland is the "Squat and Spit" (two separate activities although commonly combined). The holy Chinese trinity is the Squat, Smoke and Spit (SSS). If the SSS is also playing cards, you might as well hang up your flourescent tour hats and call it a day; you've see the heart of China.

Asking for anything in China is like the inner workings of a GPS positioning system. You have to have three points of reference in order to pinpoint the right answer. Example: Ali and I searching for Song, a lounge/club in Beijing to meet up with a friend of mine.

Me (to security guard): Excuse me, do you know how we get to Song? It's in the basement of this building.
Security Guard 1: Down there (vague hand sweep covering about 270 degrees)
Me: I was told that it was downstairs
SG 1: Go as the Security Guard down there (vague hand sweep covering about 180 degrees)

SG 2 (same question): It's downstairs
Me: But how do you get downstairs? All the doors into the building are locked
SG2: Go has the Security Guard at the end

SG 3 (same question): SG2 said what? It's not back here. Go back to the front and ask the Security Guard there (SG1).

Finally, dragging SG3 and SG2 with me to SG1, we were able to figure out the entrance to Song. As it turns out there was this huge sign but the light fixture was broken so we didn't see it.

Shangri-La? More Like Skanki-La

2008-05-26T05:17:00.000-07:00

I doubt James Hilton was sitting in the same internet cafe as I am when he wrote Lost Horizon and described his utopia of Shangri-La. Currently there is one guy in front of me chain smoking, one guy next to me coughing up loogie after loogie (the national passtime of China) and the lovely waft of the bathroom (the non-flushing variety) behind me. Other than that Yunnan has been fabulous. More to come on the rest of China.

Veni, Vedi, Verdi

2008-04-15T18:02:00.000-07:00

The last act of my trip to Gondwanaland ended with a 2 day tour of Australia's first colony, Sydney. I was very curious about Sydney because throughout my trip around the eastern seaboard, other Aussie's have told me that Sydney is like New York City (doubtful, but I held my tongue). Sydney also holds another special place in my heart because it is city that my dad promised to take my mom on their belated honeymoon when they finally leave communist China and have the ability to travel freely. Hindsight tells them that they would have probably made it to Sydney sooner if they'd stayed in China and have more spending power but then I would be blogging this in Chinese and where will that leave you, my one devoted reader.

Their story is actually quite cute and slightly sad. My father was preparing to take the entrance exam for the first wave of graduate students that China was going to send to the U.S. as a result of Premier Deng Xiaping's commitment to openness following President Nixon's historic visit. Needless to say, millions of highly qualified students were all vying for a handful of spots and if you thought we Chinese-American kids are good in math, you haven't met our Chinese-Chinese counterparts.

My dad was significantly disadvantaged because unlike his peers, he did not attend high school or college due to the cultural revolution. Everything he knew, he learned on his own, in the few hours the kerosene lamp still burned after a full day of manual labor in the fields. My dad realized at the last minute that there was one subject tested that he didn't study for so my parents planned their wedding right before the exam because the state gives every newlywed 2 weeks for their wedding and honeymoon (who said those Commie's weren't romantics?). My parents got married in city hall and hightailed it out to the countryside so my dad can cram for the exam in hiding. The government would not have looked kindly upon using state given wedding time to study for the exam. Although clearly, they weren't too keen on newlyweds making babies during that time either.

While my dad was cranking out diffy-q's (actually I'm quite sure his level of math at that time was much higher than Calculus III), my mom watched TV and saw a documentary on the opening of the Sydney Opera House six years earlier (hey, those communist censors don't bleep themselves!). She was so smitten by the ethereal sails of the building and its presence against the backdrop of the city and the Harbor Bridge that my dad promised that if they make it to the U.S., he'd take her there for the honeymoon they've never had. 29 years later, they've yet to take that trip. I wanted them to meet me in Sydney but in the process of becoming an American citizen, the INS spelled my mom's name wrong on her passport so she can't travel until that is replaced. It's a little bit ironic that she left the shackles of Communist China to become prisoner of American stupidity and bureaucracy.

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Connie

XXX Diving

2008-04-13T10:11:00.000-07:00

After the Whitsunday Island "cruise" [Ali - There was definitely no shuffleboard on the Ledo Deck], we had to haul ass to Cairns for our liveaboard dive trip. Ali and I developed what I call "Land Sickness" where we'd get nauseas on land because we're so used to being tossed about at sea. This is also the part of the trip where Matt left us to do his own thing since he is not doing his open water diving certification. I'm sure he enjoyed the freedom of taking long hot showers without one of us banging down the door after 35 mins.

Our dive company was run by a bunch of 20 year-olds, which we didn't figure out until we heard some of their "teaching devices". Zak, our instructor who was actually 20, taught us his mnemonic device for remember all the things to check prior to a dive: "Bangkok Women Are Really Men". I wondered if they've had any Thai's on the boat and if they were offended. Then to remember which way to put on our weight belts we were taught "the man is always right", meaning the "male" end of the weight belt (I leave that to the interpretation of your vivid imagination) is in your right hand. Finally, for our night dive we were taught that "women don't like their nipples handled" to remind us not to point the eye of our flashlight at the fishies (subjective? no?). I think someone needs to let these over-hormoned kids off the boat more often.

I was a little wary of how much I'd like diving at first. It seemed like one of those activities you enjoy only after you've fully mastered the techniques. I have to say, I'm somewhat addicted. I'm already planning my next dive trip and filling out subscriptions to Scuba magazine. I think having my first dives in the GBR probably fueled my love for the sport but I'd imagine I'd even enjoy diving in Florida. We saw reef sharks about 2 meters in length, baracudas, parrot fish, nemo, clown fish, sting rays and huge tortoises (sadly they don't say "dude"). I also found some Chinese dim sum delicacies but we weren't supposed to take anything with us. Sea cucumber with a drizzle of sesame oil, black vinegar and cilantro? Yum!

Cairns is also where Matt and I left Ali to wander the rest of Australia on her own. I'm sure she'd do fine even if she's a little doubtful (having recently received an email from her, I can assure you, she's doing... wink, wink). So with two days left in the trip, it's off to Sydney for Matt and I. I wonder how I'd adjust back to city life after all this ruralness. I smell Bonnie again....

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,

Connie

Captain Cook is My Homeboy

2008-04-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

After Fraser Island and an overnight greyhound bus to Airlie Beach [Matt - We definitely brought up the average age on that bus by at least 10 years], we boarded the SV Whitehaven for a 2 night, 3 day tour of the Whitsunday Islands. During the 3 days of island hopping, I single-handedly fed the entire population of sandflies in Australia. Who doesn't like them some all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet?

The Whitehaven was a pretty old vessel and we later found out an "eco" ship (which basically translates to Old, Dirty Boat). I've also discovered that tour groups are getting smart now by labeling their tours as "eco" to appeal to the growing population of doe-eyed, "green", backpackers, determined to detoxify the Earth one Free Tibet sticker at a time. A truth in advertising translation of "eco" is: broke-ass accomodations where you have to hand pump your own toilet; take 2 minute cold showers, and "rinse" your own dishes in a communal wash bin. Let's just say our ship's carbon footprint was pretty small.

Besides being a little old and worn, the Whitehaven was charming in every other aspect. The people onboard were fun and again, mostly colleged-aged European backpackers. Everyone commented that in their long travels, we were the first American they've encountered. I love talking to Europeans and discovering that everyone loves to trash the French but the Germans hate the Dutch even more, and that they pretend not to understand the Swiss Germans and the Austrians. Meanwhile, my mom has repeatedly asked me to stop referring to my non-American friends by their nationality. "Connie-ya, why you like confuse me? Why not all white?"

While touring the Whitsunday Islands, we were once again edumacated on the heroic plight of Captain James Cook, Australia and New Zeland's boy wonder. First, we were told that the Whitsundays were so baptized because Captain Cook discovered it on what he thought was a Sunday during the Whit period of Easter. Our fearless navigator didn't realize he crossed the international dateline and it was actually Monday. Then, we docked for a night at Sid Harbor, made famous by Captain Cook's dog who died and was laid to rest at the harbor. We passed a group of rocks in New Zealand that lives in infamy as the rocks that almost caused the sinking of Captain Cook's ship. I'm really curious if there is a plaque somewhere that says "Captain Cook Farted Here".

The Whitsunday Islands came to a fun and dirty end. I did my first snorkel in the Great Barrier Reef and finally sunned on sand so pure that even under the hot, hot sun, stays cool because the silica reflected all of the sun's rays. I also found out that coral is really just solidified poop. So the GBR is essentially the largest piece of turd in the world, and unlike the Great Wall of China (which also has it's share of fecies), is actually visible from space.

Oh and I licked a tree ant because our guide said their skin is full of Vitamin-C and I wasn't about to get no scurvy. Tasted like a sour patch kid without the fruity, chewiness afterwards.

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Connie

The Driftwood and the Mangrove Tree

2008-04-10T14:40:00.001-07:00

I've noticed in the past few entries that I've been slightly negative to the thunder from down under. That really does not reflect the experience I've been having so far (let's be honest, I'm funnier when I'm bitchy). Australia is a country that is beautiful to extremes. It's like the rogue continent said to the rest of Pangea, "I'll see you a desert and raise you an outback, oh and you think you have coral my 'lil Caribbean homies? Well, tell it to my Great Barrier Reef". However, the two things that struck me as unexpectedly and disarmingly beautiful in Australia are a little more mundane: the driftwood and the Mangrove tree.

While on Fraser Island, we walked across one of the large sand dunes to a clear water lake (I asked Matt if he felt like Moses leading his people through the desert). Fraser Island is known for its pristine sand dunes that seem to form right in front of your eyes. Sand dunes however aren't inately beautiful. They're beautiful because they provide a perfect canvas for the refractory powers of the sun. What caught my eye are the large peices of driftwood that randomly speckle the dunes and beaches. They remind remind me of a Calder mobile. The driftwood individually, is sculpture-like but under the blazing Australian sun, take on a 3-D form with the shadow it casts over the perfectly smooth, flaxen sand. Every angle is unique.

Mangrove trees are not unique to Australia but I've never seen them grow as large, elegant and far from land as on Fraser Island and the Whitsundays. Mangroves are interesting little things. Their roots filter out the salt from the ocean which allows them to seemingly grow on water. As a result, their roots have to be so strong and farfetching, they also protect the coastline from erosion, storm surges and tsunamis. Growing on water, turning saltwater to freshwater, protectorate of its coastline, sounds a little divine to me.

Like Sand Through the Hourglass

2008-04-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

We left Byron Bay and headed up the coast for our 2 day tour of Fraser Island. Naturally, glorious sunshine escorted us out as we followed the rainclouds up. At 70+ km long and 20-ish km wide, Fraser Island is the largest sand island in the world, or as 10 minutes of island history summed up in one sentence, a shitload of sand. Having gotten very little sleep the night before and finding no source of caffeine that morning, I was in full "Bonnie" (bitchy Connie) mode. I had done so well throughout this trip to keep Bonnie repressed. I even allowed some gas station attendent to chat with me for 5 minutes before demanding my receipt.

So after 5 days of no sun, our first activity of the day on Fraser Island is a tour of the rainforest. All Bonnie needed that morning was to hike 2 kms in a covered cesspool of bugs and all things that could kill you. I swear, everything is a damn rainforest to Australians. They really do have a pretty loose definition of what's just a regular old bunch of trees and what's a rainforest. The place we stayed at in Byron Bay had a few palm trees, some fern froids and a gaggle of obnoxiously loud birds and they described themselves "situated among a picturesque rainforest". What's more infuriating is that on Fraser Island, half of the "rainforest" were hupine trees planted by the timber industry after they stripped the land of it's natural inabitants. I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure you can't man-make a rainforest.

Then Warren, our over loquacious tour guide, told us there are over 9 deadly types of snakes, and a jillion varieties of spiders of which 2 are extremely lethal in the "fauxforest". Additionally the hupine trees that were planted by the lumberjacks have a life span of 8 to 10 years before they begin falling over. Guess when the last crop of hupines were planted? I'm fine with the constant fly buzzing noise, the gross stickiness you have to step in, even the random drops of "water" that falls on your head, but when are you ever told to "watch out for falling trees" on a rainforest hike? I blew through that fauxforest so fast you would have thought I worked out. [Ali - You didn't even stop to ask for a picture of yourself!].

The afternoon on Fraser Island was must more successful because (a) they fed me and (b) I found some mildy drinkable form of coffee. We also finally made it to the beach, which again, we had to race against the tides to get across [Ali - I needed a sports bra for that jaunt!]. It is only on the beach that you really fully appreciate just how much sand had accumulated over the years to form Fraser Island and more importantly, how resilient and resourceful flora life is to be able to support rainforests (as dubious as the moniker is) on a bed of sand.

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,

Connie

Umbrella, Ella, Ella

2008-04-05T19:29:00.000-07:00

Now that it's raining more than ever, know that we'll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh, eh...

It rained for 5 days straight including every day we were at Byron Bay. How is a girl to develop wrinkles and skin cancer under these conditions?

The 90 Mile Bitch

2008-03-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

In our last day in New Zealand we hired a private tour guide (Phil) to show us around 90 Mile Beach and Cape Reigna (the Northernmost point of NZ). Phil was a wealth of information having worked as a tour guide for 8 years and a rancher before that. So we got all our NZ questions answered and all our stereotypes corrected on this tour. [In reference to why things are named in miles, it was because Great Britain was still under the imperial system when these locations were baptized.]

90 Mile Beach had a pretty interesting backstory which I won't bore you with. The best part of the tour was the way Kiwi's pronouce E's and I's. They pronouce hard E's (like peach) with a soft I (like pitch). So the entire time Phil was telling us about 90 Mile Beach, it sounded like 90 Mile Bitch.

It's funny when the Kiwi's talk about their "history" because their nation is so young. When we sailed past the original capital of NZ, the tour guide told us this long and dramatic story of the first European born in NZ. Seriously, the creation story rivaled the Book of Genesis, until you find out the damn gringo was born in 1857.

Another instance of their delusions of antiquity was when Phil took us out to the Kerikeri forests to find "wild horses". Now I wasn't expecting the horses from those cave doodles in France but we found out that these "wild" horses got loose in the 1970s! That's just a sabbatical in my books. The wild equines of the Cheasapeake Bay at least swam ashore back in the 1700's. It's rare that US history can pre-date anyone else's so one point for the star spangled.

Phil also told us that the local ranchers try to round up the wild horses each year and bring them back to the ranches that they camp from. So really, these are horses that some idiot lost when he got too sauced one night and forgot to close the gate. Then the locals have this ingenious idea to call them "wild horses" of the Kerikeri Forest so dumb tourist such as myself will pay to trudge through the dirt to "spot" them. I think they might as well go a step further and krazy glue a horn on those babies and call them unicorns. Then sit back, relax and watch the Robert Jordan freaks arrive in hordes.

It is also worth noting that it poured the entire day which Phil says almost never happened in his 8 years of guiding. Ali and Matt slept for about 60 miles of the drive down the 90 Mile Bitch proving once again that yes Virginia, money does grow on trees.

Monkey See, Monkey Do the Nasty Nasty

2008-03-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

At this point of the trip, it is probably appropriate to discuss our travel dynamics. As a previous wise traveler once waxed "when traveling with 3 people, its natural for 2 people to gang up on the 3rd". While we've been considerate and forgiving so far, Ali and I definitely gang up on Matt. The problem is Ali and I have an exceedingly high sense of urgency while Matt likes to take his time.

Matt first got a taste of what he was up against as Ali and I tore through the "ghetto" of Christchurch looking for our rental car company. Then Ali and I got our comeupence when we waited 30 mins for Matt to emerge from the bathroom the next morning. Honestly, I expected Brad Pitt to walk out of the bathroom with the amount of time he takes [Matt - Shit, Shower and Shave takes time bitches!]. By our 9th day together, we had perfected a system. When in motion, Matt would run ahead in bursts so the 3 of us can stay abreast for longer. When getting ready in the morning Ali sets 2 alarms; one 60 minutes earlier for Matt and one 30 minutes before our departure time for the two of us.

To be fair to Matt, Ali and I probably have our habits that he finds exceedingly annoying. For example, I don't like anything of mine touching what I call the "Nasty Nasty". The Nasty Nasty is the coverlet at hotels that I'm sure is never washed. It is the most disgusting thing in the room, bar none. So Matt is not allowed to put anything on the Nasty Nasty or something wicked will his way come.

Overall, we have worked out a system to get along. It's really hard to find time to bicker with our schedule and I've never found a sore spot that a nice bottle of Sav Blanc can't cure [Ali - Three!]. I'll probably end up being the odd man out in Australia as the two white kids play hide and seek from the sun. Should I tell them that in a competition with the Sun, the Sun always wins?

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,
Connie

If The Asians Won't Come to Me, I'll Go to the Asians

2008-03-26T17:34:00.000-07:00

White water rafting was our chaser following sky diving. The river was low which meant less rapids so we signed up for the harder course to compensate. To get to the starting place, we drove down an extremely narrow gravel road with hairpin turns, which was more frightening than jumping out of a plane. After we finally got suited up and divided into boats, who do we end up in a raft with? The only other three Asians on the trip. They were a family from Hong Kong and apparently had experience in rafting in Alaska. Hong Kong Mom, had long acrylic Lee Press On Nails in irridescent gold, which it's better to paddle with I'm sure.

They spoke English quite well but I did have to break out the native tongue when our guide asked them obscure questions (our guide was one meth lab explosion short of crazy). The daughter behind me and got every paddling instruction wrong. When we were to row forward, she rowed backwards, when only the other side was suppose to paddle, she lent a hand. I was beginning to wonder if she was a communist sleeper.

Hong Kong Dad sat next to me and was too embarrassed to sit on my lap when we needed to dodge to prevent the raft from flipping. He very properly left a full 12 inches between us at all times. Had the raft really started flipping I would have hauled his polite Chinese ass over because I'm not looking to go down the freezing cold river swimming no matter how long HK Mom's nails are [Matt - I though the expression was Fresh OFF the Boat?].

I was very impressed with their sense of adventure and how well traveled they were. It's about time my people stopped working so hard and got out to see the world their ancestors built and laundered.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,

Connie

The Air Up Here

2008-03-24T02:17:00.000-07:00

Queenstown is the self described capital of extreme sports. So when in Rome, sky dive! In the moments leading up to the actual dive, I was more worried about how cold it would be and how safe the propellor plane will be. I'd hate to plummet to my death over the Remarkables* before I even worked up the courage to jump. I was also reminded of the Belgian sky diving team threesome who died due to a love triangle gone wrong. Prior to going up, I got all Dr. Phil on Ali and Matt regarding their undying love for me. Apparently the river doesn't run as deep as I thought so I was safe on that front.

* Ali told me there is actually nothing remarkable about the "Remarkables". It's basically named b/c it is the only moutain chain that runs north/south in South Island. That's basically like the parents giving more attention to the dumbest child.

My tandem sky divers name was Volker (nice German lad) and he used to live on 86th and Lexington (UES, ew!). Funny that's the last thing I'd know about the person I'm strapped to as we fall to our respective deaths (mine more important than his obvie!). Volker was very sweet and kept trying to point out interesting landmarks as we ascended (most likely to keep me calm). I told him the only place I wanted pointed out was where we'd land.

Out of luck, I was the first person to jump from the plane [Ali - I'm so jealous!] and I have to say all the banal metaphors about the first leap being the hardest is full of shit. Jumping out of the plane is the easy part. Realizing what you've just done and knowing you can't crawl back to the safe compounds of the aluminum harness of the prop plane is the hard part. Honestly kids, think about the dumbest, most unresponsible thing you've ever done. Wasn't the worst part the regret afterwards?

After I finally realized I'm no longer touching the plane I had the ultimate fight or flight moment and luckily my body decided not to soil itself. I also remembered that I paid a photographer $200 to go up with me to take pictures of me looking like a kewpie doll flattened by an 18 wheeler (trust me, Asian features and wind gusts of over 200 mph? Not hot). So I resolved to enjoy my freefall and make thost stupid faces and hand motions you always see in pictures of people sky diving (we get it, you're lazy ass is not doing anything. That's why you have 2 free hands to make dumb thumbs-up signs). I made a mental note to add more push ups to my pilates regime when I get back to NYC b/c the wind resistance was so strong that I could barely move my arms (honestly, carrying shopping bags works out the deltoids and biceps, not the pectorals).

All in all, I'm glad I jumped out of a plane at 12,9310 ft. Volker even let me do some spins in the air (yes Sanem, I did get disoriented), which gave me more street cred than the next guy (Matt) who just dropped from the sky strapped to his tandem sky diver.

I'm a little behind on my poetic waxing, which is primarily to blame on boozing. However, to whet the appetite of my loyal readers (Hi Mom!), the titles of my next entries are:

If the Asians Won't Come to Me, I Will Go to the Asians

Monkey See, Monkey Do the Nasty Nasty

Honestly, I'm too drunk to figure out German and French so goodnight kids,

Connie

Kiwi Love

2008-03-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

Having been thoroughly disappointed to find out that there is no Zealand (it is almost as sad as when I discovered baby carrots are not really baby carrots but rather regular old carrots cut into bit size peices), I was determined to find fun attributes to redeem this country of 4 million people and 8 million possums [Ali - I ran over a possum and not a bunny goddammit!!].

1. I love that everything is a city to these people. It's a classic paradigm really. So long as a road sign exists claiming municipal jurisdiction, then you are a city even if your population consists of 1 kiwi (person), 10 kiwi (bird), 25 domesticated deer, 5o cows, 100 sheep and 125 roadkill. We went to Mt. Cook Villlage and assumed we'd find at least a Main St. equivalent but Mt. Cook Village consists of a visitor center and a hotel that frightening resembles the one in The Shining.

2a. They measure everything in kilometers except creeks. For some reason creeks are given names in miles. We drove by Four Mile Creek, Twenty Four Mile Creek, Six Mile Creek, etc. [Matt - And beaches! Aren't we going to 90-mile beach?] While this has nothing to do with New Zealand, I was thrilled to learn that I weigh less in kilograms than in pounds! We had to put our weight down for sky diving (for all the figure conscious girls out there, this really isn't the time to underestimate), and Ali told me the conversion is 2.2x. I assumed it's my weight in lbs multiplied by 2.2 and so I wrote down... let's just say I wrote down a high number. The sky diving woman came running into the room (btw fatties, there's a weigh limit of 220 lbs for sky diving) with a panicked look on her face and asked for "Connie". Let's just say she looked extremely relieved to see me.

2b. So long as H20 exists in it, the Kiwi's name it. There's even a name for every culvert [Ali - I know! I know! That's a man-made, under road, water diversion], which in the US is just a fancy name for overspill. I know the Kiwi's are fortunate to have the English language and the Maori language at their disposal for naming things but seriously, where do they find the time?

3. The Kiwi's are fabulously expressive and cheeky in their public service signs. The best ones I've seen so far are regarding sleeping at the wheel (something I'm sure they're prone to since you can literally drive 100 miles and see nothing but roadkill). When entering the town of Milton there's one that reads "Don't sleep at the wheel" followed by a very official Milton city sign that says "Milton - No hospitals, no doctors, one cemetary". Take that you non-caffeine drinking a-holes!

4. I've honestly never seen a country more uniquely beautiful and unharmed by tourism than New Zealand. Mt. Cook makes all the surrounding mountains look lazy and Lake Pukaki twilight seems like the place where everyone buries their most intimate secrets.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,

Connie

Who's Church?

2008-03-19T12:57:00.000-07:00

Christchurch is a cute little Kiwi town who's namesake leaves a little to be desired. It did get me thinking though, what if the first settlers were not Christians? What would the city's name be then? Here's a few for thought:

Mosestemple

Muhammadmosque

Koreshcompound

Hubbardspaceship

My personal favorite is Hubbardspaceship. It sounds like an 80's hairband which ironically was the height of Tom Cruise's popularity. What's your favorite?

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu,

Connie

Leaving On a Jet Plane

2008-03-18T12:11:00.001-07:00

Since 9/11, airports and flying has become a guaranteed source of pain for most people. Who enjoys having their lives reduced to a quart-size plastic bag and having their dignity stolen by a buxom and onery TSA attendent? I may be the last holdout at the Alamo, but I still think airports and flying holds a certain thrill.

The only other man-made structure that can rival an airport for the range and magnitude of emotions that it houses is a hospital. While an airport doesn't usher in life and death, it is the current gateway for immigration and emigration, which from experience generally makes people a hot mess.

When the plane finally reaches its cruising altitude of 36,000 ft, on a clear day, you can see a whisper of the curvature of the Earth from your window. I don't know if this makes me feel very big or very small; if it makes man very insignificant or very magnificent, but it certainly is pretty.

It's true that airports bring out the worst in people, but more often than not, I've witnessed incredible forbearance, stamina and generosity in the waylaid traveler. Consider your average wait time for a flight from checking in to security to taxi-ing on the runway; think of the number of times you have to dig out your ID and boarding pass; think of the weight that you have to carry around while terminal hopping, and then think: do you put up with anything close to that during a typical day? I've seen the biggest egomaniac MDs wait politely and pleasantly as security officers chats about last nights game. Tell me that isn't bringing the best out of people?

Lastly, while I love traisping off to exciting places, nothing beats the feeling when those tires touches the tarmac at JFK and you know from this point forward, it's home field advantage again bitch.

If I Were A Hot Little Outfit, Would You Pack Me?

2008-03-13T19:33:00.000-07:00

March 13, 2008. New York City women are better travelers than their counterparts from the rest of the country. In mathematics there is the Fokker-Planck equation which grossly (and probably erroneously) simplified, states that the path of an object will be guided by certain external forces that attract (worlds largest ball of yarn) and repel (border patrol when you’re packing heat) the object as well as by random “noises” such as fatigue and terrain. If that was too hard for you, just focus on what a shame it is that Adriaan Fokker did not team up with Raoul Bott to come up with what would definitely have been the GREATEST equation in mathematics* ever. My point is this: a NYCW, on any given day, has similar external forces and random noises that influence her path as compared to that of a traveler. Therefore, NYCW, by conditioning, are better travelers than a woman from Tulsa.

* Short Bus Monthly Passholders: equations in mathematics are generally named for their creators in alphabetical order. Ohhh, now you get it, you waste of a $36k-a-year private school education.

For example, a traveler is often in a country where his or her native tongue is not spoken and some form of exceedingly degrading pigeon English and gesticulation is used to communicate with the local. A NYCW on any given Sunday speaks “subcontinent” to her taxi driver, “Asian” to her manicurist, and “Hispanic” to her delivery man. A traveler has to navigate massive crowds to get to [David/Eiffel Tower/Temple of Heaven/Cinderella’s Castle] while carrying a bag that holds a camera, water, raincoat, baseball cap, wallet (fake), wallet belt (real), tissues, map, guidebook, sunblock, bug spray, and ugly overpriced souvenirs made in a factory in Fujian Province. Weight Tourist: 15 lbs. A NYCW every morning has to navigate the midtown rush with a bag that holds her blackberry, phone, day and night makeup, boring critically acclaimed book she pretends to read when hot guy’s looking in the subway, water (although scratch that now that drugs have been found in the NYC water supply. NYC Water Sewer’s new slogan should be New York Tap: Bringing Water to a Whole New High), pria bar (fake), black and white cookie (real), flip flops and an umbrella. Weight NYCW: 20 lbs (5 for just the $1,500 designer bag).

The greatest contributing factor to the success of a NYCW as a traveler is the random “noise” of luggage. Traveling with too much luggage and poorly packed luggage slows you down and hinders your mobility. I understand you need to pack for every climate but let’s be clear here; there is hot and there is cold; and neither require elastic-waisted pants and t-shirts that can fit the entire cast of The Biggest Loser in it. NYCW, by limitation of their closet to clothes-whore ratio, are the best packers in the world. If there is a 1 inch by 1 inch space in the suitcase, the NYCW has the perfect-for-layering-camisole to fit it. NYCW also have an exceedingly good memory as to where everything is packed after years of “my cashmere wraps are in the 2nd underbed box behind my collection of capris” training. If packing was a high-priced escort, we’d be Elliot Effing Spitzer (all over that foshizzle!).

So with my little red suitcase packed within a centimeter of its life [Ali – Is this a guilt trip for the TINY Longchamp bag I’m making you bring for me?] and my best “Matt this is soooo heavy, can you get it up into the overhead bin for me” look down, I’m ready to look fabulous on glaciers, in rivers, over mountains and between the sand dunes.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu!

Connie

Best Laid Plans

2008-03-05T19:12:00.000-08:00

March 1, 2008. Ali and I finally decided to stop talking and start charging our New Zealand and Australia itineraries. We realized that booking multi-city flights to destinations around the world one week before the intended departure date may not have been the most wallet-friendly strategy. I guess the last-minute discount flight market wasn’t created for impetuous, ex-investment bankers who are willing to pay out the ass to escape from our over-worked, under-appreciated, emotionally-unavailable lives in Manhattan [Matt – Speak for yourselves. I had trading hours and a double-swinging door for love sweet love]. We decided to meet up in Christchurch on March 18th and tour the South Island first. I have to admit, my geographic knowledge of New Zealand is somewhat non-existent. Since New Zealand is not the hub of pulsating financial activity, nor does it have a high-browed institute of higher learning, our paths never really crossed. So today, I introduced myself to the island-nation through Google Maps. Charmed, I assure you.

Ali was busy packing and cursing the obscene amount of taxes she has to pay this year [Ali – Why are tax laws never unfair in the favor of the over-privileged?]. So I began sifting through travel blogs and articles for places to see and things to do near Queenstown (South Island) and Auckland (North Island). Let me assure you, prose will never run out of crap so long as every Joe Douche is allowed to pen "travel-o-blogs" (gag me). What annoys me more than the banal rambling of their minute-to-minute movements are the ridiculous pictures. You spend the last three incessantly boring paragraphs droning on about the “soul changing beauty of the waterfall” so why the eff is your huge-ass head and your girlfriend’s fugly-ass head blocking the entire natural wonder in the only picture you post?! Unless you were the creator of said soul changing beauty of a waterfall, no one wants to look at a grinning headshot of the two of you and your faux-kleys secured by those ridiculous day-glo leashes. (Seriously? Will you really be sad to lose those shades of ugly?) Bitch being said, there are some pretty good bloggers out there who manage to not only capture the essence of each destination but frame it with perspective (shout outs to Jackie and Rose!).

So with our itinerary arduously devised over bottles of wine [Ali – Research!], here we begin our attempt to document our travels. We have no lofty aspirations to “discover” ourselves along the way. The discovered traveler never finds what he lacks most, a sense of humor, and is typically in dire need of a serious bitch-slap. So I hope to chronicle our travels a bit of elegance, a dash of insight and a load of levity.

Here's our “Oops, We Can’t Drive from Sydney to Cairns in 10 Days Itinerary”
[Ali – You’re the one making hot love to Google Maps, you should have figured it out!]

March 5th or 6th: Ali leaves for New Zealand (where’s regular old Zealand?)
March 6th to 18th: Ali wanders about New Zealand. Does not involve me so not much here to say.
March 16th: Matt and I leave for New Zealand
March 18th: Oh My Lord & Taylor, we don’t get to Christchurch until 2 days later!
March 18th to 24th: South Island (avoiding all tools on the Lord of the Rings Tours)
March 24th to 26th: North Island
March 26th: Depart for Brisbane
March 26th to 28th: Byron’s Bay
March 30th to 31st: Fraser Island
April 1st to 3rd: Airlie Beach
April 4th to 6th: Cairns (jellyfish, sting rays and sharks, oh my!)
April 7th to 9th: Sydney: Eat, drink and be merry in Outlaw City. (Soap on a rope for you Matt)
April 9th to 28th: Ali traipses around in Australia.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu!
Connie