Showers, toilets, and hand-held bidets.

The bathroom norm in SE Asia seems to be maximization of space. None of this separating the shower into its own little cubical like Westerners are used to. No, here when you step into the bathroom, it’s to get shit done. Literally.

The set-up usually involves a toilet, a showerhead attached to the wall (sometimes directly above the toilet if space is particularly limited), and a sink. Though the sink also seems optional. The part that is not optional is the bidet sprayer. Without fail, it is attached alongside the toilet. So, you could theoretically use both it and the showerhead at the same time. Seems kind of redundant to me, but then again, I’m not Asian.

While I understand the spatial reasoning behind this arrangement, the problems seem to outweigh the benefits:

1. The toilet paper always gets wet. You cannot have a shower without getting the toilet paper wet. You just can’t do it. Period. If you say you can, you’re lying.

2. You towel, clothes, and anything else you hang on a rack also get wet.

3. You can sit down and go to the bathroom while taking a shower. This is excessively lazy and can lead to numbness of the backside and atrophy of the leg muscles. Plus, it’s just kind of gross. The two should be separated.

4. The floor is always wet. Yes, there is a drain in the corner, but for some inexplicable reason, the tiles always seem to slope away from it. It’s a ready-made environment for mold, mildew, seaweed, fish—basically every form of aquatic life.

5. Did I mention the toilet paper always gets wet?

A case of the Mondays.

Like the Brawny Man says, “Sometimes the day just looks at you funny.” Today (and I have no idea if it’s a Monday or not) was one of those days.

Despite the rain, cold, and general miserable state of the weather, A and I were interested in checking out the waterfalls on Bolaven Plateau, about 90 km outside of Pakse, Laos. We booked a day tour that, in addition to the falls, included a visit to a tea plantation, a coffee plantation, a school, and a couple of ethnic minority villages.

I won’t go into the details of the myriad things that went wrong, but just give you the highlights:

1. The weather. Ok, I already mentioned that one, but it bears repeating. It sucked. The rain turned everything into a soupy mess. At one point, I had to take my flip-flops off for fear of losing them in a muddy, feces-filled bog. I now probably have worms.

2. The coffee plantation. We each received a free cup of coffee made from the beans picked there. It was like rocket fuel. And since Ashley doesn’t like coffee, I drank both hers and mine. And then was horribly sick for the rest of the day. I had the shakes, the sweats, and a wretched headache. I thought I might have the shits, too, but no such luck. Just an upset stomach without the payoff.

3. The school. I have no idea why they took us there. We were completely disruptive in an already chaotic environment. I don’t know how these kids learn anything. Half the classes were missing teachers, and the students were running around like rabid animals. There was screaming, fighting, playing, singing—just about everything other than learning. And then we showed up taking photos of it all. I felt weird and creepy about the whole thing. It was just wrong.

4. The ethnic villages. Again, I have no idea why they took us there. It wasn’t as though there was any sort of cultural exchange. Nobody was making anything or selling anything. We basically just walked around gawking at people living in abject poverty like we were on human safari. The worst part was at the last village where the kids (who should have been in school) were hanging out under a house on stilts, playing marbles, and smoking gigantic bongs. We’re talking eight-year-olds. With bongs. While their parents were sitting five feet away playing cards. Our guide told us that kids start smoking as young as three. What the ef.

In addition to feeling physically sick, the whole thing just left me feeling emotionally ill as well. I wanted to cry at the sadness of it all. I wanted to hug my mother and thank her for not letting me smoke a bong as a child. I wanted to be in an environment that wasn’t completely covered in a horrible mixture of human and animal refuse. I wanted a break from being attached by swarms of insects.

Tomorrow has got to be better.


R.I.P. Auntie Gladys. And all my love to Uncle Jim.

Sapa.

Both riders of The Tandem Bike have temporarily gone solo—A on a bus to Laos a few days ahead of me, and I on a side trip to Sapa, a mountainous region in the far north of Vietnam. It was a spur of the moment decision based solely on me seeing a photo of terraced rice paddies—a photo so breathtakingly beautiful that I just couldn’t not go, even though two of the three nights I’d booked would be spent on overnight trains. Which is where I am now.

So…Sapa. Did it live up to the photo? Actually, the photo didn’t live up to it. There are no words to describe the loveliness of this place. Entire mountains are carved into terraced fields like staircases for the Jolly Green Giant. Waterfalls cut through any and every crevice they can find to make their way to rivers winding through verdant valleys. Picturesque villages spot the countryside, and lone women harvest rice wearing conical hats like they’re posing for postcards rather than just going about their daily lives.

Though the weather was somewhat schizophrenic—by turns rainy, sunny, steamy, and chilly—nothing could dampen my enthusiasm to just be out in it. I arrived early in the morning, had a quick breakfast, and then set out on a 12 km hike to the village where I’d be spending the night. I was lead by a tiny little woman named Van, who was from a village we passed through along the way. She was dressed in the traditional garb of the region, which was comprised of velvety leg warmers, and layers of jackets and belts embroidered with hand-dyed hemp. On our way, she showed us the indigo fields that her tribe uses for dye. We also stopped by her shack of a house to see villagers hand-weaving fabrics and sewing incredible designs into their creations. This is possibly the first place I’ve ever been where the people are almost completely self-sufficient.

They grown their own food, ground their own flour, raise their own livestock. It’s pretty incredible to see in this day and age. I basically decided that, at the first sign of the apocalypse, I’m heading straight for Sapa.

Anyway, over two days of hiking, we were accompanied by groups of little local ladies in rain boots with giant baskets attached to their backs. They asked all of the usual questions—What’s your name? Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married?—and tried to build up a personal repport with whomever they’d singled out for their attention. And then, as we got to more treacherous parts of the trail, they would grab our hands to make sure we didn’t go sliding through the mud and endless bogs of animal poo. Their help was pretty invaluable—though they definitely wanted to put a value on it at the end of the day. As soon as we reached the house where we were staying, they pulled out a store’s worth of stuff from their wicker baskets. There were belts, pillowcases, jewelry, clothing, hats. And they wanted you to buy it all—a little token for them helping you through the shit.

And of course I did.

My favorite part was when, on the second day, my “helper” turned out to be all of 10 years old. Her name was Chi, and I cannot tell you how many times she kept me from braining myself on a rocky hillside. It was actually kind of embarrassing to be so reliant upon a child, but she was incredibly strong for her age.

She sold me two highly overpriced bracelets. And then about 30 minutes later, she tracked me down and gave me a third. Just ‘cause she liked me. That sentiment alone was better than any material gift.

Images from Halong Bay.

If my Dad were Malaysian, his name would be Peter.

I’m sitting on the top deck of a ship in Halong Bay, surrounded by jungle-covered islands, and am lulled into an almost trance-like state by the slow rolling of the boat, the hot steamy air, and visions of dragonflies dancing just above the water. And then…

KILLING ME SOFTLY WITH HIS WORDS
STRUMMING HIS LA LA LA LA

…???! It’s Peter, the friendly 70-year-old Malaysian man, singing karaoke on the floor below. Karaoke at 8:30 in the morning. I go downstairs to see if there’s some sort of rousing morning party taking place that I was not invited to, but no, it’s just Peter sitting alone in front of the TV screen with mic in hand. A couple of crew members go about there business cleaning up the remnants of breakfast, but, for the most part, they pay him no mind.

I immediately think of my Dad and how he would love this man and his karaoking ways. Just swap the boat lounge chair for a red leather recliner, and this could be a scene from my parents’ living room. It actually makes me a little homesick. I lose myself to thought of family and friends and what they all are doing right now, when…

KNOCK THREE TIMES…ON THE CEILING IF YOU WANT ME!
TWICE ON THE DOOR, IF THE ANSWER IS NO-O-O-O!

And now I think a visit to Malaysia may be in order…

Chopsticks, a check-in.

In the past couple of weeks, chopsticks and I have learned to tolerate each other. Are we friends yet? Mmm...sometimes we're on friendly terms, but it's a fragile relationship at best. When noodles are involved, everything is a-okay. But as soon as that rice becomes un-sticky, then we're back to being cage fighters in a death match.

A dumbass’s dumb ass.

Back in Hoi An, I stopped in one of the many shops to try on a dress I’d spotted in the window. As I struggled out my sweaty clothes and into the dress, I was acutely aware of the other presence with me behind the curtain. In Vietnam, there’s no such thing as privacy between women. They have no compunction about dropping trou and peeing in front of you, and so think their assistance and expert opinion in a dressing room is both necessary and appreciated.

Anyway, we had ourselves a little convo. It went something like this:

“Oooooh! Ver cue. Ver cue. So dorble. Ver cue.” (Translation: Very cute. So adorable.)

I twirled this way and that and thought, “Yeah, this is pretty cue.”

And the sales lady confirmed it, “You buy. Ver cue. So dorble. You buy.”

Ok. Sure. I buy.

Cut to a couple of days later as I’m sporting my ver cue, so dorble new dress. I happened to catch my reflection in a window, and in that one brief moment, I saw almost as much of myself as the doctor and nurses saw bringing me into this world. In fact, other than my electric blue undergarments (that were crawling, I might add), I was virtually naked.

How mortifying. Of course, I quickly reviewed the many places I’d been since donning the dress. They included:

• A French bakery
• A functioning pagoda full of monks
• Some ancient tombs
• A Buddhist temple
• The entire city of Hue

Why, oh why, am I such a dumbass? And why didn’t the sales lady tell me the dress was see-through basically everywhere other than in dimly lit corners of clothing shops?

Ver cue, so dorable my ass. And not literally, of course, because I've seen my ass and it's anything but.

Cooking with Han.

After serving up a breakfast fit for an emperor (mango-stuffed pancakes drizzled with chocolate, to be specific), the Laugh Café had no trouble convincing A and me to sign up for a private cooking lesson. We got to choose five dishes from the menu for Chef Han to teach us. Here’s a breakdown of each dish:

Pumpkin soup: Totally easy to make with very few ingredients. I thought it would be bland, but it was delicious.

Rice noodles with veg: We could have figured this one out on our own. Plus, it could have done with a sauce. It was just sort of meh.

Veggie cao lau: Cao lau looks and tastes like thick noodles to me, though Chef Han kept telling me otherwise. I couldn’t decide if something was getting lost in translation, or if our two countries have very different ideas as to what constitutes a noodle. Anyway, whatever it is, I’m a big fan.

Vietnamese pancakes: This one was supposed to be stuffed with pork and shrimp, which A and I were not down with. This kind of messed up the recipe, I think, and we ended up substituting quail eggs for the meat. So, you make the pancake, throw a bunch of stuff on the top of it while it cooks, then fold it over like and omelet. Then, you cut it in half and roll each half in rice paper to dip into the accompanying fish sauce. A lot of steps for something that I didn’t really dig. I think I was put off by the quail eggs.

Fresh spring rolls: This one also seems like a no-brainer, but there were actually quite a few things in there that surprised me. Like green papaya and banana flower. And oyster sauce. Man, but they love infusing everything with the essence of the sea. The verdict: pretty good, I guess.

Anyway, all food aside, the most interesting part of the class was getting to chat with Chef Han. We asked her all of our burning questions about Vietnam like, “Why do the women wear surgical masks all the time?” The answer is that they protect their faces from exposure to sun. Chef Han explained that, to the Vietnamese, pale skin is beautiful. She told us that she was considered ugly because she was too dark. What a horrible, heartbreaking thing to say! She wasn’t ugly—she was actually really cute.

And of course she tells me this just as I was congratulating myself on finally achieving the tiniest bit of a tan. There goes any hope of me ever finding a Vietnamese boyfriend. Damn.

Getting Pushed Around by Old People in China by Ashley

In the Western world, older people spend their days in bingo halls, mixing up their medications, and reflecting on how Bob Barker was a better “Price is Right” host than Drew Carey.

In the East, the aged do tai chi in the park, stretch their tendons at red lights, and ride bicycles in traffic so hectic you have an anxiety attack just looking at it. This has kept them limber and quick. Combine this with the reverence people in the East have for the elderly (for their alleged “sagacity” and “world experience”), and you have a recipe for creating social misfits.

The elderly in China cut in front of people at every opportunity. Their pointy, skinny elbows are like lethal weapons as they jostle in front of you in every situation possible (such as getting on the subway or waiting in a line).

This is the tale of the day I had enough.

Shannon and I were in line to pick some stuff from a locker where we had stored it before seeing Mao’s body. Think of a coat check set-up where there is a counter and everyone has a numbered ticket to retrieve their stuff.

A man was in line in front of me. I espied an elderly lady standing behind me. I knew her presence could lead to no good.

And I was right.

She was attempting to get a better view of the guy in front of me—ready to pounce into the vacuum he would create during the time he departed with his bag and I would step up to the counter. Once I saw her plan in motion, I decided a counter-strike was necessary.

I stood with my hands on my hips in an effort to make my body as wide as possible, think of a horizontal portcullis, if you will.

The man in front of me left, and I swear, this old lady already had one foot in front of me. How the hell did she do that? Seriously, how did that happen when I was being so vigilant?

I was pissed. It was a blatant move, and really unless she had a pile of diarrhea in her pants, what was the big rush?

I turned to face my adversary and yelled (Yes, it was a yell. I am not just saying it for dramatic effect), “Excuse me!”

That old codger smiled at me and laughed like, “Oh right, I was being a douche bag. You caught me.”

While she was mid-grin, I saw my chance to step up to the counter and hand the ticket-taker my ticket.

I won that round, old people of China.

Rain, shopping, and air raids.

Ah, yes, rain and shopping. In Hoi An, one begets the other. When it’s pouring outside, there’s no better way to spend the afternoon (and all your money) than with one of the thousands of tailors throughout the city. In our two days here, A and I have managed to do some serious damage. Need a winter coat even though it’s hot as balls and humid like a Southern swamp? Of course we do! I’m not even joking, A and I both purchased wool coats—Ashley actually had hers made to order, whereas I just bought one straight off a mannequin. And it’s incredible. It almost makes me look forward to a cold winter in Wellington.

Anyway, if you can manage to tear yourself away from the shops, Hoi An is a charming little old-school colonial town. The buildings are somewhat worse for wear, but the architecture is lovely. And if you can manage to tear yourself away from Hoi An full stop, there are some beautiful Hindu ruins called My Son about an hour outside the city. Though they’re over a thousand years old, they were apparently lost to the jungle about four hundred years ago when their inhabitants—known as the Champa—moved south to the Mekong Delta. They weren’t rediscovered until 1898 when the occupying Frenchies stumbled across them.

Our guide, a Vietnamese man with the most hilarious accent I’ve ever heard, informed us that the building techniques used by the Champa people remain a mystery to this day. They were somehow able to construct brick pyramids without using any mortar, and the bricks all fit together perfectly. When he showed us the modern restoration attempts, they looked pretty shoddy in comparison. But if the Cham were such awesome builders, why would their temples need restoring in the first place? Good question. The answer is that President Nixon ordered the US military to bomb the shit out of the place during the Vietnam War in order to take out the Viet Cong who were hiding there. Thank you, Nixon, for single-handedly causing the destruction of thousands of years of history. It did so much to stymie to spread of Communism in Southeast Asia.

Oh wait, no, it didn’t.

Anyway, despite Nixon’s best attempts to turn splendor to rubble, My Son is still an incredibly beautiful place to visit. And after a stifling hot day in the jungle, there’s nothing better than returning to Hoi An just in time to pick up your brand new wool coat.

Vietnamese noodles personified.

So far, my time in Vietnam hasn’t been quite what I had imagined. The biggest difference has to do with the extent of my slothfulness. Rather than my planned hiking, rafting, and biking, I instead just sit around eating and drinking nonstop. I can’t help myself. A beer is 50 cents. A coffee (the most delicious coffee in the world, I might add) is less than a dollar. Today alone I drank four. And it doesn’t help matters that every day involves hours upon hours of torrential rain—it just gives me one more excuse to get one more beer. Or one more coffee. Or one more French pastry.

And this doesn’t just go for food. It also goes for personal wellness things like massages, pedicures, and haircuts—all of which I’ve had done in the past three days. (Yes, I finally had a haircut that didn’t involve me wielding a razor comb in the shower without the benefit of a mirror.)

Anyway, I’m a little bit concerned that I’m going to turn into a well-oiled, completely relaxed, drunken heif with the coffee jitters. I’m like a human Vietnamese noodle.

Oh, dear, I could get used to this.

P.S. About the haircut: Though there was a serious language barrier to overcome, my hip little Vietnamese stylist was fantastic. One of the reasons I hate getting my haircut at home is because the stylists are always so timid. I think they’re so afraid of messing up that they usually end up not doing much at all. I hate that. If I’m getting a haircut, I was drastic. Well, this chick was not timid. She was like an Asian Edward Scissorhands.

I think Pink Floyd wrote a song about this.

In the heat of posting 5,001 blog entries all at once, I forgot to tell you about the Great Wall of China, which was the impetus behind A and me going to Beijing in the first place. So, though it’s about a week late, here goes…

When visiting the Great Wall, you have a couple of choices. The Badaling section is the most visited, and, I’ve been told, is like the Disneyland of Chinese dynastic stone masonry. It’s also the easiest to get to. So of course, it’s not where I opted to go.

No, I opted for the Jinshanling section—a more treacherous route that hasn’t really been kept up. Some parts were completely crumbling away along the top, which made it much more of a challenge, and, I like to think, a more authentic experience. Plus, there weren’t many other hikers to disrupt our commune with Chinese history.

The Wall itself was incredible. It stretched far beyond the eye could see, and I was blown away by the sheer magnitude of it. Plus, it’s perched along the topmost ridge of an entire mountain range, which must have made building it an absolute bitch. Man’s ingenuity and sheer will to create will never cease to amaze me.

Sometimes when something is particularly cool, I make myself stop and take a mental snapshot of the time and place and my general state of being before offering up a little prayer of thanks. It usually goes something like this: “Right now, on mm/dd/yyyy, I am [insert what I’m doing here]. And it is amazing. I’m so incredibly happy to be here, and so incredibly glad I'm not watching reality TV.”

If I’m far enough away from other people, I’ll even say it aloud because I feel that verbalizing something tends to give it more weight than merely thinking it. That, or I’m just a crazy person who likes to talk to herself.

Anyway, my whole day on the Great Wall was made up of a series of perfect moments. It was hotter than Hades, and I probably lost half my body weight to sweat. It was physically quite grueling, and my legs were shaking with fatigue by the end. But so much the better, I say. Because I don’t want easy. Unless, of course, it involves money—then easy ain't so bad.

Good morning Vietnam.

After a five-hour flight from Beijing, A and I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (that’s Saigon on your 1970s map, Grandpa) at about midnight. We sleepily caught a cab to our hotel (four stars! How did that happen?) and immediately fell into two exhausted heaps. So really, today was our formal introduction to Vietnam. And it was like a Hollywood movie, featuring the acting talents of Robin Williams and Forest Whitaker. I laughed. I cried. I had the world’s cheapest and most amazing foot massage. Two thumbs (or, if you’ve been exposed to Agent Orange, three thumbs) way up.

The laughing: Remember my bitching about crossing the street in Beijing? Well, the Chinese ain’t got nothing on the Vietnamese. The streets here are literally heaving with motorcycles governed by no discernable rules of the road. It’s a total free-for-all, which makes crossing the street almost comical. You basically just have to walk out there and hope for the best. But once you succeed, you feel euphoric for just having survived.

The crying: The War Memorial Museum. I sobbed through an entire floor. This should be a required stop for anyone who ever thinks war is the answer. The brutality is beyond belief. I know it was presented in a very one-sided manner, but it doesn’t matter. The fact that we, as a people, would ever do the things we did to the citizens of Vietnam is shameful. And criminal. Agent Orange? What kind of sick mind comes up with something like that? And possibly the most heartbreaking thing of all was walking out of the museum and seeing that its effects are still being felt by the people today in the form of horrible birth defects. And all for what? Maybe I’m just an ill-educated idiot, but I still can’t seem to figure out what the Vietnam War was about in the first place. Kind of like Iraq today.

The foot massage: $5 for 40 minutes of pure bliss.

Kenny Roger’s Roasters at the Beijing airport.

I honestly have been enjoying the food in Beijing, but let’s face it, I’m an American. I love American crap food. I get cravings for things like mashed potatoes and mac & cheese. So when we spotted a Kenny Roger’s Roasters in the airport, we had to go—partially for the food, and partially for the fact that we thought it was so hilarious that Kenny, of all people, had set up shop in China.

Sadly, his roasters just don’t translate. This was probably the grossest meal I’ve eaten in Beijing—even worse than the fried oil stick I tried on my first day.

But Kenny, I still love you as a person. And Islands in the Stream is still my favorite song of all time.

Chairman Mao vs The Tandem Bike; Part II.

Today, our last day in Beijing, A and I set out for our third and final attempt to see Chairman Mao on a marble slab. It was a serious business. People were buying flowers to lie at the foot of his statue. There was some jostling to get into prime viewing position. Hundreds, no thousands, of people jumped into lines that snaked around the building. All this for a dead dude. I’m giving him a point right there for making us wait on a corpse.

Score: Chairman Mao 3; The Tandem Bike 0.

But, despite all of the obstacles placed in our way, we did manage to finally see him. One point for us.

So, what does the dead Mao look like? You know those plastic Santa Claus statues that tacky people display in their yards at Christmas? The kind that light up from the inside so that St. Nicky’s cheeks have a rosy red glow? This is what the Maoers looks like. There’s a freakish light shining on his waxy visage that makes it seem as though he has a light bulb bored into the back of his head. It’s really quite disturbing. I was having a hard time controlling my laughter, but I thought the hardcore Maoists might take offense to my mirth. Anyway, for someone who won’t allow flip-flops in his hallowed presence, you’d think he’d be displayed in a more dignified, less cartoonish manner.

Score: Chairman Mao 3; The Tandem Bike 2.

We’re running neck and neck. But when it really comes down to it, he’s been dead for more than 35 years, and suckers like me and A are still flocking to see him. There’s just no fighting with a dead man.

Chairman Mao takes the game.

Thwarted by Chairman Mao.

When A and I discovered we could see the pickled body of Chairman Mao on display at the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall in Tiananmen Square, we were all over it. However, our first attempt was foiled by our lack of identification. Neither of us had our passports on us, plus the guidebook had the visiting hours wrong.

Score: Chairman Mao 1; The Tandem Bike 0.

Our second attempt was much more organized. We both had i.d. Our times were spot on. We figured out where to stash our stuff (no cameras or drinks allowed). But at the bag-check counter, I was greeted with a very unhelpful, “No slipper.” The lady pointed to my flip-flops. Apparently, Chairman Mao requires a more dignified form of footwear.

Score: Chairman Mao 2; The Tandem Bike 0.

Tomorrow will mark attempt number three. To be continued…

Spicy fish heads and friends of friends.

If you’re a regular follower of The Tandem Bike (i.e., my Grandpa), then you may recall my very first (slightly drunken) foreign blog post in which I mentioned my Kilimanjaro hiking partner, Paul. I said at the time that we were meant to be friends, and I was right. Over three months later, our paths crossed for a brief 24 hours in San Francisco—I was about to fly to China, and he was arriving to go to Burning Man. It was lovely to see him. We basically just picked up right where we left off.

Anyway, Paul put me in touch with his close friends in Beijing, Cissy and Andy—two of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We went out for drinks and dinner, with Cissy making sure we tried all the best local dishes—including spicy fish heads. As someone who doesn’t even know how to use chopsticks properly, you’d think I’d be a little bit leery of picking around eyeballs and face gills, but I wasn’t. Spicy fish heads are incredibly delicious.

But better than any aquatic delicacies, was the chance to meet and hang out with genuinely good people—people willing to make complete strangers feel welcome and at home in their city. This is one of the things I love about traveling—people’s openness and generosity.

So, Cissy and Andy, thanks for my favorite evening Beijing so far. Ashley and I look forward to seeing you again in Singapore.

And, Paul, thanks for introducing us in the first place. I look forward to seeing you again in Thailand.

It’s a small and wonderful world.

Chopsticks, you are my nemesis.

Growing up in Republic, Washington does not afford a person many opportunities to use chopsticks. And being a glutton doesn’t facilitate adopting new and foreign utensils later in life—for every sweet & sour chicken ball you drop, someone else is wolfing down two. And this is how it is that I arrived in China being a novice chopstick user at best. I’m pretty sure it’s causing me to lose weight. And my fumbling is horribly embarrassing.

But chopsticks, though you may be my archenemy now, I vow, in this very blog post, to make you not just an ally, but also a friend. We’ll check back in on our progress in a month.

I heart BJ.

Get your mind out of the gutter, dear reader. BJ stands for Beijing, and I really do have somewhat of a crush. I was a little bit skeptical when I first arrived—it all just seemed so Chinese—but four days in, I’m finding new and amazing things to love around just about every corner, made even better by the fact that it’s all just so Chinese.

My love list:
• The subway. So incredibly clean, fast, and user-friendly.
• The people. Even with the language barrier, they’re more than happy to help.
• The food. Strange dishes. Amazing veggies. Delicious drinkable yogurt.
• Saving money. Things are relatively cheapish.
• Old people doing stuff in public. Ti Chi. Twirling ribbons. Singing anthems. Line dancing to techno music. Playing badminton. Playing hacky sack. Playing strange musical instruments. Swinging swords. You name it, there’s a group of old peeps doing it.

My not-feeling-the-love list:
• Crosswalks. They exist, but drivers ignore them. Every street crossing is like a real life game of Frogger.
• The heat and humidity. I’m a swampy mess.
• The food. Strange dishes. A lot of grotesquely fried things. A weird pinkish meat seems to pop up in the most random places. Tuna sauce on a veggie pizza?
• Loud, frequent, and very public expectorating.

A pickpocket and the police museum. My welcome to China.

Day 1: Arrive in Beijing. Get ripped off by our cab driver. Find our hotel and crash.

Day 2: Walk around in circles. Get our bearings. Visit Jingshan Park, thinking we are visiting the Forbidden City. Realize our mistake, but hang in the park for a while anyway and attempt to twirl some ribbons with the old ladies. Visit the Forbidden City for real. It was super cool, super crowded, and completely exhausting. I think we were still suffering from a bit of the jet lag. Anyway, next: eat lunch and visit Tiananmen Square. Head back to the hotel for a shower and nap. Get up. Walk to Houhai Street on the lake for dinner. Walk back to the hotel and sleep like I’ve never slept before.

Day 3: A and I went to the Police Museum where we learned about the overall superiority of the Chinese coppers at such things as breaking prostitution rings, crushing revolutions, and thwarting evil doers in general. We also learned that the police forces from other countries tend to give really bizarre and occasionally crappy gifts. For instance, from the Americans, the Chinese received a plastic model of an NYPD cop car. From the Australians, a didgeridoo. From the Romanians, some weirdo figurines of folk dancers. And from the Russians, some hand-woven tapestries. It all seemed a little knick-knacky to be bestowed upon a lethal fighting force, but served as a good segue way to our next destination: the Beijing Antique Market, where, in another good segue way, I was the target of an attempted pick-pocketing.

As we were making our way there from the subway (we are now, by the way, Beijing subway pros), I caught a guy stealthily trying to swipe the contents of my pocket. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, and, though he probably didn’t understand a word I was saying, I’m pretty sure he got the gist of my ire. He quickly walked away and ducked inside a building. I actually kind of wish he would have succeeded because all he would have gotten was a Police Museum ticket stub. Oh, the sweet irony.

Anyway, the Beijing Antique Market: It’s like the Alameda Flea Market on steroids—a sprawling monstrosity of epic proportions. Apparently, hardcore antiquers go there every weekend in search of hidden treasures from bygone dynasties. However, the vast majority of people were just looking for random cool stuff, of which where was no shortage. There were hundreds of things I wanted to take home with me, but as luck would have it, I don’t have a home. This narrowed my options significantly.

So I bought what every homeless person needs: a bottle opener.

Say yes to the dress.

Big news on the home front: my little sister Meagan is engaged. Though it’s been six years in the making, of course she’d choose to do it smack-dab in the middle of my time as an expat, because, as you know, everything in the world is all about me, me, me. She gently informed me that should I fail to attend her nuptials, not only would she refuse to ever speak to me again, but I would also cease to be her sister or, indeed, a Burke Girl at all. To which I gently replied that she was a turd of the highest magnitude and that nothing—not even an encounter with Mr. Thornton—could keep me away.

Anyway, I feel somewhat guilty about not being around for any of the planning, but I was happy to get the chance to go wedding dress shopping in Seattle before I had to leave. And I think we found “the one.” Little Meagy Wretchface looked like a princess. No, better than a princess because she put that Kate Middleton to shame. I don’t, however, have any illusions that I will do the same for Pippa.

Gypsy jazz and the Shorthorn.

Though we did end up going, I gotta say, gypsy jazz is a bit of a misnomer. It was neither gypsy nor jazz, but more like old-person lounge. Which is not to say I didn’t like it. I did. It just wasn’t the raucous, scarf-wielding, accordion-pumping mêlée I had been lead to expect. I saw no gold teeth. No pantaloons. No petty thievery. In fact, it was all very civil. Very highbrow. Something we immediately remedied by proceeding directly to the Shorthorn.

Wednesdays at the Shorthorn mean one thing: karaoke. Except they prefer the more exotic spelling of k-a-r-o-a-k-e. Kate and I have been talking about going to the Shorthorn for years. Seasoned in the ways of big city bars, we thought it almost criminal that we had never been to any of our local, hometown establishments. My Dad, however, was not so keen on the idea. In fact, he was convinced we’d get shot. I’m not quite sure how he arrived at this conclusion, but he was pretty adamant about it. Which, of course, just served to pique our curiosity even more.

But for all its reputation of drunken violence, the Shorthorn was also quite civil. Though there were substantially fewer teeth distributed amongst its patrons than those of gypsy jazz, the patrons themselves were really rather charming. A very large Native American man politely introduced himself to us and let us know that, should we need a beverage, he would be more than happy to oblige. He then hobbled off on his prosthetic leg to the dance floor where he showed off his moves to the tune of Eye of the Tiger.

All were very supportive of my rendition of Chantilly Lace.

When we got home, I think Dad was almost a little bit disappointed that neither of us had been shot, stabbed, or otherwise maimed—he does enjoy proving a point. And I think that we, too, were a little disappointed that nothing more than a poorly played game of pool and a few watery beers went down. A good bar fight could have been quite interesting. There’s always next visit, I guess. However, I think since the Shorthorn turned out to be completely dead—and not in the promised rigormortis way—we’re going to check out the ghetto bar in the next town over instead. It (the bar, not the town) is called the Caribou. Or “the Boo” to those in the know. And I desperately want to be in the know.

Omak vignettes.

I.
I’m in the back seat of my Mom’s car. She’s driving and my sister, Kate, is in the passenger seat. We’re stopped at the one and only stoplight in town, when we hear a loud BANG! behind us. A scary looking dude is punching a girl in the face through her driver’s-side window. The light changes. We drive through the intersection, and the girl follows behind us. Scary dude is running alongside her car, screaming and punching as he goes. She speeds up and leaves him behind, before finally pulling over. We drive back around the block and cut through a parking lot to see if she’s ok. Another car slams into us. The driver is on her phone talking to 911 because she saw a man running through an intersection, punching a girl in the face…

II.
It’s a Monday. I’m at the bank. I need a money order to pay for a travel visa. “Who should I make it out to?” the bank clerk asks me.

“The Embassy of Vietnam,” I reply.

“How do you spell Embassy?”

“E-M-B-A-S-S-Y.”

“How do you spell Vietnam?”

“V-I-E-T...”

It’s a Tuesday. I’m at the bank. I need a money order to pay for a travel visa. “Who should I make it out to?” a different bank clerk asks me.

“The Chinese Embassy,” I reply.

“How do you spell Chinese?”

Really? Are you kidding me? “C-H-I-N-E-S-E.”

“Umm…how do you spell Embassy?”

III.

On our way to Walmart, Kate and I see a billboard for wine tasting. In an effort to take our redneck quotient down a notch, we decide to go. We’re the only ones there, which is great because the winemaker spends his entire morning drinking and chatting with us. When he hears that Kate loves her some Malbec, he takes us into the barrel room to taste the one he’s currently working on. He then invites us back tomorrow for some gypsy jazz music. Gypsy jazz and wine? Omak just got a lot more interesting. To be continued…

Home on the range.

It usually takes me about a week to get into the swing of things whenever I go to home. And where is home for the girl without a permanent address? Wherever my parents live, of course. And for the past 15 years, that’s been the bustling metropolis of Omak, Washington.

Never heard of it? That’s surprising considering Omak is staging ground for the World Famous Suicide Race—an annual, aptly-named horse race that involves riders hurling themselves down a 45-degree slope into a fast-moving river and out the other side, finally ending in the rodeo grounds where legions of men wearing giant belt buckles and women sporting ‘80s perms await them in breathless anticipation. You can pretty much bank on at least one horse breaking a leg, or, if it’s a big year, a rider breaking his neck. Seriously.

Unsurprisingly, PETA has a hey-day.

I’ve witnessed the Suicide Race exactly one time, which turned out to be more than enough. But for some reason, I keep on being suckered into going to the accompanying carnival despite the fact that every time I’ve gone, I vowed to never return. It’s hot. It’s dusty. It’s full of carnies. And the rides are held together by chewing gum and baling wire. And the people. Oh, Dear Lord, the people. They’re like Mark Walberg’s family in The Fighter.

But I digress. Getting into the swing of things at home involves waking up late, eating insane amounts of food, driving to Walmart at least once a day, watching questionable movies, and reading a lot of books. It takes me about a week because my internal clock is slow to reset itself to lounge time. But once it’s there, I become a sloth of gigantic proportions. I eat cake for breakfast. At noon. I watch Point Break. And like it. I shop the Miley Cyrus collection. And wear it unironically.

Quite frankly, the only reason you’re reading this—the only reason I’m bothering to write it—is because I have work to do and am procrastinating. Otherwise, I’d be gearing up to watch Dirty Dancing Havana Nights (though my sister would have to help me since I still haven’t figured out how to use the remote) while eating my way through an entire bag of gummy cinnamon bears. I’m tying to be extra-slothfull this visit because I probably won’t be home for at least another year. Maybe longer. As you can tell, my life is a little up in the air right now. Good thing I have an entire red velvet cake waiting to weigh me back down…

Tanks, lads.

I spent my last night in Africa with Australian Amy and Irish Mike & Claire, and it was a really nice way to end. By no means a rager, it was more of a mellow farewell with equal parts reminiscing about the good times and planning for future ones. After all, there’s always Ethiopia…

Anyway, to all those who made this trip so memorable, I’m going to steal Mike’s favorite phrase and leave you with this, “Tanks, lads.”

For everything. Really.

Yeah, I get that all the time.

Sitting around a fire in Stellenbosch, my very drunk wine-tour guide sidles up to me and asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a pixie? A hippy pixie? From Alaska?”

Namibia, I think I love you.

And here’s why:

Watering hole in Etosha. Even though I’d already seen the Big 5 in any number of national parks throughout East Africa, Etosha in Namibia was really something special. Namibia, as a whole, is an incredibly dry country, so by simply waiting at a watering hole, you’re bound to see something good. And we did. Rhinos. Zebras. Giraffes. Elephants. Gemboks. Springboks. Jackals. Even the ever-elusive honey badger (and yes, he nasty). Our guide told us to be sure not to fall asleep by a watering hole because two years ago a cat-napping tourist was eaten by a lion. Speaking of which, we could hear the lions roaring all night from the safety (ok, no, it wasn’t really that safe) of our tents. T.I.A.

Sandboarding in Swakopmund. For a long time, Namibia was considered to be not much more than extension of South Africa, and you’ll find a huge Dutch/Afrikaans influence just about everywhere you go. It also bears a heavy German imprint even though the Germans were kicked out sometime after WWII. And nothing’s more German than Swakopmund—the adventure capital of Namibia. Located on the Atlantic Ocean, Swakopmund—or Swako to the locals— is a pretty little tourist town mere minutes from the famous dunes of the Namib Desert. You drive down flat, dusty roads and then…there they are. It’s like they appear out of thin air. Spectacular rolling red dunes—beautiful to look at, but a bitch to hike up. Especially wearing snowboarding boots.

And that’s what sandboarding is—snowboarding on a dune. Actually, sandboarding encompasses sledding as well, which is what I had originally intended to do, but once again I was swayed by the power of suggestion and opted for the stand-up version instead.

As we pulled up to the slope and I realized that they expected me to slide down a 45 degree angle on little more than a stick, my constant constipation was almost instantly cured. I was terrified. It was a broken neck waiting to happen. Nonetheless, I slogged my way up to the top in the blazing sun, listened to the little how-to, and gamely set about trying not to die. I gotta tell you, trying not to die is surprisingly fun. I was embarrassingly bad, but loved it so much that I went back for a second day—and even attempted the jump.

I now actually look forward to winter in New Zealand so that I can give real snowboarding a go. I think I’m hooked.

Dune 45. The most famous in all of Namibia, Dune 45 is in Sossusvlei, a beautiful desert region that used to be under the ocean a couple of million years ago. And even though I’d been climbing up and down sand dunes for the past two days, I was still enthused to wake up at 5 in the morning to climb 45 just in time to catch the sunrise.

Since arriving in Africa, I’ve become acutely aware of sunrises and sunsets. It’s like this continent revolves around an entirely different raging ball of fire than the rest of the world. And it’s way more beautiful. Or maybe I’m just taking the time to appreciate it, whereas I’d likely be sitting on the couch watching The Biggest Loser during the sunset at home. At any rate, sunrise over the Namib is so incredible, it’s a coffee table photography book waiting to happen. Every now and again, I pause and think, “This is what makes life worth living.” And for now, “this” is Dune 45.

Sossusvlei. More than anything, I love Sossusvlei for its name. I never pronounce it correctly, however, I never tire of hearing others say it.