A few days ago, I wrote an entry (Of strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff) explaining that many of my earliest travel associations are not to do with the act of travelling itself. Instead, I think that many of the defining moments that spoke to me about the allure of the unknown were formed in the playground of my primary school. I was so excited when people posted responses to the entry, letting me know that I was not alone, and that you too had enjoyed that same rush of excitement in finding out that the weirdest stuff in the world can be the things that are the most ordinary ...

Just as I was thinking about these things, lazing by a pool in Bangkok (uber-decadent, I know!), I read some comments by Pico Iyer that made me think, 'Yes!'

In The Lady and the Monk, Iyer is spending time in Kyoto, getting to grips with Japanese society. Visiting a temple, his friend informs him that,

'Jizo ... was the patron saint of children and of travelers'

To which Iyer responds, 'very apt, I thought, since every child is a born adventurer and every traveler a born-again child.'

Maybe this is part of it all, I thought, sitting by the pool. The rush of excitement and the enjoyment that comes from the everyday being made strange by virtue of its 'foreignness' is kind of like being back in childhood.

It reminded me also of an incident that happened a couple of years ago on a prior trip to South-East Asia. Andrew and I were on a slow boat travelling down the Mekong in Laos. The boat takes two days to journey from Huay Xai down to Luang Prabung - the craft is basic, it's wooden, it's painstakingly slow, and there's a lot of time for thinking.

Tired of being crammed into a boat stuffed full of tourists on the first day (and watching far emptier boats with just a few locals and lots of livestock on them), the second day we flagged down one of the locals-only boats.

Deciding that this was a good option, two Israelis joined us, and there we sat - four Westerners and three elderly Laoation women with brightly-coloured fabrics woven elaborately around their heads. Their ears were heavy with thick silver hoops, and their faces were tanned to a deep, deep brown.

Over the course of the long boat trip, the Israelis cracked out some food supplies. Tinned tuna and some tinned peas - pretty basic stuff, but totally non-perishable.

Noticing that the Laoatians were looking on with interest, the Israelis offered them a taste. An eager little huddle formed, as each woman scooped a bit out with her fingertips. As soon as the food reached their mouths, though, all hell broke loose.

With a look of undisguised horror, all three women lent over the side of the boat and started spitting and hacking furiously - doing everything they could to get rid of this foul and unusual taste.

Mission accomplished, they looked back up sheepishly, and kind of shrugged as if to say, 'I don't know what that was, but it tasted so bad, I know you'll forgive us for having to get rid of it quickly!'

It was the craziest thing to see, given that those items are quite basic and 'un-special' things to a Western palate - yet here, on a slow boat in Laos, they were rendered exotic and bizarre and unmanageable.

I guess what I'm thinking is that travel distorts so many things, making the ordinary both alluring and unbearable in ways that are difficult to predict.

I like that - it reminds me of how, when I finally did get to go to the States as a child, I was like,

'Empire State Building ... meh.'

'Statue of Liberty ... uh-huh.'

'Oh my God - the hotel gives you doughnuts at breakfast?? I love America!!'