The Heart Of The Day

At Pachote Organic Market while sampling Mezcal, an alcoholic beverage made in Oaxaca from the agave plant, I met Juanita, a lovely Mexican-American woman, who was here visiting her daughter. We connected immediately and it turns out that after having one child in Guadalajara and three in LA, she lived for 30 some years in Highland Park…two blocks from where we lived while my husband was doing a pediatric internship and residency at LA County Hospital. We left a couple years before she moved in but her husband’s brother lives on Marmion Way…the same short street our next door neighbors moved to shortly before we left LA. Juanita has just left her husband and moved back to Mexico.

So, after meeting her daughter, Veronica, in her little casita north of the Zocalo, we all drove to a nearby hilltop overlooking a little valley to visit Willie, a Swiss expat, artist and industrial designer. He graciously served us avocado and tomatoes and grated carrots with lime and salt and we had a bowl of Veronica’s black beans. Besides designing lamps and such out of sticks of cane gleaned from the hills around him, Willie is helping an international organization design an eco lodge in the Sierra Madre mountains.

Veronica, born in Mexico but raised and educated in LA is teaching English to third graders. I get an insight into the teacher’s strike when she tells me her husband never went beyond primary school but was able to purchase a teaching permit. This permit can be held until he decides to retire…or just not teach anymore…and then the powerful Teacher’s Union will pay him retirement wages. He can pass the permit down to his children or sell it to someone else. My landlord, Gerardo, had told me that many of the teachers are not qualified so it was interesting to hear this story. Veronica is currently estranged from her husband…he is busy striking while she is supporting their one and a half and six year old children. The other side of the story.

That evening Juanita and I decided to go out dancing but when we found the club closed we walked up to the Zocalo to find other entertainment. We found a traditional music and dance performance called a Calendula in front of the Cathedral depicting political commentary…boys under huge 15 foot tall paper mache “bodies” swinging back and forth wildly out of control.

Then the fireworks started directly above us. It felt weird being seeing all the sparks rain down directly upon us…possibly dangerous I thought. The fireworks were being lit too close to the Cathedral and started bouncing wildly off the walls and roof instead of up in the air. Then all of a sudden fireworks began shooting horizontally at us and people stampeded backward. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the fireworks stand was on fire. Juanita and I ran smack into a vendor’s tent and fell but quickly helped each other up. All I could think of was the other stampedes I had heard of, but most of the people around us didn’t seem too concerned so there was no panic…they’ve seen this before I thought. So that was the end of that.

We got a cup of coffee further up Alcala St. and sat in front of another Cathedral listening to some boys drumming…and watching a fire-stick twirler…finally making our way home about midnight in the cool night air.

Then came another unexpected adventure. I turned on the stairway light just as I was reaching to put the key in the door when I noticed what I thought was a salamander hugging the wall by the doorknob. I touched him…expecting him to scurry up the wall but he didn’t move. Don’t touch it, Juanita quickly warned…it’s a scorpion! Big one!

Good news! The magesterio announced yesterday on Radio Universidad that nobody died in the June 14 attack on striking teachers by the police in Oaxaca City.

Immediately after the attack, the rumor spread that at least four teachers, including a child, had died and that the bodies were being held at the police station but no one had been able to confirm or deny this until now.

I picked this up on TripAdvisor.com…a travel site:

As I’ve posted in a couple of threads, my wife and I are planning a trip to Oaxaca next week and had some concerns regarding the escalation of the protest activity. You all have been so helpful. On the advice of one responder to my posts I did contact the consular office in Oaxaca and here is the reply I received:

Sir: the teacher dispute with the state govt here is ongoing and no solution is in sight, at least not to public knowledge. you will not see the downtown of Oaxaca at its best, but I do not believe that the teachers, or the govt, represent any danger to tourists. The State Dept. information re this matter is to not participate in demonstrations and to avoid getting caught up in them, by going in an opposite direction, should you encounter one. I believe you will be safe here.

Mark Leyes
US Consular Agent
Oaxaca, Mexico

Today, friends Sharon and Sueki, a woman visiting from Tucson Texas who we met at Pachote Oganic Market, and I joined a tour of Mexican artist’s homes in San Agustin Etla…about half an hour north of the city. Many of these artists are famous in Mexico and beyond and their art was striking…one a ceramicist who has develped a new process mixing clay with polyester that burns out in the firing…leaving air tunnels in the tile so his gigantic wall hangings are lighter.

One…a hand-made paper artist…gave us a history of paper and an ecological perspective. We also visited a jaw-dropping art museum that is located in an old huge thread factory that has recently been restored under the tutelage of the famous Mexican artist Toledo. The four colors of clay found in Oaxaca…orange, green, yellow and red…combine to create a beautiful setting for a gallery and paper factory overlooking the San Augustin valley.

Then we join photographer, Marietta Bernstarff, (born in Mexico but educated in the U.S. and who also led the tour through the thread factory) in her beautiful home overlooking the mountains and valleys of San Augustin. http://www.laluztalleres.com/about.htm. She remarked that most of the people in this valley are not Oaxacans but descendents of the workers imported here from all over Mexico to build the original factory.

After stopping at a small open-air restaurant for Comida Corrida (midday meal) where we had chicken mole and a beer, we stopped by the home of a Dutch couple that have lived in San Augustin about 15 years. Ineke Granstadts is a jewelry-maker whose daughter markets her jewelry all over the U.S. including Manhattan. We wanted to see her studio she made by hand out of straw bales and stucco.

Then we circled through some other valleys..a beautiful day in a monsoon rain…taking pictures along the way….ending the day with hot chocolate in Oaxaca City.

People ask me what I do all day! It is different every day. The first six weeks, since I arrived May 30, all my time was spent running errands and setting up the apartment while trying to keep track of the activities of the teachers strike.

I live in a two-story four-apartment complex inside a walled compound. There are huge red locked metal doors that open into a pebble and stone “plaza.” Visitors ring a bell and someone always runs to open the doors. A family downstairs manages the apartment and I get my apartment cleaned whenever I ask for it.

I have WiFi internet access in my apartment that helps keep me connected with my kids and my friends in the U.S. One friend, who recently moved to Querataro, north of Mexico City, has already visited me with her Mexican husband…on June 14…the day the police routed the teachers out of the Zocalo (see blog entry “Police Try To Rout Teachers.”)…which was also my birthday.

One of the first things I was determined to do was find a place that sold thick foam pads for the top of my rock-hard bed…so after several walks around the city I finally found what I needed…

I turn the corner outside my apartment and buy fresh hot corn torillas from a torilleria up the street…3 pesos or 30 cents for about a dozen.

For grocery shopping I walk three blocks to the bus stop on Periferico…kind of the main big ring road that runs south and east around this city of 250,000…to take a bus north to the Chadraui Market…a nice big supermarket that also has dry goods. Here I can buy some of the many Oaxaca cheeses.

Or I can continue on the bus…on around the corner on the right to Plaza del Valle with a collection of stores that cater to gringo expats…Soriano Market or on up a couple more blocks to Sam’s Club (like Costco), Office Depot, KFC Chicken, Burger King, Sears etc. If I have a lot of groceries I bring the taxi back to my apartment for $3. ($3 will get me around most of the city but I am slowly learning to take the buses for 3 pesos or 30 cents.) This will take up half a day. I bought a comfortable Italian black leather chair at Sam’s Club because the kitchen chair I was sitting on at the kitchen table to use my computer was killing me. Sam’s Club is the best place to buy meat….and strawberries picked in Watsonville California! But I miss my Walla Walla Sweet onions…here onions are strong and bitter.

For fresh vegetables and fruit, however, I can walk about 5 blocks to 20, November covered market…and maybe buy fresh flowers and hot tamales from Zapatec women who sit on the floor in the aisles with their baskets of food. Benito Juarez Market, across the street, is full of food booths that is the best and cheapest place to eat…hot soups…mole and freshly made corn torillas. On the way I can buy delicious ripe mangoes from a street vendor. Or on the corner of Bustamante and Colon about 4 blocks north I can go to a smaller corner market where I can buy milk, eggs and staples if I only need a few things. On Fridays there is a great market in a small park about 10 blocks north where local people shop for fruit, veges and all manner of miscellanous things…clothing, CD’s etc.

Then about 3 blocks west of there, on Fridays and Saturdays, I usually go to Pachote Organic Market where I have met several interesting expats and tourists who patronize the market. I can buy organic free trade coffee beans and honey here…fresh from the fields sold by Elvira…a lovely Zapotec lady who brings the bus in 5 hours from her farm in the mountains. Last Friday I tasted and bought three kinds of Mescal while visiting with a Mexican-American lady standing nearby. She had lived most of her adult life in LA and moved back to Durango Mexico two weeks ago. Her U.S. university-educated daughter has recently moved to Oaxaca. We plan to visit again.

The water in Oaxaca City is undrinkable, so every few days we listen for the guy on a bicycle pulling a cart with huge water bottles yelling “El Agua, el Agua!” Then we run out into the street and tell him we want water…14 pesos a bottle…about $1.50 a bottle.

Yesterday, my friend Sharon, who I met on the plane to Oaxaca, went to the huge Abasto Market several blocks east of my apartment that rivals, but not quite, the souk in Marrakech or the Covered Bazaar in Istanbul. On Fridays and Saturdays farmers bring their fresh produce from outlying areas to sell. Besides some tender cactus leaves and some zucchini, yesterday I bought some green glazed Oaxacan pottery dishes.

I found a video store on Bustamante where I can rent DVDs to watch on my computer. Also had some personal cards made up at a stationary store nearby with my name, email address and phone numbers.

For miscellanous kitchen articles I walk one block up from my apartment to a plastics store for cheap stuff…bought a plastic three shelf stand to set my food stuff on.

My landlord is 25 year-old Gerardo Alcala who comes to my apartment regularly to practice his English and answer my questions. I have made friends with his mother, who gives cooking lessons in her home, and also with many of her friends. I am their “amiga” she says…a part of their family now. Gerardo’s father is a retired judge and his 27 year-old cousin is a national congresswoman. I am slowly getting to know his politics…and he is slowly trusting me enough to tell me.

The first day after I arrived, Gerardo picked me up at the Paulina Hostal and took me to his home for coffee and then with him to the Botanical Gardens while we waited for the carpenters to finish installing my kitchen cupboards (see earlier blog entry for pictures of my apartment.) The next Friday I joined Soccoro (Gerardo’s mother) and several of her friends at the “El Pescador Restaurant (with two bands and two dance floors) for salsa dancing.

A few days after that I joined the family to watch a couple of the soccer games that Mexico was playing in the World Cup games. After Mexico won it’s first game, the whole city turned out to celebrate at one of the plazas in the Centro of the city and we joined them with flags waving from the car windows (see blog entry). Gerardo’s family usually has guests in their home who are here studying Spanish and they joined us too. Ticketmaster finally reimbursed my tickets for the cancelled government Guelaguetza and Monday, I will go with the family to watch the free Guelaguetza in the outdoor amphitheater. Then on wednesday Soccoro and I will go to her hairdresser before my hair turns grey!

I spent one morning going to the Mexican immigration office with Sharon while she got her one-year visa. I am in the process of completing all the requirements for my one-year visa and will return to immigration soon.

One day Sharon and I took a bus to nearby Tolucalula to visit the wonderful market there. Another day Gerardo took an Australian couple and I on a tour to the ruins at Tula and to a rug factory that uses natural dyes and original Zapotec weaving practices. I bought three beautiful rugs for my apartment!

Many days, I just walk to the Zocalo.
We are very high…about 6-7000 feet and the weather is mild…cool in mornings and evenings…warm in the afternoons. The hotter months are Jan, Feb, March and April…ending with the rainy season in May, June and July and August. September through December are supposed to be the best months for weather.

It is said that there about 350,000 people in Oaxaca City…but that just includes the city limits. There are more than a million in the immediate region.

So every day is different…

My sons Josh and Greg have flown onto the island of Kauai in the Hawaiian Islands from Beijing and Las Vegas respectively. Josh and Amy will have Malcolm Miner, a close friend and retired Episcopalian minister bless their civil union that took place last September in the Brooklyn courthouse.

Amy drove from New York to Denver where she dropped off her car at her mother’s home and then flew to Hawaii to meet Josh. About 20 of their friends have flown in from all over the U.S. to witness the event and doubtless to party it up.

Josh, as Chef de Cuisine, will open one of the Hilton’s restaurants in Beijing upon arrival back into the city. Good luck with jet lag Josh! Amy will join Josh in Beijing in September after she finishes-out the term teaching history at Rutgers University. Don’t think she realized what she was getting into when she married a Goetz!

CONGRATULATIONS JOSH AND AMY!

Son Douglas and his wife remain at their home on Koh Samui Thailand where yesterday a strong wind caused a palm tree to fall onto some electrical wires and shorted out all their electrical equipment…stereo, washer, fans…everything! “What problem do you have,” I asked Luk, Doug’s wife, when she called me. “Oh, nitnoy” (just a little bit) she says cheerfully! That’s Luk! That’s the Thai attitude!

I remain in Oaxaca Mexico, Bob in Salem Oregon, Amy’s mother in Denver and her father in Florida. Amy’s sister and her husband are taking their young son, Gabe, home to Hemet California today from Loma Linda Children’s Hospital where he has been recovering from a bone marrow transplant to treat leukemia. A miracle in a global family!

The Asemblea of teachers and social groups succeeded in shutting down the indigenous dance festival, the Guelaguetza, that was scheduled for the 17th & 24th of July. Governor Ruiz announced the festival would be postponed but no other date was given.

It is said that the Asemblea is planning an alternative free dance festival.

Governor Ruiz has asked President Fox for funding to help the hotel association and the secretary of tourism reimburse tourists and hotels for lost revenue.

Hopefully Ticketmaster will refund the tickets for my friend and I.

The first picture is out the back…trees full of singing birds. The second picture was taken outside in front of my upstairs apartment.

Now if the round-the-clock explosions up on the hill where the road to the Gueleguetza Auditorium is being constructed…would stop…

The Seattle Times July 4, 2006 reported that the Khmer tribunal is starting so I went on-line and found the article below by The New Republic Magazine on July 12, 2006.

These are some pictures we took of the Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh Cambodia in 2002:

Observers see trouble ahead for the tribunal:

CAMBODIA’S WAR CRIMES TRIBUNAL.
Trial and Error
by Joshua Kurlantzick
07.12.06

… In a hall of the royal palace in Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital, in front of a Buddhist monk, judges for the upcoming tribunal of the Khmer Rouge were sworn into office. “The time for justice has finally arrived,” United Nations Under-Secretary-General Nicolas Michel told the Daily Telegraph.

Soon, the capital will be transformed into a hive of activity for the long-delayed tribunal of top leaders of the Khmer Rouge, who killed some 1.7 million of their countrymen between 1975 and 1979. There’s not much time left: Khmer Rouge supreme leader Pol Pot is dead, and top Khmer Rouge lieutenants, men like Nuon Chea and Khieu Samphan, are aging and unwell. After the United Nations last year gave final approval to the tribunal, organizers chose a site, began training court workers, and started translating documents.

As I found on a recent visit, Cambodians clearly want the tribunal to begin. In a poll taken by the Khmer Institute of Democracy, a Phnom Penh NGO, nearly 97 percent of Cambodians favored a Khmer Rouge trial, and over 70 percent said they would attend its hearings. Yet that 97 percent may wind up 100 percent unsatisfied, a lesson for other tribunals like the ones in Sierra Leone or Iraq, or a potential future tribunal for East Timor. Despite praise from U.N. officials about the tribunal’s potential, the major actors needed to create an effective tribunal–in this case, China, the United States, the United Nations, and the Cambodian government itself–all have not truly gotten on board, and Cambodia could wind up with a badly misgoverned trial. And a failed tribunal would be a disaster not only for Pol Pot’s survivors, who desire some closure. As could happen in Sierra Leone or East Timor, a failed tribunal would decimate the country’s justice system and political culture, which are already on life support.
Read the rest of this entry »

Photo From “Oaxaca Noticias”

The local “Oaxaca Noticias” newspaper estimated 500,000 marchers at the 4th Oaxaca Megamarch…a historic event that included supporters from several neighboring states.

Starting with a motorcycle cavalcade and many automobiles, the fourth mega-march to oust the Governor stretched out along five miles of the nine-mile route from the airport road to Benito Juarez Soccer Stadium. When the first marchers arrived at the stadium many were still at the airport road.

By 11pm my friend and I who had been watching from the Soccer Stadium were exhausted and went home. By that time the street was still full of marchers coming from the airport.

Yesterday I went to Tule…a small town of about 15,000 near Oaxaca City. What a charming place. Most of the men are gone up north, my driver said (as a huge brand new black diesel pickup backed up to a vendor’s booth) and come back before Christmas. Yes, I know, I said.

I read that as much as 70% of Oaxaca’s budget is augmented by money from the migrants. The problem is that this takes the pressure off the local political system to make substantive changes in the economy.

I am finding out that some migrants up north are willing to live in crummy conditions so they can save every penny and then come back and build a house and buy a car. Everyone’s dream. On their web site June 17 MSNBC featured an article entitled “Migrant’s Money Goes A Long Way In Mexico. The article goes on…”Last year, Mexican migrants sent home a record $20 billion, making them Mexico’s biggest foreign earner after oil, according Mexico’s Central Bank. In the first four months of this year, the amount was $7 billion, a 25 percent increase over the same period last year. Half of it flows into poor villages like Boye, a corn-growing community of 900 people founded by Otomi Indians long before Europeans came to the Americas. Clementina Arellano grew up with her six brothers in a shack in this dusty town. She now has a home with Roman-style pillars at the doorway and a garden full of flowers and singing birds. How did she transform her fortunes so dramatically? By waiting tables and sweating in a furniture factory for about 10 years in Hickory, N.C., and sending home up to $500 a month.”

I am still emailing a girl I mentored for several years while working with a violence prevention/alternative education program for Latino school drop-outs. Her Mixtec family lives/lived high in the Oaxacan mountains. The girl, I’ll call her Maria, isn’t in the US legally and can’t come back, but she told me in an email that I could go with her family to her village next time they came down. She said they had a huge house that was “big enough for the whole village to fit into” and there would be plenty room for me. I know because I saw a picture of it when I was in her home. In the summers, when other migrant children were attending the Summer Migrant School Program, Maria and her siblings would continue working in the fields to help their parents earn money.

Maria had never been anywhere in town except school and wasn’t socialized vis a vis US culture. She and her cousin were angry…had joined a gang and were getting into fights in school. I used to take them places…would always have a thermos of coffee in the car with me. Now Maria says whenever she smells coffee she thinks of our trips…cute. Most of the Mixtec families from Oaxaca were wonderful and I fell in love with the people.

Maria had two incisors that were growing straight out of her gums. A local dentist was willing to extract them for free (write it off) and give her braces. At her last appointment she sold her jacket to buy him some flowers. I told the receptionist later to make damn sure he knew where the flowers came from.

The parents would leave the children, some just toddlers, on their own for two months every year and return to Oaxaca to work on “their land” so they wouldn’t lose their right to it…since the land is communal and if it isn’t worked a certain amount of time each year, they would lose access to it and would also be ostracized from the community, Maria said.

Maria was in the program for nearly 8 years…from the time she was in the 7th grade until she was a junior in high school and finally went to a live-in alternative high school program. She is now living with a significant other…has a two year old and is in a nursing program at Portland Community College and working. Her primary language is Mixtec. She has done this on her own. She was very artistic and had dreams of being a clothing designer…or maybe just wearing the clothes that designers design. She would draw these jaw-dropping pictures of girls in gorgeous elegant dresses…

I understand why the teachers are striking! Basta!

Yesterday my friend Sharon and I hopped a diesel-spewing bus for the hour ride to Tlacolula, southeast of the city, where vendors from multiple little villages around the Oaxaca Valley come on Sundays to buy and sell. The market is huge and we haven’t managed to cover it all by 4pm when it begins to close.

Crispy Rendered Pork Fat When Broken Up Into Pieces Is Called Chicharones

On the way out I buy boiled goat meat in a delicious sauce for my dinner. We stand in the aisle of the bus on the way home. I will return to buy a rug for my bedroom.

This is an eye witness narrative written by my friend Patricia Gutierrez from Queretaro who, with her luck and mine, visited me the night of the attack on the teachers in the Zocalo in Oaxaca City on June 14, my birthday…14 days after I arrived in Oaxaca.

Video Of Attack

Last Tuesday, June 6, my newly minted husband, Jose Roberto, and I, decided to go visit my dear friend Zoe Goetz, from Salem, Oregon, who had just moved to the city of Oaxaca, the state capital of Oaxaca, around the 1st. This same city is described in a travel guide as being quaint. Unfortunately like many of its citizens we got another, non-touristy, view of things.

When we arrived, at my friend’s apartment on the 14th, around midnight, we saw some people, teachers specifically, gathered in the Zocalo which is in the heart of this historic city, sitting under tarps and holding signs protesting their education system, salaries, etc. They are also demanding the ouster of their governor, a member of PRI the country’s very corrupt and sole governing body for over 70 years up until 2000 when Pres. Vicente Fox won. In general they blame the governor for their bleak and further deteriorating situation. We had seen something of these protesting teachers (protesting for over 20 days) on the evening news in Queretaro where we live, but from what happened next things had clearly been downplayed in the media. And truth be told I guess we are like most people in that it really doesn’t seem real when you watch these types of events playing out on TV, over and over I might add, in the general comfort of one’s living room, sandwiched in between commercials for Pepsi and the World Cup and Condoms (yeah this is Mexico they’re more honest about their sexuality I guess).

When we woke up the next morning at Eunice’s, Jose and I were suffering with terrible sore throats, burning sinuses and headaches. So we figured a little bit of Vitamin C and aspirin from the local pharmacy would help. Zoe pointed us two blocks up from her apartment, toward the Zocalo. So off we went.

There was a strange odor hanging in the air. Our eyes, noses and throats burned even more. There were barricades made up of lines of people (in other areas we would also see small buses) near where we were stopped. We asked two passers-by about a pharmacy as nothing appeared to be open. We were informed that we would probably find nothing open as the police had swept the area intent upon removing the protesting teachers, and their supporters, at about 4 a.m. with tear gas and bullets dropped from overhead by low-flying helicopters. Several people gathered around us when they realized we were tourists and we were asking questions as to why all of this had occurred?!

We also heard unconfirmed reports from those present, that the police had shot and killed two children and four teachers. When we asked where the bodies were we were told that the police had them hidden in their police station.

There were so many injured from amongst the teachers that the local hospitals said that they could receive no more injured. There was a confirmed report of 50+ injured protesters.

There is a confirmed report of one police officer being injured.

We met many, many articulate, concerned and compassionate individuals. Talk about grace under fire. These folks were the epitome of it. And, like the rest of us, wanting only to be heard and treated with respect.

You can imagine our reaction to all of this. We definitely were a long way from Salem, Oregon, that’s for sure. We became even more alarmed when we realized there was a police helicopter flying very low right above our heads and we turned and saw a man with a broken piece of mirror trying to obstruct their view by shining it on the helicopter while someone else on the ground near by was taking a video of the scene. Jose and I rushed back to the apartment feeling utterly overwhelmed by what we had seen, heard and smelled at the Zocalo.

When we shared all of this with Zoe we realized why she had gotten an odd text message from her landlord earlier that morning advising her to not leave the apartment and not go downtown (to the Zocalo). We clearly never do as we are told. Jose decided that if nothing else he would go back and take pictures of the situation and share these over the Internet. He made Eunice and me stay behind. That lasted about 10 or 15 minutes. Zoe and I decided that we had to go and find him and not leave him out there on his own, and see for ourselves.

Everyone simply shared their story with us. No one demanded anything of us.

Jose asked permission to take the pictures that I am passing along here. We were escorted past the barricades so that we might speak with a spokesperson for the protesters. We met a local human rights worker who had been told all of the same things we had heard. He was trying to collect evidence so that he might further assist them in their cause, and call in support from the federal level. We also met a teacher who was beaten by a police nightstick. He had 2000 pesos stolen by the police. He only makes 3200 pesos every two weeks. It takes about $11.40 in pesos to purchase one U.S. dollar right now. Someone else had an empty canister of tear gas. A young woman said that they had collected shell casings from what appeared to be a large caliber weapon. We encountered a few healthcare workers who were volunteering their time trying to care for the injured protesters.

Since Jose and I arrived here we have watched on the evening news, on a daily basis, some form of civil unrest in various states across this republic. Mostly on a very large scale. When we go grocery shopping or to the movie theater it is customary to see police officers patrolling outside, in the parking lot, and inside of the theater with an AK-47, sub-machine gun and the like.

Here the authorities are scarier than any criminal element that may be lurking about.

At no time did we feel threatened by any of these protesting teachers.

My son Josh Goetz, 33, who has been a chef in Manhattan New York for the last five years has accepted a position opening a new restaurant in the Hilton Hotel in Beijing China. He starts the third week of June 2006…in one week. His wife Amy is currently teaching history at Rutgers University in New Jersey. At the end of the term she will join Josh in Beijing. She would like to know if anyone has any university contacts in Beijing that would be useful to her in either getting employment or just making friends.

Thank you

I had forgotten how much fun it is to dance to Mexican music! I think I am a Mexican trapped in a gringo body! Last Friday, Gerardo and his mom, Socorroo, invited me, a few of her friends, Michael, a charming very long-haired young guy from LA who is staying with the family while he studies English, Chin, a young guy from San Francisco but originally from Taiwan, an Australian couple who will be moving to one of the apartments in my building and a few others to go dancing with her at El Pescador at 510 Miguel Cabrera St…only a couple blocks from my apartment. Two bands play the club…one up and one down. The one up was a kind of Mexican cumbia band with a drum pad, an incredible singer, a bass guitar and electronic keyboard. We started at 4pm and after many drinks, including the local Mescal and some finger food delicioso, we closed up the place at 10:30 when everyone drifted off to other clubs.

Chin and one of Gerardo’s mom’s friends.

Chin was really cute. His face was red all night…blushing from all the attention he was getting from the middle-aged Mexican women in the group who were having great fun dancing in their very suggestive way…especially when we formed a circle putting each person inside by turns! Chin will never be the same after Mexico!

I was sitting next to the Australian woman who I thought was Mexican. After some time I finally turned to her to greet her in Spanish. She laughed a great laugh as she answered me in English! In past lives her husband was a heavy metal rocker and his hearing is nearly gone so he is now playing Mexican music. His wife is also in the music business where they met and married two years ago. They are a hoot as many Australians are! It will be fun to have them in the apartment building. But don’t get a TV, her husband warned me…you’ll just be tempted to listen to English!

After the club closed, Gerardo’s mom and I joined Gerardo and his classmates who were having farewell drinks for their visiting law professor from Mexico City at an upscale place called El Pichon north of the city. The group is studying to be tour guides and I had a rather interesting conversation with a twenty-something young guy sitting next to me who wanted to know all the terms for making love. Why is it that some middle aged American women want to be with young Mexican guys in Mexico, he asked. This information was new to me. Some tour guide he is going to make, I thought.

Two of the girls in the tour guide class.

Law professor and Socorro in earnest conversation.

Attempting a conversation in Spanish with the law professor, I learned a fine distinction between words. We were talking about the coyotes who take Mexican migrants across the border to work. I mistakenly called them ciyotes with a long “i”. Puzzled, he finally figured out I was refering to coyotes with a long “o”. He laughed and told me that, ironically, a ciyote is the sole of the foot (or shoe). A coyote is an animal…and also what the curriers are called. You never forget words that are corrected on-the-spot.

This Mexico gig is going to be alright, I thought at the end of the night. But going to have to figure out an excuse for turning down drinks in this country!

My son, Josh, the little weasel, asked me what it felt like to be living alone in Oaxaca. It got me to thinking. Then I picked up a book at Sharon’s apartment entitled “A field Guide To Getting Lost,” a book written by a woman in San Francisco. It reminded me of a blog entry I wrote one thoughtful day in Bangkok. Here it is for those of you who missed it.

June 12 2005

Perfect Memories
“What A Perfect Day…It’s Such A Perfect Day…And Then We Go Home.”

Have been re-reading a book that I have been dragging around with me for the last year. Pico Iyer can set my imagination afire like no other travel writer. One of his pieces reminds me of the fall of 2003 when I was traveling alone down the coast of Viet Nam. Imagine all the people sharing all the world: I was riding behind Mr. Binh, my kind motorcycle taxi driver, and after three days on the bike my rear-end was numb. He takes me to a small food stall by the side of the road leading out of a little town on the South China Sea, where we wave down a local kamazake minibus that will careen down Highway 1 to Hue. The bus is crammed full of Vietnamese one on top of the other so I sit on some rice sacks until someone gets off and I, the older one, am graciously allowed to have the emptied seat. A couple of giggling girls offer to share a small sweet tangerine with me.

The driver had very long hair-possibly in his 50’s-with a pocked and scarred face…signs of a life lived on the edge. This guy is feeling powerful and narrowly misses oncoming overloaded trucks leaning at odd angles. He is having a great time and I am breathless waiting for my life to end. Suddenly when he throws a dirty towel to the back of the van and it lands in my face he looks back with a grin to see if I am alright. Gasping, I return his thumbs up with a laugh.

“Travel the World and the Seven Seas…Everybody’s Looking For Something. Some of them want to use you�some of them want to abuse you.” For Pico, the best kind of traveling is when you are searching for something you never find. “The physical aspect of travel is for me,” he says “the least interesting…what really draws me is the prospect of stepping out of the daylight of everything I know, into the shadows of what I don’t know and may never will. We travel, some of us, to slip through the curtain of the ordinary, and into the presence of whatever lies just outside our apprehension…” he goes on to say. “I fall through the gratings of the conscious mind and into a place that observes a different kind of logic.” Transcendence… and pure Pico.

“Nobody told me there would be days like these! Strange Days Indeed.”

North and east from my apartment on Fiallo St., through the Zocolo, under tents and guy-wires, I walked to meet my new friend, Sharon, at an organic market called El Pochote, just north and east of Templo Santo Domingo. It had rained hard the night before and on the way I got drenched with at least a bucket of water. I looked back to see where the water came from and saw a woman poking a stick upward to release the water collected on top of a plastic tent. As I looked at her, she seemed to bear a silent look of terror on her face. She’s afraid of “susto,” I thought…afraid I would caste an evil spell on her. But that was just my interpretation, of course, having had very limited experience with health care for Zapotec and Mixtec migrants in Oregon. Unhappily, I continued on.

The market is very small and no one seemed to know where it was except a western-looking guy with an eastern European accent carrying some books. So an hour late, I finally caught Sharon leaving the market. We walked across the street to a bakery and bought some deep-fried peppers stuffed with chicken, nuts and I don’t know what else but it was fantastic…juicy and the flavors just kept coming and coming. Then she took me to see her roof-top apartment where, as a master gardener, she will raise plants and herbs. Nearby we visited the the Oaxaca Cultural Center that offers free art, music and photography classes within a beautiful old nunnery. I loved the feeling inside…children making art, practicing the piano…

Then we returned to the market where I bought some lead-free Mexican kitchen pottery for my apartment. We shared some mole enchiladas and a tostada “sandwich” and then watched part of the International Indigenous Film Festival (on extremely uncomfortable seats) that is being held at the Cine Pochote at the market site. Exhausted, we trudged home.

The next day Sharon visited me to see my apartment and then walked east to the nearby Mercado 20 de Noviembre where I bought a plastic shopping bag, some grapes, green beans and some perfectly formed green onions and cilantro to make salsa. Sharon was tired and getting a cold so she left for home, while I stopped and had a bowl of delicious menudo (tripe soup) before leaving.

Sharon says she will soon go with me to Mercado Abastos, so huge she says I can easily get lost, to the Women Artesans Of The Regions of Oaxaca cooperative for shopping and will take me to her favorite coffee shop.

When I returned to my apartment Gerardo’s cousin who lives downstairs, was delivering a set of T Fal cook-ware, some glass mixing bowls and a big bottle of purified water. I had only emailed Gerardo asking for those things that morning! Incidentally everyone drinks bottled water here. A young guy from Texas sitting next to me on the plane to Houston had been at the University of Oregon delivering a talk on toxicology. He told me the water here was full of arsenic. Incidentally, he said the water in the Willamette River in Oregon has a high level of arsenic also.

Hector, Sharon’s apartment manager, told her about a very good curandera (healer) so this week we will visit her and have a healing, sauna and massage.

Meanwhile, Gerardo, who wants to get a masters in tourism, has offered to drive me to nearby villages while we practice 30 minutes English for him and 30 minutes Spanish for me.

Later, checking email, I excitedly discovered that my old friend, Patricia Gutierrez, who married a Mexican national and lately moved to Mexico, will be driving here next week with her husband “to give me a hug” and get her mail that I brought from Oregon.

Someone else in an email asked if I thought the next president, at the upcoming election, will be good for Mexico. I know nothing yet about Mexican politics, and have to search out some good sources of information.

I have been making open pot “sheepherder’s coffee, in my new T Fal french “milk pot” like my dad used to make in sheep camp. I had forgotten how good it can be. (Whatever is a milk pot?!) But I need to find some coffee filters for my new coffee pot. People in Mexico drink Nescafe. Ugh! Never got used to it even after visiting Asia off and on for nearly four years. Also, I am having a hard time remembering to put TP in the basket instead of flushing it…

Now if I could just learn to use the buses!

After three weeks in Salem sorting through 40 years of junk…one pile for St. Vincent de Paul, one pile for the dump, one pile to sell at the Assistance League and the rest in boxes to be stored in the basement until the house is rented out again…I took off for Oaxaca Mexico leaving Bob with the house.

Inhabited over a period of 1,500 years by a succession of peoples – Olmecs, Zapotecs and Mixtecs – the terraces, dams, canals, pyramids and artificial mounds of Monte Albán were literally carved out of the mountain and are the symbols of a sacred topography. The nearby city of Oaxaca, which is built on a grid pattern, is a good example of Spanish colonial town planning. The solidity and volume of the city’s buildings show that they were adapted to the earthquake-prone region in which these architectural gems were constructed. Oaxaca City is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Monsoon season here for the next couple months…hot and humid but not as bad as Thailand…rains buckets several times a day then sun comes out.

Houston airport is huge and I nearly missed my plane connection. No problem getting off the plane here…small plane from Houston configured with two rows on one side and one row on the other). 32 pesos or about $3.00 into the city from the airport on the shuttle.

Oaxaca City, pronounced “wahaca,” is generally referred to as Oaxaca and that is the way addresses read…Oaxaca, Oaxaca Mexico. The Zocolo (central plaza) and the streets for blocks around it are closed from traffic due to a teacher’s Oaxaca State union strike.

Teachers are here from every region. They are camped out in pop tents and under plastic tarps…just sitting with piles of belongings and food. There is a big inequality of teacher’s pay…they get anywhere from 50 pesos to 600 pesos a day. (about ten pesos to dollar). Here is one brushing her teeth.

But Gerardo (apartment manager) said many of the teachers are under- educated and the strike is bad for the city. Someone said the unions are very powerful here…teachers are forced by the unions to sit in the streets or they won’t get union benefits. Teachers still receive full pay even though they are striking. Kids are the losers. The government apparently isn’t listening. Heard last night that they took over the airport and all the planes are grounded. So guess I got in just in time.

The city is charming…two story buildings…some very colorful. Outsides often are drab but inside the outer gates the interiors are beautiful. The whole of the Centro is a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site.

My apartment is a two story building with four apartments inside an outer building. I have a key to the outer “portal” and key to an upstairs apartment. When we arrived the carpenters were literally installing the kitchen cupboards…shavings and dirt and tools everywhere. Good thing I stayed in the hostel the first night. The 5-bed hostel room was clean and lovely (Paulina Youth Hostel) but hot as hell and stuffy…apartment much better. Free breakfast was great. So Gerardo took me to his house where his mom fixed coffee. They have had over 200 guests in the last ten years…showed me a picture of the principal of an elementary school in Beaverton who stayed with them for several weeks while studying Spanish. His mom has a cooking school on a patio outside the kitchen. Patio walls painted indigo blue and yellow. Then Gerardo took me to a supermarket to get ingredients for his mom. Then he took me with him to tour the Ethno Botanical Garden. After the tour I ran into a woman about my age, Sharon, who sat across from me on the plane. She has just moved here from Connecticut. She had earlier worked for the City of San Francisco for 25 years. She also lived in Veracruz for three years and is fluent in Spanish. She will be a good friend. We are meeting at a market Sat morning. Then Gerardo and I went back to his house where we feasted on yellow mole that his mom made for us. A young guy from CA staying with them and who is studying Spanish joined us as well as a German woman in her 30’s who is here studying Spanish for the 3rd time. Gerardo’s mom and she and I are going out next Friday to a bar to listen to salsa music. Gerardo, 25, is defending his bachelors thesis on human resources on tuesday.

When we got back to the apartment it was finished, clean with huge vase of flowers on kitchen table. I couldn’t believe it!

But the beds are hard as a rock…was really sore this morning. I miss Lyn’s bed…it was perfect. Going to have to get some foam or something! Kitchen pretty sparsley outfitted…about like Greg’s! 🙂 But I do have a brand new blender, juicer, coffee pot and fan. Wish I had some of the stuff from Azalea St.

Glad I brought my down pillows…pillows here lumpy and flat as a pancake.

Went shopping at the supermarket last night at 8…finished at 10 and took a taxi home in the slogging rain. Most stuff had unrecognizable labels. Places here don’t cater to tourists like in Asia. I am realizing how comfortable I had become getting around in Asia…not so confident here…but went out walking today to get my bearings and then went to Sam’s Club (like Costco) in a taxi.

Lost my credit cards twice and found them again…not good for the nervous system. Tried to buy a sim card for Thai phone but it didn’t work…didn’t work in US phone either.

Unpacked already…extra bedroom has two twin beds waiting for my son Greg and his friends…and anyone else who wants to come. Wifi works great. Bought a bottle of wine and a wine glass…guess I’ll burn some sage and celebrate.

Flew From Thailand to Las Vegas the end of April. Then flew youngest son, Josh, who is between jobs, in from NYC to spend a week with oldest son Greg and I. After Bangkok and NYC, we just wanted peace and quiet. Just hung out in Greg’s new home…didn’t even go down to the strip. I was in my glory with the two progeny.

Then Greg’s friend, Mike, drove in from Phoenix with a car full of all his belongings. Josh returned to NYC and Mike and I hung out some more. House cats, Greg called us.

Just so you don’t think I drowned in the Sangkren waters of Thailand, I spent the next few days in a great new 38 bed hostel called HI Sukhumvit in an upscale Bangkok neighborhood about 50 yards down Sukhumvit 38 from the Thong Lo Skytrain station. Dorm rooms with 4, 6 or 8 beds go for 300 baht or about $7 with A/C…a real bargain in this city of 10 million. Two bedrooms are available as is a single room for $500 baht. Phit, the manager and owner who is a recent graduate of Kasetsart University, will take good care of you. I can’t recommend this new, clean charming place high enough. It doesn’t even feel like a hostel but rather a home with DIY cooking, laundry and internet. Tel (66) 2391-9338 or email sukhumvit@tyha.org or find the link on www.tyha.org/HI Sukhumvit.html. Every night the Night Food Market vendors set up their stands just yards away along Suk 38 offering great Thai food. And next door is an upscale bakery and restaurant in a traditional Thai setting called “FACE” for that special evening out.

On April 24 I flew out of Bangkok to LAX on China Air and then to Las Vegas to spend some welcome time with my oldest son…as far away from the heat and humidity of the hot season in Thailand as I could get!

WOW what a city. BANGKOK is alive. It is New year for them amd they celebrate with water. The streets are alive with people walking arround with water pistols and clay. Everyome is om thr street. You goota srr it to belirve it. I a, tryimg hard to stay dry. I a, im a pub lookimg out the door. Free intermet here too. The ,usic is nom stop. The people have beem doimg this for 3 days. I arrived here on Khao San Rd this mormimg 5 a, om bus from Laos. This key pad is worm out amd I a,guessing the keys. I am mot drumk. Love you all Leila

Eumice get in here. The city is alive. You would love it. Wear a bra. Pleasr come Leila. Hree internet here im pub. Ill check soom. leila

I groan. Leila is on Kao San Road where all the backpackers stay. I don’t know if I can take any more of this! I am 62. She is only 50!

Day before yesterday was New Years in Lao. Yesterday was New Years in Thailand, although the celebration continues for several days in these countries. We get it again! Leila took a cheap bus to Kao San Road while I flew on Lao Air…which the U.S. state department forbids their employees to fly on, I might add.

A German guy sat next to me who is based in Vientiane but developing cooperatives all over Asia. He is on his way back to Germany for Easter week. If you want to write, he said, visit Monyghenda in NW Cambodia. He is a former monk who went to the US for a degree and has started an organization called “Buddhism For Development” in Battambong, Cambodia. Oh how I wish!

Pulling into Sukhumvit 22 I was very glad I only had to go from the taxi to the front door of the guesthouse (Bourbon St.) Meanwhile kids spilling water from the Skytrain ramps onto unsuspecting pedestrians below and even more kids hosing people from the sidewalks. This morning on my way down to breakfast, a young farang was at the reception desk with a water gun. “Not finished,” I asked. “Yes, I’m finished…this is for self-defense,” he asserted.

Feels good to just chill out and cat-nap in my room today.

After the Lao Cotton Company party, Villa, the driver, took a nap in his tuk tuk while we rested in our room. Later that night we toured the city under the lights.

Villa, it turns out, is not just a tuk tuk driver. His other job is finding unexploded ordinances that had been dumped onto Lao by the millions during the Viet Nam War by CIA pilots dressed in T-Shirts and shorts. Of course at the time Nixon insisted we weren’t in Lao or Cambodia during the war. We weren’t…officially. But ask any Lao whether we were and you will get your answer. Before any new thing can be constructed…like a new dam that is being built now in the south of Lao, unexploded bombs have to be found before people get their bodies blown to bits. This will be going on for years and years to come.

Villa’s father fought in the war against the French and he was quite knowledgable about his country’s history. “As long as we are not disturbed by any other country we will be able to develop economically,” he says. “We are at peace now, he adds and I think the future looks good.” I agree.

I spent two days on this trip trying to find the old neighborhood in the city center where I had stayed two years ago and couldn’t figure out why I didn’t recognize anything. It turns out the streets have been paved, street lights put up and new businesses put up by the dozens!

Lao New Year (and in Thailand) is a time to encourage young people to absorb the spirit of cleaning their temples, houses, stupas of their ancestors and apparently the bodies of anyone, especially the foreigners they come across. The purpose of cleaning is to create new and better lives for the new year…making stronger health and prosperity while all the bad elements of the past year are washed away with the dirty water. Using hoses, buckets, pans and water guns young people soak anyone within reach…hoses often aiming for the crotch…buckets poured over the head. Our wet T-Shirts are definitely iffy looking.

Westerners accomodate the cold onslought with enthusiastic screeches which delights the kids. Then comes the white sweet-smelling powder sprinkled all over the head and face.

Leila and I had made a deal with a Tuk Tuk (pronounced Took Took) driver to spend the morning taking us to visit nearby silk and cotton weaving projects.

The UN sponsored “Lao Cotton Company” had closed for the day and the many water-soaked employees were all outside partying…drinking free wine and beer, eating soup, seaweed, pork and fish and dancing to a Lao band. Leila and I were kindly invited to join them so we fetched Villa, our driver, and made him join us. A table was set up for us and food brought. One after the other of the many younger boys wanted to dance with us…many making us drink a glass of beer first. To his delight Leila taught one young guy the swing…kids turning the hose on all of us all the while.

After many beers and much dancing and soaking, the head of the Project offered to open the store for us. We crazily piled up ridiculously inexpensive hand-woven sheets, pillow slips, fabric for curtains and table cloths to take home with us. Now to get it all on the plane I am having to throw away half my clothes which I didn’t have many of anyway. But my cozy little home in Mexico will look beautiful.

President Khamtay wishes the people of Lao a good new year in the English language Vientiane Times. “The year of the dog will be a great year; we have already begun the year by implementing the resolution of the 8th Party Congress, state five-year plan and we will continue to carry out the 10 year strategic plan for developing the country,” he said. Plans. Communist bureaucracies apparently not much different than democratic ones.

After dinner with Susan, Leila and I looked for some music and found a night club with a terrific Thai band playing Rod Stewart, Eagles and Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.” Leila turned into a 15 year old…singing along with great passion! 11:30pm and the club closed.

Leaving the club I noticed a cute young guy in charge of parking motorbikes across the street sporting a T-Shirt with “Perfect Man” on the front. He had spent three years as a novice monk so his English was pretty good. He laughed when I explained to him that I thought the reference was to the “Perfect 10” that a model/actress made popular a few years ago in the U.S.

Seeing the Mekong in Vientiane during dry season was a worse shock than seeing it in Luang Prabang…down hundreds of yards from the water line in the wet season. Leila, my Australian travel mate, says she thinks the dam on the Yangse River in China has also effected the water level on the Mekong.

Last night we checked out the many food stands under lights along the river offering BBQ chicken, Mekong fish and prawns and a nice hotpot but it was so hot we really didn’t feel like eating…opting for a beer instead while some raggedy children and a few adults came by begging. A young woman with pretty good English at a table full of prosperous looking Laotians next to us asked Leila where she was from. “Australia,” said Leila. “Oh, your English is so good for an Australian,” the woman said…leaving Leila laughing but speechless. After a few minutes the group left the table and a group of three little girls descended on the left-over food eating ravishly.

We wandered along to a street-side restaurant to order something a little less filling and ended up giving some cold table water to two more little girls which they guzzled down quickly, fended off a guy weaving along like he was on glue, gave our left-overs to another guy that seemed mentally ill. I don’t remember street people like this when I was here before…

When I was in Luang Prabang, I met a lovely Philippina next to me at an internet cafe. Susan works for a British non-governmental organization that delivers medical care to a rural area in SE Lao and will be here a month. She gave me her cell phone number and we promised to meet in Vientiane so tonight we will have dinner with her and her niece along the Mekong.

Never come to Northern Thailand or Lao during the dry season which is now. Slash and burn fires send smoke against the mountains and beyond. You won’t see anything and the Mekong River will be down to a trickle.

Beside the Nam Song River, against stunningly beautiful limestone karst mountains that remind me of Guillin China, is the small town of Vang Vieng…a backpacker haven. Well, the mountains would be beautiful if you could see them but the haze and smoke all but obscures them from view.

The main attractions here are the activities that are available….tractor tubing, kayaking, rafting, rock climbing, trekking, caving…

Leila…an Australian woman I hooked up with in Luang Prabang to travel to Vang Vieng and Vientiane…went tubing while I adjusted photos on my computer

The whole town is full of 20-30 year olds sitting in one of the many little “TV Bars” on raised tea-beds (like in Central Asia) lounging against pillows and pads…watching blaring videos of “Friends” reruns.

Leila and I chose to go to the market for BBQ chicken…tipping a bit of Lao whiskey with three older Lao men tickled to invite us to sit with them.

Two days was enough.

Slash & Burn! The mountains here are obscured by the smoke from slash & burn fires as in Chiang Mai so unfortunately the sunset over the Mekong isn’t as clear and beautiful as it was when I was here two years ago.

The road south from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng is reputed to be incredibly beautiful but you would never know it as our minivan chugged around five hours of consecutive curves in smoke-filled mountains!

Stops along the way gave us a chance to swallow, get some air relieving car sickness and to take some pictures of village life.

Meat Market

BBQ Pork Fat

Sticky Rice in Banana Leaves

Mystery Eggs

I discovered today that the Talat Dala Market that used to be up the street toward the river has moved to the outskirts of town and is now called the Phousi Market (pronounced “poosi I say it carefully.) After a short ride in a Tuk Tuk, I watched the women from the countryside sell their fruit, vegetables, palm sugar, sheets of seaweed and other items, many unidentifiable, while having a leisurely Lao Cafe…strong Lao coffee in a little glass poured over sweetened condensed cream…served traditionally, as in Viet Nam, with a glass of green tea on the side.

Mystery Message

I haven’t been able to figure out what happened in Lao in 1983…anyone have any idea?

Then after a breakfast of delicious noodle soup I purchased sweet dried beef, lao cookies, seaweed and a bag of cherry tomatoes for snacking.

Last night a lively 50 year old woman that teaches kindergarten in Alberta Canada, a young woman from California who is a consultant to a California educational testing company, an even younger woman from Germany, Gabe a thoughtful young guy who is translocating from Washington D.C. to China to study Mandarin and two charming Lao trekking guides and myself all piled into a tuk tuk to go to the local Lao disco.

Traditional Lao dancing looks like a cross between Western line dancing, folk dancing and sometimes a slow salsa except that the hips don’t move much. In fact nothing moves much. Very Asian. Little feeling showing up in their bodies…but they are having great fun. We try it…stepping all over ourselves. Then suddenly…old fashioned DJ techno starts up and we are all on the floor…the Laos not changing their moves much. They are very sweet and refreshing…feels like a middle school prom in the States. I suspect that in years to come this will change.

We walk slowly all the way back on the dark road to our guesthouses…sharing travel experiences and insights.

The others walk me to my guesthouse first…I protest but I guess they are deferring to my age. Good grief! It is only 11:30pm and the metal gates to my guesthouse are closed. Oh F___k! This happened to me one time in Hanoi and I had to go find another guesthouse for the night. Look, the gates aren’t locked one of my friends says! Thank goodness…I pick up my key…the last one left in the bowl on the table in the darkened entry. After a CNN/BBC check on the Thai election results I fall into bed. When traveling in Asia, after fighting heat and humidity and noise, I am usually finished by eight pm. This morning my knee hurts. I am afraid we might have made a spectacle of ourselves last night.

I practice smile yoga…
My gift to everyone.
“Sabaidie,” I say
Not knowing their condition
Hearts open
Feeling Divine.

as my mother would have said.): Am taking the liberty of posting Bob’s April 3 email describing homecoming culture shock after arriving home in Oregon from Asia…very succinct.

good morning;
On Comcast internet—
and it’s fast.
What a pleasure.
The air is fresh.
It’s brisk.
Everything green.
No plastic in heaps.
Highways/byways orderly
No motorbikes
But–
the streets are dead–
nobody out
prices outasight
telephone menus on most calls
(should probably compose one for my phone)
It does rain—again and again

Luang Prabang is an outstanding example of the fusion of traditional architecture and Lao urban structures with those built by the European colonial authorities in the 19th and 20th centuries. Its unique, remarkably well-preserved townscape illustrates a key stage in the blending of these two distinct cultural traditions. It is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The last time I was here was in 2002. There are few changes and not as many tourists as I expected but then this is the off season. I’m in the Jaliya Guest House on the Pha Mahapatsaman…about three blocks from the tourist center along the Mekong River…a lovely cottage in a nice garden in the back with air con and TV for $12.

A few doors down this woman was peeking out the door of her shophouse…just as I saw her doing two years ago!

Yesterday, renting a bicycle for a dollar to scope out the village left me with sore legs. There are few tourists here now as this is the beginning of the hot season. It’s a relief to be out of Thailand…girls here are very different…no 70 year old farangs hand in hand with 19 year old “children” and besides such a thing is illegal here. Thailand ought to take a lesson.

I notice there are many more guesthouses and restaurants cropping up everywhere. The Red Cross up the street used to offer the only massage in town and now I see signs for massage all over. Chucking my bike for an hour, I enjoyed a “refillable” cup of coffee in front of the Scandinavian Bakery while visiting with a guy from Seattle Washington who has been living in Phuket Thailand for three years and is on a two-day “visa run.” He is planning on moving to Bend.

Typical Building From French Era

It is getting close to the time for the water festival and the children have already started throwing water…giggling at startled pedestrians, taxi and tuk tuk drivers. It is best to keep a watch out!

Every evening, near the night market, the Hmong people from the mountains set up their racks of woven fabric and other goods to sell in the middle of the street through town. I am learning prices.

While having early morning coffee this morning I visited with a young woman from Eugene who knows Boni, a friend of mine from Salem! Susan has been living in Manhattan…but is planning on moving back to the northwest…and maybe even to Mexico to visit me!

At the Smile Guesthouse I attend cooking school. A Dutch couple and a German girl and I each have our own “station” with a wok sitting on a gas burner. O (pronounced O?…the voice rising up at the end) teaches us “New Thai” cooking style that is an attempt to limit the amount of calories and fat in the food. Coconut milk, common to all curries and many other dishes, is normally high in fat but in new style it is diluted by half with water flavored with dried mushrooms. Girls now limit the amount of rice and noodles in their diets…not eaten every day but considered a treat. No wonder the Thai girls have such flat tummies!

For curries a little coconut milk is mixed with water in a wok. Prepared curry paste bought at the market is mixed with the water and milk and “fried” until it becomes dry. I make a “mistake” and try to mash the curry with my wok utensil…ending up with it all stuck on the back of the spatula instead of in the liquid! Everything is done precisely…the spatula is turned upside down and the paste is “chopped” and stirred into the water. More water is added until you have the right amount and consistency for a sauce. Then the chopped chicken, pork or beef or tofu is added (never fried ahead of time) along with strong tiny unpeeled garlic cloves, onions, a couple teaspoons of fish sauce, a little lime juice and half a teaspoon of sugar. Holy basil leaves are added last. For Tom Kha Gai soup, the coconut milk is never boiled because boiling separates from the fat from the “milk” and makes the soup look and taste greasy.

In the all-day class, we prepared six dishes…three curries, fish steamed in a banana leaf, (not my favorite) Tom Kha Gai (chicken in coconut milk soup and papaya salad. If green papya cannot be found you can fix it with shredded carrots…carrots and papaya taste the same we are told. We were supposed to eat it all afterward but of course it was much too much food for one meal. My left-overs are in my refrigerator in my room waiting for me to figure out how to reheat it for dinner tonight.

I leave for Lao soon.

Supuat drove me to Tha Tan…right on the Thai-Burma border directly north of Chiang Mai to see several minority groups, Lisu, Lahu, Akha and Longnecks, that live there.

Last year in southern Yunnan China, I visited Lahu, Lisu and Mien mountain people many of whom had migrated into Thailand years ago. The Karen and Shan and Longneck people in and near Tha Ton have been forced out of Burma by the junta who took over the Burmese government in the early 90’s. They do not speak Thai and they have their own languages, but Supoat, my guide, being from the area, speaks the local Chiang Rai dialect that is common to all the people.

About seven years ago Thailand launched a program to pave the roads into the mountains, so instead of trekking dirt trails we are able to drive into the villages. We visit the Lahu first.

Akha Woman

The Longnecks are refugees from Burma and do not have Thai citizenship so they are confined to small areas where the women weave items in small thatched shelters to sell to the tourists and the men grow rice on the mountainsides. The Longnecks wear gold-colored metal coils around their necks that actually does not elongate the neck but they look long because over time the shoulders slope down. I buy some lovely woven scarves for $1 each.

My driver with two smiling Longneck girls.

The last village is Lisu. We park in the schoolyard. Supoat knows the family we visit. The yard, with children, pigs and chicken running free is well-swept.

I notice a chubby woman sitting in a nearby chair…looking miserable. Questioning her we decide she is passing a gallstone. Her husband is out looking for their pig he can butcher to sell to their neighbors so he can have money to take her to the doctor in Chiang Mai. I commiserate with her…I know how painful gallstones are. She kindly invites me to stay and eat with the family but Supoat carefully refuses…we don’t want to trouble the family at this time and we need to be on our way back to Chiang Mai.

Slicing Palm for cooking

Leaving the village we pass under a colorful arch…past small piles of old clothing that used to belong to villagers who have passed on. The clothes are there for spirits who might need them when they come back, I ask. Yes, he says. In the background you can see smoke from “slash & burn” fires that take place this time of year when the locals burn harvested fields.

Nice to have someone faithful to me. I trust Supoat, in his 50’s, with soft face and warm bright eyes. I call him when I need him to drive me somewhere in his Tuk Tuk.

Most of the people living outside of the moat that surrounds the center of town are illegal Shan refugees from the border between Thailand and Burma. Today, he took me to the Chiang Mai Shan temple where very young Shan boy- children are being initiated into monkhood. They are carried in a musical procession through the streets and around the temple on the shoulders of young men. They are dressed in sparkling tribal ceremonial dress and their faces are made up like girls with lipstick and rouge. Nearby drummers are making rhythmic music. I am the only farang in the crowd and draw curious looks.

My masseuse suggested today I eat a northern Thai soup called Kang Cae for my health, a soup with many different vegetables including two different kinds of eggplant and 15 different herbs. Supoat joined me tonight at the “Huenphen,” a lovely upscale restaurant specializing in northern Thai cuisine. Learning spoken and written English in school as a small boy he got the best grades in his class he says proudly. A Chinese couple next to our table says not a word to one another during their dinner…listening to our conversation in English…seeming to be deeply disturbed at seeing us together. I do not have a good feeling about them. They leave in a huff.

Supoat suggests taking me two hours north to his home town, Fang, early tomorrow in his new (used) Peugeot car purchased with money down given him by his niece’s husband who is a mechanic in Texas. We will visit his mother and father in Fang. He will drive me another hour on up to Tha Tan, a tiny village at the Burma border, drop me off and return to Fang to spend the night with his parents and rake the leaves in their yard. As the youngest of his siblings he is responsible for taking care of his mother, he says. He will return to Tha Tan at noon the next day and pick me up to go further on to visit tribal villages before returning to Chiang Mai. I am looking forward to being out of the hot noisy city and getting into the cool mountains.

I have changed hotels. I am now at the brand new Bau-Tong Lodge with free WiFi that is down little soi 3 off Loi Kroh…for half the cost of the Galare Guesthouse where I was for the last three weeks.

The Smile Guesthouse, a few yards up the street from my hotel offers an all-you-can-eat American breakfast each morning for $2. Most of the diners are older male westerners who live here…except for “Sharkie,” a long-haired 22 year old from South Carolina that fights fires near Eugene Oregon. He has lived in Mexico and gives me good information. Some of them tell me their personal stories. Yesterday I had a long conversation with a nuclear physicist from California who is retired from a career with GE.

Today I breakfasted with a soft-spoken well-traveled gentleman from New Zealand. We trade travel tips and I try to help him with the Bangkok Post crossword puzzle. Next to our table is a German and an American who have a very opinionated debate about current Thai politics…each contradicting the other…neither listening to the other. Except for the 75 year old New Zealander, these men are all here for the Thai girls of course who treat them like gods. I sense a thread of commonality among them…emotionally very shallow and insecure…defensive…incapable of deep abiding commitment. And I wonder how they feel, or if they feel anything, about depriving their grandchildren of their presence…their love.

I tell Supoat, my tuk tuk driver, about my aquaintences at The Smile. He launches into an emotional and heartfelt tirade against prostitution in Thailand. “They all want farangs with an ATM card,” he says, “to get their money.” Yesterday he kicked one of them out of his tuk tuk, he said. “The farangs give nothing back to my country,” he says…his eyes flashing in anger. “They are ruining Thailand, his voice rising! Our men are very poor and cannot offer the young girls a life. I look at all the tuk tuk drivers and feel so sorry for them…they need help. I wish I could do something to help them. I am losing my heart,” he says…his eyes watering. I tell him I am losing my heart too.

This last week I found a very small, unassuming massage shop…very simple understated Thai Lanna-style salon with rough dark stained wood…a couple couches draped with yellow ochre and red umber raw silk cloth. Branches of pussy willow fill a huge rough dark brown ceramic vase in the corner along with various other Thai decorative pieces. I am very comfortable here. The lively and gracious salon owner, Ratchanida Bhuranabhan, brings a pan with slices of lime floating in the cool water. My feet are washed and toweled while I drink a cup of strong sweet ginger tea…good for me she says.

On my back, my masseuse pushes my legs down into the thin mat with her knees…slowly working to get my right knee to reach a full extension that has been limited for years from a car accident. Pinn, about 50, is small but strong. She is very popular around town and works freelance, including working with nerve damaged patients at the local University Hospital. Elbows between tendons and muscles, between muscles and bone. Standing, she lifts my leg straight up, and is just tall enough to push down on my toes with one hand and plant her elbow into the bottom of my foot…Oy! Oy! Then, holding my foot she pulls back on my knee and leg with her other hand. Squatting, she lifts my leg over her legs and rolls her forearms back and forth over the muscles in my tibia and femur. Oy! She squeezes muscle…thumbs pressing deeply and then sliding slowly forward…stretching the fascia covering the muscle. She finds the points of attachment of tendons, ligaments and muscles and plunges her thumbs into the crannies while I grimace and groan…she watches my face…she can tell exactly when to let up. She laughs. I laugh. Over the years, favoring my right leg and knee the muscles, ligaments and tendons have atrophied and tightened which in turn has been pulling on the muscles in my lower back causing considerable pain when I walk. She sits down at my feet, facing me, grabs ahold of my foot and pulls while she pushes her foot into the inside of my legs at short intervals all the way up to my groin. She opens my legs, pushing one leg into a bend and pushes my bent upper leg and knee into the mat with her knee…I feel like I am doing the splits. She turns me on my side and with her thumbs works her way into the inserts of my butt and hip muscles…then on my stomach she finds muscles in my back I never knew I had. Still on my stomach she sits, with her back to me, on the backs of my upper legs and pulls my legs up one at a time as far as they will go. OY! My back, my back! Then she kneels on my back and works her way up and down my back with her knees. She turns over on her back and rocks back and forth with her butt bones massaging my lower back. And on it goes for two hours, very effortless, slow, very gentle and deliberate movements…Ok? Ok? she keeps asking. Mai pen rai, I gasp! I get to endure this for about $7. I give her a hefty tip. After almost a week of this I am almost a new woman. Today she suggests I take a couple days off to heal before resuming again on Tuesday Not all Thai massage therapists work this way. Most farangs just want a nice light relaxing massage so you have to ask for “very strong.” I tell her she is my angel and she beams. I am walking on air…pain free.

Highly recommended:
Baan Sanae Chan Salon
on Charoen Prathet near the Governor’s House
(053)28092 for appointment
R_bhuranabhan@hotmail.com

Have been here three weeks and Chiang Mai did feel like home for awhile…just long enough to get oriented and find the good places to eat. I spent all afternoon today in my room researching Mexico on the web and then decided to go out for supper. For about 10 seconds I was completely disoriented…sights, sounds, smells…all different than what was in my head…and added to that was the haze in the air that obscured the sight of anything more than 600 yards ahead. “Slash and burn,” Lonely Planet says. Reminded me of Springfield Oregon in the fall when farmers burn their seed fields.

For excellent western food go to The Duke’s on the other side of the river from Old Town. Tender and mild white fish stuffed with lump crab with mashed potatoes on the side. Well, it came with rice but I asked for mashed potatoes instead. And apple pie for dessert…a nice break from noodle soup! I am “im” (sp?) meaning “stuffed.” I said “arroy” (delicious) to the young waiter who looked at me like I was nuts. He had on a black t-shirt and really baggy pants. Oops, I thought…I had assumed he was a Thai or at least that he spoke Thai. Or maybe he just didn’t understand my Thai such as it is.

It’s interesting to travel alone. The other day I was having breakfast in a lovely outdoor garden setting and a 78 (looked 65) year old Dane joined me…spent an hour or so telling me his life story (Denmark seems to be considerably homophobic) and then recounted his many gay sexual exploits during his seven years in Thailand…more than I wanted to know.

A couple days later in the same restaurant I was approached by an older Brit…13 years here…who had walked the entire length of Thailand. Kind of dinggy but likable. www.youmetdennis.com They were both fluent in Thai and I got the feeling they didn’t often talk to English-speakers. Dennis asked me to post the words of His Majesty the King…which I did in my last blog entry. He loves the King. “It’ll rock the world,” he exclaimed. I just looked at him wondering how long it had been since he had been in Europe…or the States!

His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand will celebrate his Diamond Jubilee in Bangkok in June 2006.

The King of Thailand is one of the most highly respected spiritual leaders in the world in the last half century. In December 2000, in the Thai Airways Kinnaree Magazine, writer Khun Amporn Samasor recounted the king’s words to the U.S. Congress while on a seven month visit to 31 foreign nations.

“On June 29 1960, His Majesty addressed the Congress of the United States, saying, in part: Firstly, I have long desired to see and learn more of your country. When I hear of intolerance and oppression in so many parts of the world, I want to know how, in this country, millions of people differing in race, traditions and beliefs, can live together freely and harmoniously. How these millions, scattered over a large territory, can agree upon major issues in the complicated affairs of this world. How, in short, they can tolerate each other at all.

Secondly, I wish to bring to you, in person, the greetings and goodwill of my own people. Although Americans and Thais live on opposite sides of the globe there is one thing in common – their love of freedom. Indeed, the word �Thai� actually means free. The kind reception l am enjoying in this country enables me to take back to my people your friendship and goodwill. Friendship, of one government for another, is an important thing. But, friendship of one people for another assuredly guarantees peace and progress.

Thirdly, I have the natural, human desire to see my birthplace. I expect some of you here were also born in Boston or, like my father, were educated at Harvard, hasten to congratulate such fortunate people. I am sure they are with me in spirit. We share a sentiment of deep pride in the academic and cultural achievements of that wonderful city.�

His Majesty then touched on American aid for Thailand, saying: American assistance is to enable Thai people to achieve their objectives through their own efforts. I need hardly say that this concept has our complete endorsement. Indeed, there is a precept of the Lord Buddha that says �Thou art thine own refuge.� We are grateful for American aid, but we intend, one day, to do without it.

This leads me to a question in which some of you may be interested which is: What do we Thais think of United States cooperation? I shall try to explain my view as briefly as I can. “In my country, there is one widely accepted concept: that of family obligations.The members of a family, in the larger sense, are expected to help one another whenever there is need for assistance. Giving of aid is merit in itself: the giver does not expect to hear others singing his praises every day; nor does he expect anything in return. The receiver is nevertheless grateful. He too, in his turn, will carry out his obligations.”

In giving generous assistance to foreign countries, the United States is, through my Thai eyes, applying the old concept of family obligations on the larger scale. The nations of the world are learning that they are but members of one big family; that they have obligations to one another; that they are closely interdependent. It may take a long time to learn this lesson but, when it has been truly learnt, the prospects of world peace will become brighter.

His Majesty went on to remind U.S. Congressmen of the smooth relationships enjoyed by both Thais and Americans from the early years of the United States of America�s nationhood.

“Some of you may recall that my great-grandfather, King Mongkut, was in communication with President Buchanan during the years from 1859 to 1861 – 100 years ago. �President Buchanan sent him a letter dated May 10, 1859, with a consignment of books in 192 volumes. The king was very pleased with the books and, in a letter dated February 14, 1861, sent certain presents in return as gifts to the American people and an offer that became historic.
…

Our two countries have had the best of relationships. They started with the coming of your missionaries who shared with our people the benefits of modern medicine and the knowledge of modern science. This soon led to official relations and to a treaty between the two nations. That treaty dates back to 1833.

King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Queen Sirikit were also in New York City where they were given a traditional parade and ticker-tape welcome. On July 5, 1960 His Majesty made a private visit to the apartment of Benny Goodman and got into a jazz session with Goodman, Gene Krupa, Teddy Wilson, Urbie Green, Jonah Jones and Red Norvo. These jazz legends called His Majesty a cool cat and said that he could join their bands if ever he needed a job!

Their Majesties went on to visit the King�s birthplace at Mount Auburn Hospital, and met Dr. Stewart Whittemore who delivered him into the world. His Majesty was presented with a gold-worked, leather- bound book, which contained a certified copy of his birth certificate signed by Dr. Whittemore. The King also met the four nurses who cared for him at birth.
…

They arrived back home on January 18, 1961 to a tumultuous welcome from the Thai people. Their return remains a momentous event in the life of the nation.”
…

Forty years ago King Bhumibol Adulyadej gave the United States much to live up to. Would he be able to give the same speech to Congress today?

The oldest (700 years) and most interesting temple in Chiang Mai that had it’s top toppled in an earthquake.

A day trip north took me to an elephant training camp, monkey training school where they learn to twist off the coconuts and let them drop from the trees.

The snake show I could have done without. “Please do me a favor,” the driver says on the way home. He stops at five different shops and factories including the Orchid Farm and Butterfly Garden so he can get a coupon for gas. The Indian shops give two coupons. But who wants to buy overpriced Indian stuff in Thailand? This has happened to before so I should have known better. Exhausted, I draw the line at the last one. Never again. At least I didn’t let them pressure me into buying anything.

Tired of the Night Market for tourists, this week I walked to the Warorot Day Market…a market for the local Thais.

I bought delicious garlic flavored BBQ chicken for lunch with custard filled squash for dessert. Then crossing the footbridge over the Mae Ping River I walked back past upscale craft and fabric shops stopping for a mixed fruit shake at the Riverside Bar & Restaurant. There is supposed to be great live music there at night but I feel weird going by myself so I don’t.

“Letters From Thailand” is a lovely novel wrtten in 1969 by “Botan”, a pseudonym of the Chinese-born Thai female writer, Supa Sirisingh, and recently translated into English by Susan Fulop Kepner, an academic on Southeast Asian studies from UCLA.

The book is written in the form of self-revealing letters to the beloved mother of a young man who leaves rural China to make his fortune in Thailand at the close of World War II. In Tan Suang U’s starkly honest account of his daily life in Bangkok’s bustling Chinatown, deeper themes emerge: his determination to succeed at business before all else; his hopes for his children in this strange new culture that sickens him by what he sees as it’s drunkeness, laziness, gambling and sexual depravity and his resentment at how easily his children embrace urban Thai culture that is becoming increasingly Westernized at the expense of their Chinese heritage that he holds dear.

Westerners will recognize the cross-cultural themes that emerge… the desire to hold on to cultural heritage in the midst of an alien land, the stereotypes that keep groups separated one from another and the struggle of oppressed women to transcend their own culture and live life on their own terms.

“Not to eat another man’s rice but to hate him” is something to be ashamed of, Suang U learns. “I was of the opinion that a good heart was not money in the bank,” Suang U says toward the end of the book. But he learns that “two baht worth of rice with love at the supper table is a feast.” Finally, a lonely old man, after he has passed his business on to the ungrateful son that he himself mentored, he discovers that “to be alone is terrible, but it is not so terrible as to be a guest in a son’s house.”

The strongest survival instinct is self deception. After a long sorrowful road to self-discovery he is astounded to learn two things: one is that money is not the most important thing in life; the other is that what we believe does not necessarily reflect what and who we are.

“Letters From Thailand”
1969 by Supa Sirisingh
Susan F. Kepner English Translation 2002
Silkworm Books Chiang Mai
http://www.silkwormbooks.info

In spite of my petty but honest day-to-day frustration with bureaucratic silliness while traveling in most developing countries, I treasure the lives of the people who ironically seem to have integrity…congruity. The way they live is understandable in relation to their history, geography economics and culture-not to be compared to any other place. Rather than judge, a friend says she tries to engage �others�� with a �reverent curiosity� to describe how she travels. I try to be more intentional-I borrow her idea and call it �reverent inquiry.� I do want to respect the dignity of those I am coming to visit without giving up my own chosen values.

Thousands of people have been demonstrating for several days and nights in the streets of Bangkok calling for Prime Minister Thaksin to step down. One hundred university and business leaders signed a letter pleading for the King to appoint a new Prime Minister.

Yesterday, I heard that no one knows where he has been for the last couple days. Since he is from Chiang Mai, we think he may be up here trying to get support from the rural Thais. He is getting desperate. The Bangkok Post yesterday reported that Thaksin will award several billion baht (40 baht to the dollar) to the rural villages who have shown “responsible planning” (a buy-off since there will be a reelection in April) and several million baht to victims and familiies of the 1973 military coup that left scores of people dead in the streets. Everything he does just makes the Thai elite angrier but he depends on the uneducated rural patriots for support.

No permission to confront in this culture often ends up with emotions boiling over in the end…sometimes ending in violence. However in these recent street rallies the world should be proud of Thailand… the participants, dedicated to nonviolence, have shown incredible discipline as have the police and security guards…making a peaceful but strong statement about healthy reform.

Every month my son Doug has to cross into Burma and come back into Thailand to get another 30 day stay in the country. If you are late it’s a $12 fine per day. It’s a racket. So this month he and Luk, his wife, took a bus south to Krabi town to get a crown placed on his tooth. Then he had a hell of a time on the bus getting north to Ranong where he crosses to Burma on a boat and back through Thai immigration to get his passport stamped. The bus stopped every few km and he got there too late to get across the border yesterday….so he had to wait til this morning and get a fine, which is a lot when you are living on the local economy.

I think he depends on Luk to get reservations etc. but she didn’t check if it was an express bus. When I have watched her ask for information I need, I notice, when I question her, that she hasn’t asked any detailed questions…just too polite to press for information. She appears very uncomfortable to ask again…too hesitant to “confront” even though she will use a very nice voice.

Late this morning I get another call from Luk complaining that Doug is angry with her. He left her in the hotel to do his three hour crossing with a request that she arrange for the bus to Surat Thani where they catch the ferry to Samui. Instead of going to the bus station for the ticket, she called and found out that there is a bus leaving every hour. But she didn’t ask if there was room or make a reservation for the next available bus. So when they got to the station at 11am they were told the buses were full until 2pm. Of course they didn’t bother to tell her that when she called. This would put them into Surat Thani too late for the ferry to Samui and meant that they would have to pay for a night in Surat.

Yesterday morning I walked to the Post Office around the corner and down the street and then slowly swung a wide path through the city…dawdling in used book stores, Jonesing for all the quality crafts and household items in shop windows and reading pithy doggeral on t-shirts. By 4 in the afternoon I was hot and wet with sweat as I passed an old woman in a big floppy straw hat watering off the sidewalk. She didn’t see me until after she had managed to hose my sandaled feet and my ankles…sorry, sorry she begged. Oh no, no, I laughed. “Good big,” I said as I gave her the thumbs up. Then she laughed big, tickled at my enjoyment. Sanook!

This morning, tired of my guesthouse rice soup with pork for breakfast, I walked to a nearby hotel that offered an inexpensive buffet breakfast (with heart-shaped fried eggs) and spent the morning comparing travel notes and our respective country’s politics with a young Aussie couple at the table next to mine. I recounted that a couple years ago when returning to Bangkok after a month in India I would never have guessed that it would feel like heaven in the taxi traveling into the city from the airport. They both threw their heads back with a belly-laugh…saying that is exactly how they felt a week ago when they flew in after five weeks in India! Then we all had a good laugh remembering the way Bush limply muttered that he “had never been in India before,” when what he really meant was that he had never been anywhere before!