Number 49 Schaerdinger Strasse stood on the southern slope of Mariahilfberg – “Mary’s Help Hill,” the only bit of Passau, Germany, south of the Inn River, which otherwise divided it from Austria.
Few people ventured there, and those that did stopped at the Baroque convent halfway up. It was a pilgrimage site, you see, and getting there tested the most devout. If you drove, you prayed that your suspension could hold up during the half-mile, switchbackless drive up the 45-degree hill. If you were intrepid and walked, your thighs might scream mutiny. Lose your brakes or your footing, and well, Mary help you.
Beyond the convent, there was little reason to go further – just a few farms, houses, and a nursing home tucked away in the mile or so before the border. There also were cornfields and deer farms, guarded over by a wooden barn that seemed to age in dog years. You could get to Austria, sure, but there wasn’t much once you got there. The nearest town, Schaerding, was a solid 10 miles of country roads away – if you wanted to get there from Passau, the Mariahilfberg route was probably the least convenient; you’d have to cut through town and uphill to get there, and by the time you did, you could have been speeding down the Autobahn and have been there in minutes.
Number 49’s garage door and eight-foot gray fence were the only parts visible from the front. There were never cars in the driveway, and the courtyard was completely surrounded by a high wall and, occasionally, the stray vine. It was almost always impossible to tell if anyone was home. Walk down the hill, though, and the façade – a long one, perhaps 25 yards of house, revealed itself:
The garage, big enough to fit two cars, though the family of six could only afford one, a burgundy Previa with an oversized ass…
Behind that, the passageway… it looked on the outside like a painted accordion, but inside was a sheltered, open-air hallway between garage and home. You could look out on the courtyard from there, and occasionally my host father would peer through the vines and greet his oldest daughter, sunbathing in the yard.
After the passageway, the house began. It was two stories, and the roof shaped much of the top floor’s ceiling. You could see three windows from the street; my host sisters’ bedrooms, I think, since they’d occasionally study out on the porch…
After the windows came the front door, which was technically on the side, I guess … I dunno. I rarely used it anyway, and if so, more as an exit than an entrance. I’d occasionally pop out to grab my mail – oh, the mail in those days! – but rarely used it for anything else. My only key was to the basement door, and the only times I had to knock on this one were when my host brother had left his key in the inside part of the basement lock, preventing mine from going in the outside. He did that once during my first month, but quickly apologized.
Beyond the front door, the path continued down the hill, 10 more yards maybe, to the end of the house. My door was back there, at the bottom of a small staircase. The staircase sat right below the panorama window in the living room – from there you could look out to the farms of Saming, Austria. Most days, I woke up and looked abroad before I saw another person.
I trudged the path alongside the house many times, mostly at night as my social and traveling lives became more robust. The back entryway was illuminated only by a solitary lamp, next to the door. Unlike the one out front, this one was not on a motion detector; its only switch was inside.
Whether my host father designed it this way, I’ll never know. But his decision to do so years before, spurred on the turning point of my exchange year – and, perhaps, my life – on a rainy Sunday in November 1997.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Bereshit, or "Prologue: Bellevue Hill" (6/8/2009)
A century ago, Bellevue Hill afforded the best views in Boston. On a spring day after a long New England winter, you could ride the steam train from downtown to Highland Station. If you’re chipper – and why wouldn’t you be – you can walk that mile up Park Street. If you want to conserve your energy, pay a quarter and ride that shuttle up, up, up 347 feet.
There’s a water tower there; looks like a turret. "This is the highest point in town," the tower keeper would brag, bounding out to greet you.
"Look, to the northwest! There’s snowcapped Monadnock, sixty five miles away in New Hampshire. Live free or die, those folks say.
"See in front of it? That’s Mount Wachusett, a lonely drumlin where that little girl, bless her, disappeared some hundred years ago. Probably abducted, she was. Or killed! That poor mother, though… Some say you can still hear her voice on the wind, calling…
"See downtown, the gold dome of the State House! We have the oldest Constitution in the world. We had our act together seven years before those nitwits in Philadelphia pulled it off. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a pine cone on top; supposed to remind us how important our lumber industry is.
"And east, across town, Castle Island and Dorchester Heights: if you were here in March of 1776, you’d have seen the Redcoats flee in those frigates. Take your tea home, George! Don’t tread on us!"
A century on, the trees have obstructed the view, and there’s no real reason to scale the last hundred feet, save curiosity or seclusion. A barbed-wire fence blocks off the summit now; after those terrorists brought down the World Trade Center, West Roxbury might be next. The standpipe still stands – hey, it’s on the National Register of Historic Places – but few locals know and fewer care.
I grew up a quarter mile from the tower and only once or twice felt the need to visit. Still, the hill’s height affords a few advantages. Major thoroughfares criss-cross it on all sides, meaning that public transportation into town, particularly from the city’s most suburban neighborhood, is plentiful. There is apparently a “Bellevue Hill” aura that is supposed to impress people who don’t live on it, though at 28, I have yet to see anyone’s jaw drop when I told them I lived there.
The last advantage, though I didn't see it as one, was the waves.
You see, our house was about five blocks down the hill from the water tower, and though not the highest point, we were still some 250 feet above the city and the satellite dishes which beam Boston TV to the masses. Up high, the airwaves were freer and reception comparatively sound. Since we could get the major networks with relatively little interference, we didn’t need cable. And so, in 1986, my parents made the first decision that my siblings and I rib them for today; they deep sixed the cable box.
No Disney Channel, no ESPN, no NESN. My beloved Fraggle Rock was gone; for 19 years, I was slave to network TV.
We had one of those old clunkers encased with faux oak and equipped with different VHF and UHF dials that we had to – thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk – change by hand. After the initial shock wore off, which was softened by the introduction of Nintendo, the standard nine channels (on a good day) usually sufficed. The Red Sox or Bruins were on once a week, usually Fridays, and the Saturday morning cartoon lineup of Garfield and U.S. Acres kept me attentive on days with no hockey practice.
With no Disney Channel or Nickelodeon (I never knew what you couldn’t do on television) my access to kids’ TV was limited. And so, when ABC aired the occasional Peanuts special, I jumped. I wasn’t going to miss Charlie Brown, thank you very much. Years later, I could still recite much of "A Charlie Brown Christmas" or protest with the most adamant among them that Woodstock never should have won in "Race for your Life, Charlie Brown." He built his boat 10 feet from the finish line, for Pete’s sake.
But it was "Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown" that set my compass.
You see, in "Bon Voyage," Chuck and friends jet to France on a two-week exchange spurred by a mysterious letter and – like everything in Europe – a deep, mysterious history. In typical Peanuts fashion, the invitation’s translation gets jumbled, Charlie and Linus are relegated to a stable behind a country chateau, dodging a faceless Baron who – are you channeling Herod now? Good. – threatens “drastic steps” if they aren’t out. Of course, being a kids film, all becomes right with the world after Snoopy rescues the baron’s niece from a fire, and international peace ensues. Kind of like the Marshall Plan, costarring Woodstock.
Charlie Brown’s Europe enchanted me. His trip to the chateau – which comprises almost half the movie – was the classic European adventure that I still want today. A jaunt across the pond to Heathrow – England! I live in New England! It couldn’t be that different .... Wimbeldon … A double-decker bus across London ... Eurail to Dover … Hovercraft to Calais ... Rental car through back-country France … Doris Day on the juke box … Sheets of continental rain … Medieval, small town squares which still exist because they weren’t important enough for the Nazis to torch … Ordering a baguette in jumbled Frenglish …
Ironically, my first European road trip, from Frankfurt to Passau, was remarkably similar. But that was years off. I asked my dad if exchange students really existed. They did, he said.
At six, I knew it. When I grew up, I was going to be an exchange student.
There’s a water tower there; looks like a turret. "This is the highest point in town," the tower keeper would brag, bounding out to greet you.
"Look, to the northwest! There’s snowcapped Monadnock, sixty five miles away in New Hampshire. Live free or die, those folks say.
"See in front of it? That’s Mount Wachusett, a lonely drumlin where that little girl, bless her, disappeared some hundred years ago. Probably abducted, she was. Or killed! That poor mother, though… Some say you can still hear her voice on the wind, calling…
"See downtown, the gold dome of the State House! We have the oldest Constitution in the world. We had our act together seven years before those nitwits in Philadelphia pulled it off. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a pine cone on top; supposed to remind us how important our lumber industry is.
"And east, across town, Castle Island and Dorchester Heights: if you were here in March of 1776, you’d have seen the Redcoats flee in those frigates. Take your tea home, George! Don’t tread on us!"
A century on, the trees have obstructed the view, and there’s no real reason to scale the last hundred feet, save curiosity or seclusion. A barbed-wire fence blocks off the summit now; after those terrorists brought down the World Trade Center, West Roxbury might be next. The standpipe still stands – hey, it’s on the National Register of Historic Places – but few locals know and fewer care.
I grew up a quarter mile from the tower and only once or twice felt the need to visit. Still, the hill’s height affords a few advantages. Major thoroughfares criss-cross it on all sides, meaning that public transportation into town, particularly from the city’s most suburban neighborhood, is plentiful. There is apparently a “Bellevue Hill” aura that is supposed to impress people who don’t live on it, though at 28, I have yet to see anyone’s jaw drop when I told them I lived there.
The last advantage, though I didn't see it as one, was the waves.
You see, our house was about five blocks down the hill from the water tower, and though not the highest point, we were still some 250 feet above the city and the satellite dishes which beam Boston TV to the masses. Up high, the airwaves were freer and reception comparatively sound. Since we could get the major networks with relatively little interference, we didn’t need cable. And so, in 1986, my parents made the first decision that my siblings and I rib them for today; they deep sixed the cable box.
No Disney Channel, no ESPN, no NESN. My beloved Fraggle Rock was gone; for 19 years, I was slave to network TV.
We had one of those old clunkers encased with faux oak and equipped with different VHF and UHF dials that we had to – thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk – change by hand. After the initial shock wore off, which was softened by the introduction of Nintendo, the standard nine channels (on a good day) usually sufficed. The Red Sox or Bruins were on once a week, usually Fridays, and the Saturday morning cartoon lineup of Garfield and U.S. Acres kept me attentive on days with no hockey practice.
With no Disney Channel or Nickelodeon (I never knew what you couldn’t do on television) my access to kids’ TV was limited. And so, when ABC aired the occasional Peanuts special, I jumped. I wasn’t going to miss Charlie Brown, thank you very much. Years later, I could still recite much of "A Charlie Brown Christmas" or protest with the most adamant among them that Woodstock never should have won in "Race for your Life, Charlie Brown." He built his boat 10 feet from the finish line, for Pete’s sake.
But it was "Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown" that set my compass.
You see, in "Bon Voyage," Chuck and friends jet to France on a two-week exchange spurred by a mysterious letter and – like everything in Europe – a deep, mysterious history. In typical Peanuts fashion, the invitation’s translation gets jumbled, Charlie and Linus are relegated to a stable behind a country chateau, dodging a faceless Baron who – are you channeling Herod now? Good. – threatens “drastic steps” if they aren’t out. Of course, being a kids film, all becomes right with the world after Snoopy rescues the baron’s niece from a fire, and international peace ensues. Kind of like the Marshall Plan, costarring Woodstock.
Charlie Brown’s Europe enchanted me. His trip to the chateau – which comprises almost half the movie – was the classic European adventure that I still want today. A jaunt across the pond to Heathrow – England! I live in New England! It couldn’t be that different .... Wimbeldon … A double-decker bus across London ... Eurail to Dover … Hovercraft to Calais ... Rental car through back-country France … Doris Day on the juke box … Sheets of continental rain … Medieval, small town squares which still exist because they weren’t important enough for the Nazis to torch … Ordering a baguette in jumbled Frenglish …
Ironically, my first European road trip, from Frankfurt to Passau, was remarkably similar. But that was years off. I asked my dad if exchange students really existed. They did, he said.
At six, I knew it. When I grew up, I was going to be an exchange student.
Summer's Tales (6/1/2009)
Somewhere over the South China Sea, during hour three of a flight from Singapore to Seoul, I needed to stretch my legs. Groggily, I walked back to the galley, where I met a Canadian woman. Let's call her Amber.
We were two of the few gringos on the flight. She smiled. “Where you headed?”, she asked.
“Oh…” I replied nonchalantly. “Mongolia.”
Her face dropped. She almost screamed.
To me, Mongolia wasn’t exotic – another assignment, another hotel, another per diem. Having spent the previous week in Jakarta traffic, I was approaching Ulaanbaatar with the same zest as a trip to Chicago. While I wasn’t looking, my perspective had changed.
At twenty-eight and with forty-two ticks into the Traveler’s Century Club, I’ve racked up more travel stories than most accumulate over a lifetime. And, you, dear readers, have told me how much you enjoy them.
You flatter me, honestly.
I say this because, truth be told, my travel experiences aren’t particularly earth shaking. I haven’t lived in Asia surviving on kimchee and my rugged looks. I haven’t joined the Peace Corps and ridden out monsoon season in a tin shack. I haven’t caused or witnessed politically seismic events (as far as I can tell you), hang glided over piranha-infested rivers or hunted lion armed only with a spear. I haven’t been to a World Cup or World Series, crashed a Siberian wedding, retraced the path of Captain Cook, or served as Chief of the Tribe of Sixteen Nations at a Maori hangi. I haven’t taken a train from Boston to Patagonia, and am not one to drive across Sudan in search of meaning. I even survived Vietnam without eating a single shrimp.
In the absence of riveting plot, I am left with travelogues laced with puns and pop culture, jabs at the Limbaugh-thumping right, and overdependence on imagery. When in doubt, tell them what the sun is doing. Everyone loves the sun.
Yet somehow, you tell me, it works.
But I want more. As stories progress, I notice that more and more begin with “This one time, in Tajikistan…”, “You know, in Serbia…”, or “You should totally do New Zealand,” I want to explore for myself how these stories and experiences have developed a deeper meaning. This, as Blair Sheppard would put it – twice – is my tapestry.
How did a late night in New York crack my shy cocoon? Why are European train stations my favorite places to peoplewatch? Why is Dushanbe, Tajikistan less weird than Greenville, North Carolina?
And so, a summer project was born. I want to know where these travels have led, why they mean what they do. With no travels scheduled (a scary notion), I want to re-examine those old photos, the hokey scrapbooks, pore through that slutty passport. Instead of the politically imagery-ridden travelogue (“Hi from South Africa. Apartheid sucks. It’s sunny.”), I am going to write about the 11, or 12, or 13 (because 10 is lame) moments on my traveler’s resume. Not the glitziest, most expensive – or, get real, the most romantic – but those I continue to feel today.
As a blogger, I want to test my hand at writing longer bits and recreating scenes from lives past. As a traveler, I want to remember.
Join me.
We were two of the few gringos on the flight. She smiled. “Where you headed?”, she asked.
“Oh…” I replied nonchalantly. “Mongolia.”
Her face dropped. She almost screamed.
To me, Mongolia wasn’t exotic – another assignment, another hotel, another per diem. Having spent the previous week in Jakarta traffic, I was approaching Ulaanbaatar with the same zest as a trip to Chicago. While I wasn’t looking, my perspective had changed.
At twenty-eight and with forty-two ticks into the Traveler’s Century Club, I’ve racked up more travel stories than most accumulate over a lifetime. And, you, dear readers, have told me how much you enjoy them.
You flatter me, honestly.
I say this because, truth be told, my travel experiences aren’t particularly earth shaking. I haven’t lived in Asia surviving on kimchee and my rugged looks. I haven’t joined the Peace Corps and ridden out monsoon season in a tin shack. I haven’t caused or witnessed politically seismic events (as far as I can tell you), hang glided over piranha-infested rivers or hunted lion armed only with a spear. I haven’t been to a World Cup or World Series, crashed a Siberian wedding, retraced the path of Captain Cook, or served as Chief of the Tribe of Sixteen Nations at a Maori hangi. I haven’t taken a train from Boston to Patagonia, and am not one to drive across Sudan in search of meaning. I even survived Vietnam without eating a single shrimp.
In the absence of riveting plot, I am left with travelogues laced with puns and pop culture, jabs at the Limbaugh-thumping right, and overdependence on imagery. When in doubt, tell them what the sun is doing. Everyone loves the sun.
Yet somehow, you tell me, it works.
But I want more. As stories progress, I notice that more and more begin with “This one time, in Tajikistan…”, “You know, in Serbia…”, or “You should totally do New Zealand,” I want to explore for myself how these stories and experiences have developed a deeper meaning. This, as Blair Sheppard would put it – twice – is my tapestry.
How did a late night in New York crack my shy cocoon? Why are European train stations my favorite places to peoplewatch? Why is Dushanbe, Tajikistan less weird than Greenville, North Carolina?
And so, a summer project was born. I want to know where these travels have led, why they mean what they do. With no travels scheduled (a scary notion), I want to re-examine those old photos, the hokey scrapbooks, pore through that slutty passport. Instead of the politically imagery-ridden travelogue (“Hi from South Africa. Apartheid sucks. It’s sunny.”), I am going to write about the 11, or 12, or 13 (because 10 is lame) moments on my traveler’s resume. Not the glitziest, most expensive – or, get real, the most romantic – but those I continue to feel today.
As a blogger, I want to test my hand at writing longer bits and recreating scenes from lives past. As a traveler, I want to remember.
Join me.
The Quiet Americans (3/24/2009)
The terms of Goethe's Faust's deal with the devil are simple. You give me everything I want, and if I’m ever satisfied, my soul’s yours. You’ll know I’m satisfied is if I say “stay there – you’re so beautiful.” And, since I’ve been plundering away at the world’s wisdom for decades, I’m never going to say that, so there. I win.
Having been to 42 stops on the Traveler’s Century Club (a better yardstick than the UN), my pantheon – those places and moments that would give Faust pause – is rare. A 7 a.m. drive up the wispy Milford Road. Shabbat at the Western Wall. Sunset cevapi in Turkish Bosnia. Gluhwein in snowy Nurnberg. A morning stroll through misty Prague.
Southeast Asia 2009 was that rare blend of time, place, circumstance, and (most importantly) traveling companions that culminated in those rare traveling moments. I loved it, but am tentative at going back, revisiting the same sites without the familiar faces. Chalk another for the ending of "Before Sunrise"; an empty dawn in Bangkok would haunt me as much as Richard Linklater's lonely Vienna.
In closing, a few observations:
- The propaganda fascinated me. In communist Vietnam, it's most expected – pictures of Ho Chi Minh above city squares, grand posters of workers and hammers and sickles and laborers and grinning babymaking families. Think the Palins. Thailand was a bit different - lots of massive pictures of the King. Singapore, though, was more complex and more embedded, and (I would guess) most effective. The government there is omnipresent, imbuing itself skillfully but not harmfully into commerce. Everyone seems to believe the government because ... that's the way it is.
- Books and films abound about how a tiny, poppy-shaped country with little infrastructure - and which had just finished staving off the French - dealt the vaunted American military its first defeat. Give Vietnam its credit; take note, though: it was NOT the American military's first loss: it was half of the American military's first defeat. The South was already 0-1.
- We need more city states in this world. I would have paid good money to hear "This is madness!" "This is SINGAPORE!".
- I've been trying to pin down how to do Singapore its diligence, and finally settled on this: Singapore is Southeast Asia's Toronto. Nothing against Toronto, though consider: you just flew 30 hours, have trips lined up to New York, DC, and the Outer Banks, and your first stop is Toronto. Exactly. Oh, and if you need more, Singaporeans add “neh’” to the end of every sentence. "We have the greatest zoo in the world, 'neh!" Nuff said.
Best (repeatable) exchange of the trip:
Matt: "You know, Fusionopolis has a big rival across town, Fissionopolis."
Jonathan: "Yeah, it was quite a split."
- As we headed to the airport in Saigon, we passed a megaplex with a bowling alley. An inescapable conundrum: Bowling. Nam ... Rules?
Our soundtrack was particularly remarkable, including:
- Richard Marx, in all three countries. Wherever we went, he was right there waiting for us.
- Accompanying dinner in Hoi An included country music, Phantom of the Opera, The Chipmunks, and ... "We Wish you a Merry Christmas." - Not to be outdone, our hotel in Bangkok serenaded us with "Silent Night," ironic on multiple levels given that 1) it was morning, 2) In March; and 3) A silent night in Bangkok? Really? - The kicker, though, was back atdinner in Hoi An. I didn't catch the entire song, but the refrain repeated "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." Nothing screams romance like Lenten Pop.
Thirty-three floors above Bangkok and eight hours before we flew out, we celebrated - chilled our drinks in improvised refrigerators (read: the bathtub), raised toasts, and watched a slideshow before one last hurrah on the glamorous town. What struck me was just ... how happy everyone was. Having traveled by myself and with small and large groups, I can't overemphasize how rare this is at the end of a trip; having come from an (admit it) dangerously cliquey environment, here were 26 people with no conflict, no Mean Girls-like barbs, who just spent two weeks poking around four scintillating cities. Congratulations, folks: you've cracked my traveling pantheon. Raise the Singha.
And stay there, Indochina. You're so beautiful.
Having been to 42 stops on the Traveler’s Century Club (a better yardstick than the UN), my pantheon – those places and moments that would give Faust pause – is rare. A 7 a.m. drive up the wispy Milford Road. Shabbat at the Western Wall. Sunset cevapi in Turkish Bosnia. Gluhwein in snowy Nurnberg. A morning stroll through misty Prague.
Southeast Asia 2009 was that rare blend of time, place, circumstance, and (most importantly) traveling companions that culminated in those rare traveling moments. I loved it, but am tentative at going back, revisiting the same sites without the familiar faces. Chalk another for the ending of "Before Sunrise"; an empty dawn in Bangkok would haunt me as much as Richard Linklater's lonely Vienna.
In closing, a few observations:
- The propaganda fascinated me. In communist Vietnam, it's most expected – pictures of Ho Chi Minh above city squares, grand posters of workers and hammers and sickles and laborers and grinning babymaking families. Think the Palins. Thailand was a bit different - lots of massive pictures of the King. Singapore, though, was more complex and more embedded, and (I would guess) most effective. The government there is omnipresent, imbuing itself skillfully but not harmfully into commerce. Everyone seems to believe the government because ... that's the way it is.
- Books and films abound about how a tiny, poppy-shaped country with little infrastructure - and which had just finished staving off the French - dealt the vaunted American military its first defeat. Give Vietnam its credit; take note, though: it was NOT the American military's first loss: it was half of the American military's first defeat. The South was already 0-1.
- We need more city states in this world. I would have paid good money to hear "This is madness!" "This is SINGAPORE!".
- I've been trying to pin down how to do Singapore its diligence, and finally settled on this: Singapore is Southeast Asia's Toronto. Nothing against Toronto, though consider: you just flew 30 hours, have trips lined up to New York, DC, and the Outer Banks, and your first stop is Toronto. Exactly. Oh, and if you need more, Singaporeans add “neh’” to the end of every sentence. "We have the greatest zoo in the world, 'neh!" Nuff said.
Best (repeatable) exchange of the trip:
Matt: "You know, Fusionopolis has a big rival across town, Fissionopolis."
Jonathan: "Yeah, it was quite a split."
- As we headed to the airport in Saigon, we passed a megaplex with a bowling alley. An inescapable conundrum: Bowling. Nam ... Rules?
Our soundtrack was particularly remarkable, including:
- Richard Marx, in all three countries. Wherever we went, he was right there waiting for us.
- Accompanying dinner in Hoi An included country music, Phantom of the Opera, The Chipmunks, and ... "We Wish you a Merry Christmas." - Not to be outdone, our hotel in Bangkok serenaded us with "Silent Night," ironic on multiple levels given that 1) it was morning, 2) In March; and 3) A silent night in Bangkok? Really? - The kicker, though, was back atdinner in Hoi An. I didn't catch the entire song, but the refrain repeated "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." Nothing screams romance like Lenten Pop.
Thirty-three floors above Bangkok and eight hours before we flew out, we celebrated - chilled our drinks in improvised refrigerators (read: the bathtub), raised toasts, and watched a slideshow before one last hurrah on the glamorous town. What struck me was just ... how happy everyone was. Having traveled by myself and with small and large groups, I can't overemphasize how rare this is at the end of a trip; having come from an (admit it) dangerously cliquey environment, here were 26 people with no conflict, no Mean Girls-like barbs, who just spent two weeks poking around four scintillating cities. Congratulations, folks: you've cracked my traveling pantheon. Raise the Singha.
And stay there, Indochina. You're so beautiful.
Siam I Am (3/18/2009)
At 3:30 a.m., I caught the elevator from the fifteenth floor of my hotel - one of Bangkok's chicest, mind you - to begin the long trip home. There, dressed in a collared shirt and tweed blazer, was a middle-aged Russian man negotiating pricing terms with a twentysomething Thai woman. A friend had once told me that, in Bangkok, "everything is for sale, even your dignity." Judging from this - and the stream of young ladies strolling out as we gathered in the lobby - dignity futures must be recession proof.
Bangkok, though, is far more glory than cheap, colored lights. With due heed to its larger, richer, cleaner neighbors, it is the indisputable hub of Southeast Asia, a city whose anything-goes mentality and openness make it a scrumptious treat for all who venture through it. Singapore should be seen, Saigon witnessed. Bangkok should be lived.
You, though, will never live Bangkok as we did. The last stop on our three-country tour (three-country tour), we were slated to visit several firms to get a sense of the Thai economy, contrast it with technically communist Vietnam and technically democratic Singapore. Our first host, the Boonrawd Brewery (producers of Singha Beer, Thailand's best-selling lager), cast Ceasar's proverbial die, welcomed us with more bells and whistles, chutes and ladders, pomp and circumstance than when the Pope visited Washington (I know. I was there.) For two days, we were visiting royalty, a state visit from the Duchy of Durham. A double-decker bus. Motorcycles that stopped traffic. A banner larger than the championship ones which hang in Cameron. A party boat. An executive reception. The Singha ladies (all the Singha ladies). A staff photographer who snapped 1,007 pictures. A brewery tour. Puppet shows. Karaoke. Sightseeing vans. And a farewell dinner that sent us - some without sleep - directly onto our flight home.
Bangkok is Southeast Asia's liveliest city, one where you can do anything (yes, anything) anytime of day or night. Tour the Grand Palace in the pulsating heat, be Yul Brynner. Stand in awe of the Reclining Buddha, half a football field of deity. Relax with a Thai
Massage, and contour yourself like Cirque du Soleil. Sip Singha Beer. Take the Sky Train and give up your seat to a monk. Float down the river and gawk at the abutting temples; watch the fish who spawn nearby, realizing that it's uncool to kill things near Buddhist temples (go natural selection!). While away your evening at a Thai kickboxing match or the night markets.
"Night markets" sounds sleazy, but it's not, I promise. A word on that, though: it's difficult to view Bangkok's red light districts, two of which were blocks from our hotel, without the typical Western prejudices. Interestingly, the industry was born of American hormones: GIs used Bangkok as an R&R post during the Vietnam war. Add that to the different sexual mores (no Christianity to tell you it's evil, no Freud to whisper Oedipus in your ear), and you have 18 year-olds thinking they're about to die in a culture where sex is more open and less repressed. Score another for the great moral enforcer, but don't lie, you would have too. Thirty years on, it's still disturbing to stroll three blocks from your hotel and notice women who look 20 (but ...) wearing numbers, a walking lineup for Johns. Many come to support their families in provinces, others, more tragically, are trafficked in from overseas. Though what happens when the neon is off ... I don't want to think about.
Bangkok, though, is more lively and fascinating than its one-off seedy areas. The vivacity of its streets, the grandeur of the Buddhist temples, the brilliant sun, the spicy Thai food, and the hospitality of the people (particularly a gracious brewery) work in near perfect rhythm. Add to that our trip's near perfect conflux of time, place, circumstance, and - most importantly - people, and Bangkok has reached my hard-to-crack travel pantheon. My companions here were such a quintessential part, and to return without them would be bittersweet.
Keep Paris. We'll always have Bangkok.
Bangkok, though, is far more glory than cheap, colored lights. With due heed to its larger, richer, cleaner neighbors, it is the indisputable hub of Southeast Asia, a city whose anything-goes mentality and openness make it a scrumptious treat for all who venture through it. Singapore should be seen, Saigon witnessed. Bangkok should be lived.
You, though, will never live Bangkok as we did. The last stop on our three-country tour (three-country tour), we were slated to visit several firms to get a sense of the Thai economy, contrast it with technically communist Vietnam and technically democratic Singapore. Our first host, the Boonrawd Brewery (producers of Singha Beer, Thailand's best-selling lager), cast Ceasar's proverbial die, welcomed us with more bells and whistles, chutes and ladders, pomp and circumstance than when the Pope visited Washington (I know. I was there.) For two days, we were visiting royalty, a state visit from the Duchy of Durham. A double-decker bus. Motorcycles that stopped traffic. A banner larger than the championship ones which hang in Cameron. A party boat. An executive reception. The Singha ladies (all the Singha ladies). A staff photographer who snapped 1,007 pictures. A brewery tour. Puppet shows. Karaoke. Sightseeing vans. And a farewell dinner that sent us - some without sleep - directly onto our flight home.
Bangkok is Southeast Asia's liveliest city, one where you can do anything (yes, anything) anytime of day or night. Tour the Grand Palace in the pulsating heat, be Yul Brynner. Stand in awe of the Reclining Buddha, half a football field of deity. Relax with a Thai
Massage, and contour yourself like Cirque du Soleil. Sip Singha Beer. Take the Sky Train and give up your seat to a monk. Float down the river and gawk at the abutting temples; watch the fish who spawn nearby, realizing that it's uncool to kill things near Buddhist temples (go natural selection!). While away your evening at a Thai kickboxing match or the night markets.
"Night markets" sounds sleazy, but it's not, I promise. A word on that, though: it's difficult to view Bangkok's red light districts, two of which were blocks from our hotel, without the typical Western prejudices. Interestingly, the industry was born of American hormones: GIs used Bangkok as an R&R post during the Vietnam war. Add that to the different sexual mores (no Christianity to tell you it's evil, no Freud to whisper Oedipus in your ear), and you have 18 year-olds thinking they're about to die in a culture where sex is more open and less repressed. Score another for the great moral enforcer, but don't lie, you would have too. Thirty years on, it's still disturbing to stroll three blocks from your hotel and notice women who look 20 (but ...) wearing numbers, a walking lineup for Johns. Many come to support their families in provinces, others, more tragically, are trafficked in from overseas. Though what happens when the neon is off ... I don't want to think about.
Bangkok, though, is more lively and fascinating than its one-off seedy areas. The vivacity of its streets, the grandeur of the Buddhist temples, the brilliant sun, the spicy Thai food, and the hospitality of the people (particularly a gracious brewery) work in near perfect rhythm. Add to that our trip's near perfect conflux of time, place, circumstance, and - most importantly - people, and Bangkok has reached my hard-to-crack travel pantheon. My companions here were such a quintessential part, and to return without them would be bittersweet.
Keep Paris. We'll always have Bangkok.
We'll Miss Saigon (3/11/2009)
Come to Vietnam. As part of an American generation born in the decade after the helicopter took off from the U.S. Embassy in Saigon, the specter of Vietnam has always hung, an immobile overhead specter waiting to rear its head. No other country's name evokes, at best, an inescapable quagmire, and at worst, abject failure. Our pop culture teems with references: "Apocalypse Now." John Lennon. Muhammad Ali. The Dixie Chicks. "Forrest Gump." CCR. Even "Tropic Thunder." Our parents lived through it - made it, some of them. Reignited by another war launched on questionable intelligence, the shadow of Vietnam has emerged anew.
For a Gen Y traveler, Vietnam is one of the world’s most wondrous and fascinating places. Twenty-three years after Uncle Ho’s descendants opened the borders to capitalism and fourteen after Bill Clinton buried the diplomatic hatchet, Vietnam is a bustling economy, a vibrant atmosphere, and an even more outgoing people. The new dragon is taking the manufacturing jobs from China and shipping more and more goods to the U.S. and beyond. Thanks, Karl, but to – and from – each according to his productivity is much better. Nike alone employs 200,000 Vietnamese: we who grew up considering Vietnam evil will inevitably come to see the country as a partner, even a competitor.
Saigon – technically Ho Chi Minh City – is a bustling metropolis that is not only distinctly Vietnamese but also one of the most Westernized emerging cities I’ve visited. Three million motorbikes scuttle Saigonites (Saigoners?) to and from work, home, bars, clubs. Uncle Ho – liberator, patriot – is present but not gaudy (King Abdullah in quasi-democratic Jordan is far more dominant; yes, Your Majesty, you look great over that convenience store.) And even so, the lights of Gucci, Versace, Louis Vuitton, Tag Heuer and others far outshine the party propaganda. Domino effect, meet Domino’s Pizza.
As a young American, Vietnam brings a new dimension that is an inescapable, vital — and, much untold — part of our own history. On Monday, we made our way to the Cu Chi Tunnels, a 250-some-kilometer-long labyrinth that the Viet Cong guerillas – some teenagers, mind you – used to launch surprise attacks on the French and later, the Americans. Deep under a jungle, the tunnels are wrought with maniacal traps, landmines, and remnants of the hell of ground, aerial, and even subterranean combat. The VC used traps that impaled our countrymen’s legs, faces, or genitals; maimed them with basketball-sized maces which swung out of trees; threw metal fishooks through their skulls. We, in turn, made it the most bombed patch in the history of warfare. Smoke 'em out.
Even more moving, though, was Saigon’s War Remnants Museum, a collection of spoils and photographs showcasing the stories we don’t hear. The women and children disfigured by 44 million tons of Agent Orange. The innocent villages the Americans torched. GIs pushing Vietnamese civilians on forced marches. Beheadings. Suspects dropped headfirst out of helicopters -- photos that, I’m serious, made the leaked shots from Abu Gharaib and Guantanamo seem tame.
In the United States, we are forced into two corners, everything in black and white. Republican or Democrat. Liberal or conservative. Pro-life or pro-choice. Good or evil. With us or with the terrorists. Four decades on, our window on Vietnam is no different; we prevented communism from overrunning Southeast Asia. It wouldn’t have spread anyway. You’re an M16-toting warmonger. You’re a useless, pacifist hippie.
Come to Vietnam, and experience a dish as deliciously decadent as the Pho on Saigon street corners, as inescapable a part of your history as Yorktown or Pearl Harbor. Witness how brutal conflict begat (eventually) a simmering future, see how countries can bury diplomatic grudges and stop behaving like fifteen-year-olds. Most importantly, use the country as a mirror to understand that no decision, however black and white, arrives without consequences.
In Vietnam, the only shade you'll see is Dorian Gray.
Matt
For a Gen Y traveler, Vietnam is one of the world’s most wondrous and fascinating places. Twenty-three years after Uncle Ho’s descendants opened the borders to capitalism and fourteen after Bill Clinton buried the diplomatic hatchet, Vietnam is a bustling economy, a vibrant atmosphere, and an even more outgoing people. The new dragon is taking the manufacturing jobs from China and shipping more and more goods to the U.S. and beyond. Thanks, Karl, but to – and from – each according to his productivity is much better. Nike alone employs 200,000 Vietnamese: we who grew up considering Vietnam evil will inevitably come to see the country as a partner, even a competitor.
Saigon – technically Ho Chi Minh City – is a bustling metropolis that is not only distinctly Vietnamese but also one of the most Westernized emerging cities I’ve visited. Three million motorbikes scuttle Saigonites (Saigoners?) to and from work, home, bars, clubs. Uncle Ho – liberator, patriot – is present but not gaudy (King Abdullah in quasi-democratic Jordan is far more dominant; yes, Your Majesty, you look great over that convenience store.) And even so, the lights of Gucci, Versace, Louis Vuitton, Tag Heuer and others far outshine the party propaganda. Domino effect, meet Domino’s Pizza.
As a young American, Vietnam brings a new dimension that is an inescapable, vital — and, much untold — part of our own history. On Monday, we made our way to the Cu Chi Tunnels, a 250-some-kilometer-long labyrinth that the Viet Cong guerillas – some teenagers, mind you – used to launch surprise attacks on the French and later, the Americans. Deep under a jungle, the tunnels are wrought with maniacal traps, landmines, and remnants of the hell of ground, aerial, and even subterranean combat. The VC used traps that impaled our countrymen’s legs, faces, or genitals; maimed them with basketball-sized maces which swung out of trees; threw metal fishooks through their skulls. We, in turn, made it the most bombed patch in the history of warfare. Smoke 'em out.
Even more moving, though, was Saigon’s War Remnants Museum, a collection of spoils and photographs showcasing the stories we don’t hear. The women and children disfigured by 44 million tons of Agent Orange. The innocent villages the Americans torched. GIs pushing Vietnamese civilians on forced marches. Beheadings. Suspects dropped headfirst out of helicopters -- photos that, I’m serious, made the leaked shots from Abu Gharaib and Guantanamo seem tame.
In the United States, we are forced into two corners, everything in black and white. Republican or Democrat. Liberal or conservative. Pro-life or pro-choice. Good or evil. With us or with the terrorists. Four decades on, our window on Vietnam is no different; we prevented communism from overrunning Southeast Asia. It wouldn’t have spread anyway. You’re an M16-toting warmonger. You’re a useless, pacifist hippie.
Come to Vietnam, and experience a dish as deliciously decadent as the Pho on Saigon street corners, as inescapable a part of your history as Yorktown or Pearl Harbor. Witness how brutal conflict begat (eventually) a simmering future, see how countries can bury diplomatic grudges and stop behaving like fifteen-year-olds. Most importantly, use the country as a mirror to understand that no decision, however black and white, arrives without consequences.
In Vietnam, the only shade you'll see is Dorian Gray.
Matt
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