Morocco

I would call myself a seasoned traveler. I would call myself experienced. I would even stretch so far as to say I could be an authority on navigating new places. However, nothing could prepare me for Marrakech. It wasn’t that we couldn’t handle the frenzy or manage the chaos, it was day after day of prayer horns, solicitation, marriage proposals, and shady propositions…. that I just needed my calm home in the west. To be fair, I had been traveling for 2 weeks, thus nearing exhaustion before I even set foot in North Africa. Had I arrived in the cacophony of Marrakech first, I might have looked upon it with more affection. I found it to be full of amazing color and contrasts, rich with wonderful foods and tastes, intriguing with the many mazes of souqs and street markets. However, the city, in its toast to tourism, has lost its charm. White robed snake charmers lined the square of the Jemma Al Fna touting “dangerous” cobras & pythons. In reality, they were a sad representation of a lost art, their masters having sewn their mouths shut ….allowing them to die a slow painful death of starvation. Monkeys were being thrown on passerbys as novelties, while tethered with heavy and painful metal collars. Henna artists would grab the arms of women walking by, painting their hands with no warning or permission. All these touts would then demand 10 Euros for their “services.” Having already wandered the streets of remote Rajasthan in India, with friendly (and free) monkeys skimming by at my feet and cobras a thing to be feared & respected, I was less than impressed with the exotic “show” in the “big square” of Marrakech. I was actually angered by the outrageous display of extortion by the natives onto the tourists. In my opinion, it was not a good marketing campaign.



I've never not been fond of a location before. I’m usually able to find something rare, beautiful and charming about a place I encounter. I don’t know if it was the constant noise, the relentless touts, or the incessant chaos, but I never was able to truly see Marrakech. I think this in of itself describes the very blood that feeds the city. A blur of disorder, bedlam and commotion, it is something in which to be absorbed in order to see. The challenges of immersion certainly rang true as we explored this hectic nation.

We agreed upon a desert “trek” to the edge of the Western Sahara…not to be confused with the country the state department will not allow us to visit. Upon reaching Zagora by car, we continued by camel for another hour into the desert where we spent the night. It was the coldest night of my life. The stars were astounding, but far outshone by the cold. Seeing the sun finally peek through the tent after a long night of shivering, my first thought not being light, but warmth.

I would never presume to think that my amazing experiences were ones to ever consider taking for granted. I love that I’ve seen stars from the Sahara. I love that I’ve traversed a desert oasis. I love that my world is so big. I would never want to convey that I don’t find my experiences rich and full of blessings. I can’t fault Marrakech. It truly is what it is. I just personally couldn’t find the corresponding beat. I was always out of rhythm and never heard the song that so many find fascinating and magnificent about Morocco. I won’t say the colors, the products, the beautiful ceramic tagines aren’t marvelous displays of Berber wares, I just found that our personalities don’t exactly click. I would be willing to go on another date, maybe to the calmer northern city of Fez, where the chaos of Morocco I’m told is lessened. I hope for another chance encounter, but for now, a distant memory of pandemonium will be my minds eye to the beautiful land of North Africa.

Rome

Having not been to Rome since high school, I was eager to arrive. Our train into the city went smoothly as possible, although crowded. Standing room only and painfully hot, I prayed for high speeds into Rome. I saw a man with a Florida Gator hat on and knew we could immediately bond over SEC football. Not really a Florida fan, I still always support my conference, so I told him the “Ohio State, Property of University of Florida” joke.. As it turns out, he played for Florida, and his son was a linebacker for the Forty-Niners. (the Colts/Broncos/Cowboys trio combo in me prevents me from rooting for San Francisco, I’m a traitor to my city, I know). But I digress. We had a wonderful discussion about the BCS and the SEC and the Pack 10. I’m sure the locals on the train were eager to get away from the Americans and their “football” talk. Talking with he and his wife made the voyage to Rome manageable. A lovely couple, they ended up hanging with us for the day.

St. Peters Basilica was the same as I remember it. Beautifully Baroque, the height of the dome still impresses. The bronze Baldachino, Michaelangelo’s “Pieta” and the ornate work of the basilica were as extraordinary to me as they were in my memory as a girl of fourteen. The adult just had the better camera.

Standing in line to observe the Sistine Chapel wasn’t a thrill, yet the responsibility of the Rome visitor. Since I skipped it on the last trip, I deemed it important this time around. Heading in to the Vatican Museum, the crowd thickening, room after room, thinking each room would soon hail the long awaited chapel. After the second hour of the procession toward the famous ceiling, I repeatedly remarked, (room after room), “are we there yet.” Finally, feet sore, we saw the famous finger of God that everyone wished to see, sat for a bit to rest and realized how hungry we were after such an early morning and long day thus far. So?... when in Rome? Pizza !

Stuffed from our traditional Italian lunch, we scrambled on a cross town bus to the Forum of Rome and the Coloseum. The heat was immense and somewhat overwhelming. I thought to myself, hey, the Trevi Fountain isn’t far from here. Do you think we would get arrested if we took a little swim? We didn’t chance it, although quite tempting.

Our time in Rome was coming to a close. We had timed it just so in order to get the right train. However, any of you having traveled to Italy might understand the train situation. They often either strike, or just go to lunch, …for a long time. We were on the right train, just about 40 minutes too late. As our embarkation time loomed, we began to worry a bit more. Heather suggested we start walking the train to find out if there were any other Princess Cruise passengers. Yelling out “Princess? Princess? Are you Princess,” I have to laugh at what only ended up being Italians on board must have been thinking of the American loudmouths running through the train yelling about Princesses. We must have looked like idiots. We had to live up to our reputation I guess. Having found no other Princess Cruises passengers, the worry became panic as I called the port. Of course, no answer so I called every Civetiviccia number I had. Finally getting a human, I best explained in Englitalian that we were coming…”Please don’t leave us !!” This was starting to be a theme, and one I already knew my mother and I would encounter on this trip. It seems we are always running after a train, a boat, a ferry, a plane or streetcar. We devised a plan to be in the front car of the train and set out on foot to the port if we didn’t see a ship shuttle. Ready as ever as our train pulled in, we hit the platform running. Outside, we see a “Royal Carribean shuttle and asked if we could hitch. We couldn’t understand why they were laughing at us until we got on board and saw that only blue card holding Princess passengers were aboard. Our embarkation time long passed, we remained in hope as we could still see our ship in port. We did however have a game plan devised if we missed. We would head back to Rome, spend the night and head to Florence the next day in order to meet the ship at Livorno the following evening. This however proved not necessary as the beautiful white ship came into view. Shouts of joy and laughter as we approached and saw our wonderful crew out on balconies with wildly exaggerated points of their watches. Knowing we were in the clear, we Royal Carribean stowaways erupted with thanks and applause for the crew of the competitor company ensuring our safe arrival back to our home at sea.

Incidentally, we were numbers 24, 23, 22, & 21 back on board. Our numbers were getting worse.

Istanbul, not Constantinople

Seeming similar to San Francisco, arriving in Istanbul was familiar. Unique architecture meshed with nature create a skyline so picturesque you can watch for hours. Our ship docked across the river from old Istanbul, so we were lucky enough to take in broad sweeping views as we walked the pedestrian bridge toward the city. The lofty spires of Istanbul’s many mosques were enough to keep our eyes full of anticipation. Studying the map, we headed straight to Hagia Sophia. Having studied the building in architorture school, I approached the mosque somewhat academically, studying the plan, section and vaulting. However, it was its character that blew me away. Completely taken in, I was reminded of the first time I visited St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome as a teen. I remember the dome overwhelming me and the wondrousness of building such a vast structure. Experiencing that again, I was floored by the span of the dome. (even whilst scaffolding somewhat blocked my view). The fact that this structure was built in 500 A.D. is astounding. I laugh even now at how architecture tends to level me. What will happen when I finally get to the Giza Plateau and ponder the pyramids?

I believe a striking quality of this now national museum, was the light. Light is a ubiquitous friend. It is what determines translation to film, distinguishes color in painting and brings life to what we build. Without light…photography, art, architecture is flat. It is light that brings this building to life. Every window draws part of the day into the domes and arcades of Hagia Sophia. I tend to visit massive structures in various times throughout a day since they often change as the day and light progresses. This one would be a candidate for that, yet we had to move on as time was precious.

Leaving the Hagia Sophia Museum, we ventured across the park to The Blue Mosque. Being an active worshiping mosque, we visitors were obliged to enter with a reverence and respect traditional of the Islamic faith. We were given clothing to cover our entire bodies, and although not required for Non-Muslims, many women covered their heads. As we entered, the lights suspended from the sculptural iron chandelier called the texture of the tiles to a dance . Cascading shades of blue created a peaceful calm and highlighted each individual dome originally experienced from the outside. I’ve heard many comments on each of these two structures and how one liked each for whatever personal preference. Honestly, I couldn’t decide which space I liked more. They were both so unique in personality and feel; Hagia Sophia with its grandiose space and majestic height, and the blue mosque with its serene calm and ethereal light. I can’t wait to return to Istanbul and spend a little more time in both spaces. But the clock ticks as we traverse Istanbul and the Grand Bazzar was calling our name.

A market or bazaar is such an emblematic representation of a place and its culture. In fact, the markets are the places I tend to enjoy most. No surprise there! Beneath the sales and commercialism often beats the heart of a very specific set of ideals and passions. The markets in Thailand and Cambodia often showcase the silk industry and all it has brought to those economies. Krakow, Warsaw and much of Polish “cloth halls” represent the indigenous amber found sprinkled all over the shores of the Baltic Sea. Parisian flea markets often reflect the toiles and rich damasks of 17th century France. Istanbul, I found, was all about carpets and diamonds. While I’m a huge fan of the beautiful Kilims, hand woven wools, and Persian masterpieces, diamonds could make me run into a flaming building. The Grand Bazzars main “grande” nave was shop after shop of both new and antique jewelry. The child in a candy shop came alive and I sought out supervision in my mother. She, however, proved to be an equal accomplice as she encouraged me to purchase a beautiful rose gold brown diamond ring. I fell in love with this unusual Byzantine styled piece and decided to allow the little girl a toy. Worn by an Armenian woman in the 20’s, I found the piece to combine the period's deco style of the west with the Moorish motifs of the east. A perfect blend in my little ring found in the gateway city of Istanbul. I absolutely love it.

Scrambling around, taking in the Grand Bazzar, mother having a necklace/bracelet set made, I tore through a pashmina shop grabbing every color I thought anyone would ever want to wear. I found several colors I knew some girlfriends would like, and of course, some completely unnecessary ones for myself. Catching sight of the time, my heart jumped as I realized we had 30 minutes to get back to the ship. Our friends Heather and Idona, the wise and safe travelers that they are, had long since left us and head back in peace. Carole and Jessica, however, usually used up every last minute and ended up with mild infarctions as we scrambled back to the boat in panic. Seeing the time, I knew this would be one of those days. Running down the main nave of the bazaar, I tried to raise mom on the walkie – “we have to go, we have to go!!” I finally got her, waiting for her jewelry still unfinished. Panic continued to rise in as we waited for the jeweler to return. Our boat departure loomed...thirty minutes became 25, ticking to 20, on to 15. Visions of the stern of the huge Emerald Princess sailing away started to flash before my mind. Finally returning, the jeweler sent his apprentice to put us on the nearest streetcar in hopes to expedite our trip back over the river. Having no idea where we were or were going, we had nothing to do but blindly trust, and hope he actually knew where our ship had port. Befriending most of the surrounding Turkish commuters on the train, they confirmed our direction and assured us not to worry. Seeing our ship loom closer, we consider ourselves just about home free when I imagine I hear a ship’s horn. The doors of the streetcar barely had a chance to open as we lofted ourselves out at the pavement for a flat run toward the boat. I see it in the distance, one gangway still out, men in white still at their posts. I suppress the need to scream out “Wait!!” and continued my dead run. As we hit the gangway, we were met with a bit of concern from the staff regarding our lateness. Curiously, I asked how many more were behind us, finding out we were no 121 & 120 (meaning 119 people were still behind us). I felt relieved I wasn’t the last aboard. However, 121 out of 3000 passengers was not something brag about. I figure this is often my way when I’m enjoying exploring. Down to the wire, absorbing everything I can, I’ve never been one to play it safe.

So take me back to Constantinople... it can't be too soon. I've always wanted to explore this amazing gateway city. There wasn't near enough time, but I plan to be back.

Ephesus

Ephesus tipped me over the edge. As we approached the main walk into Ephesus, I cought a glimpse of the Library at Celcus, built in 102 a.d. Awaiting the end of the main street, it provided a vista worth the anticipation. I found it hard to concentrate on the parceled out structures of Main Street Ephesus because I kept catching the structure several hundred yards down. Ephesus actually has 7 versions of itself as it was always evolving and morphing through its ages. This particular main street had a wonderful little tiled area preserved over the last two millennia. Our guide told us it was an area where men and women of Ephesus would come to gather, have a drink, sit outside to enjoy the sun and conversation... basically the Union street of the first century. Our sidewalk cafes of today are not much different. However, I don’t expect ours to hold up 2000 years.

Proceeding finally to the Library, taking every shot possible, I found it hard to capture the draw of the structure on film. There is no way to express it in a photograph. Its age is what beautifies it; the texture and detail that leave nothing bare or simple, the symmetry and proportion that draw you closer, the staggered façade that breathes life into the rooms inside. I loved the unique yellow color contrasting the hillside, yet beautifully resting in its context like it belonged nowhere else. This will go toward the top of my list in structures that drew me in and inspired me to explore more.

I lost my traveling companions in the midst of my library awe and worked to catch up. They were fast on their feet to the Amphitheater. I can understand eagerly wanting to walk in Paul’s footsteps and stand at the dias of his Ephesian address. Breaking the library charms over me, I ventured further on to the enormous amphitheater. Climbing and descending, I explored every square inch for which I had time. Sweeping views told of how magnificent and exciting a theater like this would have been like at its height. I can imagine what it must have been like for Paul to walk the streets and preach to a culture like the Ephesians. As I ventured through the town and read about the daily life and customs of its inhabitants, it reminded me in many ways of the life of my own town of San Francisco. Sidewalk cafes to take in the sun, bookshops to pass time, and open plazas to mingle, all contributed to Ephesus as a forward thinking and progressive city.

Upon leaving Ephesus, we were able to go to a little house up in the hills that most people of Catholic faith regard as Mary’s last home. Many Protestants have adopted this claim as well. She was known to have gone to Ephesus with John and live out her last days there. We actually got to experience mass there at her home. I myself am considered a reformed protestant, yet I felt the gravity of this place so many Catholics revere as Holy Ground. A pilgrimage to many, I observed the reverence and love the people there held for the Holy Mother and her significance to their faith. Not being taught much about Mary in my own faith, it was quite a learning experience to me and one I’ll remember.

We had to return for our long sail to Istanbul, but not without a quick stop at the market at Kusadasi. Knowing I can whip through a market in record time, I hit the ground running in search of nothing but that which would fancy my eye. Down to the last minute, I heard my friend on the walkie say she was heading back to the ship, whilst I caught sight of a beautiful pair of antique earrings. Since I need more jewelry, of course I stopped dead in my tracks… and the mistake of trying them on is what sealed the deal. They are a lovely little pair of Byzantine costume earrings that are probably as “antique” as my last laptop, yet I love them all the same.

Ephesus and the surrounding sights of Mary’s home, the remains of the vast Temple of Artemis, the unbelievable library, will no doubt be one of my favorite ports on this trip. I have always been drawn to Turkey and have never actually been before now. I await the excitement of Istanbul and what wonderful sights I might find there.

Athens

The Acropolis…. Time travel. If it weren’t for the June crowds of Europe, I would have stepped into a history completely foreign to the youth of American citizenship. Additionally, we 21^st century technology addicts often don’t know what to do with this kind of antiquity. Too surreal and ethereal, we remain unfocused on the immensity of such a sight. I had to concentrate on reminding myself that I was traversing grounds and structures ventured upon hundreds of years before Christ ever walked the earth. For a split second, one finds themselves in Disneyland. The sight before me was just too unreal. My brain shifts to the shiny sets of Epcot and the replica backdrops of Main Street USA. I’m proud of my American lineage and our young history as a country, yet I’m humbled each time I visit something that causes me to ponder TIME. I think of the new thoughts and concepts pondered at this place, that of law and ethics, of religion and philosophy, of medicine and science. I can imagine the conversations that took place here. In these settings, I long for time travel, to see this place alive and thriving during its prime… To see this architecture in its highest function…that of inspiration.

As Athens resided below, I wandered the hilltop, catching aerial views of the Amphitheater of Delphi, 360 degree walks of the Parthenon , the picturesque photo opportunities from the Temple of Nike, and endless shots of the columns of the Erechtheum. I imagined the structures in their finery of the 4^th and 5^th centuries B.C., perfect and unblemished by weather and wear. If it weren’t for the 110 degree heat, I would have stayed all day. That, and having to reboard a ship at 6.00. We ventured down from the Acropolis and wandered into the “Plaka,” a section of the city, referred to as old Athens. Having worn ourselves out from the both the hill and the heat, we sought shelter in Greek cuisine. Of course, a city would never be complete in Jessica’s world without a quick visit to the local market. And a quick visit it was. I fell in love with the beautiful Greek Orthodox gold crosses. They were inlaid with gemstones and perfectly etched designs and enscriptions. Inspired by the many shapes and sizes, I spent more time in my sketchbook than checking out Athens itself on the train ride back to port.

It was one of the most fast paced days I’ve experienced of late, but worth every minute. I didn’t know if I would ever make it to Athens, although always at the top of a long list of destinations. I saw it in a blur as do most people when they experience it as a port destination, yet I feel very blessed to have finally made it. The architect in me is inspired and enriched in such settings, The facet of my artistic drive that is inspired by great architecture is touched and re-kindled, thus, re-affirming my love to experience a historical place like this once and a while. Luckily for me, “once and a while,” is fairly often.

The Underbelly of Suvarnabhumi Airport and Further Afield

9:45 a.m.

Think of everything you can conjure in your mind about being taken to the dungeon of the Thai Immigration Offices. I first must flashback to the incident that brought us to said underbelly of the Bangkok Airport. Arriving from Phnom Penh, Cambodia, waiting in the immigration line, my friend Heather realized she did not have her passport. Amazed at herself, she told me she was heading back to the gate to reboard the plane and get it. She was certain she left it there and started to head that way. I was encouraged by her confidence, and knowing we had to board a flight to Borneo in two hours, I suggested a meeting point for us at the baggage carousel. I proceeded past the check point entering Thailand and spent about 45 minutes arranging, rearranging and consolidating luggage for storage, waiting and waiting for Heather to arrive. Except...no Heather.

10:30 a.m.
Heading back to immigration, I got the heavy feeling I know all to well regarding dealing with “Thai” ways and the Asian need for 8 people to make one tiny little decision. Having visions of this happening to Heather at the gate (she having no previous Asia experience), panic started to set in as our flight time to Borneo began to tick away on the digital clocks above. Miraculously, (upon surrender of my own passport), the immigration supervisor allowed me back airside to go find her. Running through the airport in dread, I knew we were heading in to a long day. She wasn’t at the gate and wasn’t at the immigration point. I asked them to check the immigration manifest to see if she had entered the country which must have been a tall order, because it took 5 people at the immigration desk to decide if that was a feasible request to bring before the director.

11:00 a.m.
I gave up that ridiculousness and remembered that she had her cell phone on global roam. She answered with alarm in her voice, and we were able to coordinate and re-meet at a numbered immigration kiosk, me “officially” allowed into the Kingdom on the Thailand, and she, stuck in transit with no official documentation. Apparently, the airline officials wouldn’t allow her back on the plane to check it out. Heather is very kind and on the timid side in conflict so its understandable that she would back down. I, on the other hand, would have been relentless in my pursuit and probably would have ended up in the holding facility for people to which they refuse entry. . . like Viktor Novorsky.

Immigration granted me “un-entry” and allowed me BACK airside to accompany Heather in her quest for asylum. After much understandable confusion as rejects, we aimlessly wandered around waiting for Air Asia staff, in whose custody we were left. “Belonging” to Air Asia (a daunting outlook), we were understandably concerned, especially given Heather’s treatment regarding re-boarding. Visions of sleeping across uncomfortable armchair airport chairs and eating packets of ketchup were flashing before my eyes. Just as I was starting to panic, a well dressed, polo wearing, khaki’d, blond man approached us. He said he was the director of Air Asia Security and would be taking us from here. We urged him to try and locate the passport via radio and try to connect with the staff that manned the plane and its turn around. No one had seen the passport. Heather was very frustrated because she knew the passport was onboard the flight (now in transit to Vietnam).

11;15 a.m.
Continuing to make our way to the deep recesses of the underbelly, the security director escorting us through tunnel after tunnel, turn after turn, I startlingly realized, “Hey, he’s an American? What in the world? – it just so happens, he is married to a Thai woman and decided to come out of early retirement to help Air Asia with their security. I realized how lucky we were, because this could go much worse had we not had an advocate bearing our common citizenship. He escorted us into a room where people rushed about, shuffling papers, maintaining a constant state of readiness, doing their best to appease the “Don.” The Director of Immigration was everything you can possibly imagine about what you would find in such a place. The “Thai Don of Immigration” (as he will officially be remembered in my memories) sat behind a rather large desk, like a fat little Buddha with his subjects scurrying about hoping to appease him. I noticed, no one looked him directly in the eye, and as such, I followed suit. He only spoke Thai to the various Air Asia staff and didn’t acknowledge our presence. After he drafted a temporary Letter of Excusement for a direct trip to the U.S. Embassy, he sharply turned to me and asked, “What hotel in Bangkok you stay?” I sort of looked down and timidly said that we didn’t have a hotel because we were transit passengers to Kota Kinabalu. Again, he said, “What hotel in Bangkok YOU STAY !!.” I replied, “SIR, I don’t have a hotel.” And once again with fervor, “LADY, I ASK YOU, WHAT HOTEL IN BANGKOK YOU STAY !!!.” The American looked over at me pleadingly as if to telepathically suggest. “Say SOMETHING, just make something up!” I mentioned my usual hotel in the Sukhumvit district which seemed to appease the Don. Funny how far lies go. . . but if I’ve learned anything about Asia, its that you HAVE to FILL out the piece of PAPER. Everything in Asia has to have the piece of PAPER !!!

After another hour of paperwork and an official handoff, we were escorted to the Air Asia ticket counter to try and rebook our Kota Kinabalu ticket. We had already been in contact with the embassy which told us to come right away and they would issue a temporary passport which would grant Heather access to Malaysia without a visa. (the Sabah region of Borneo) This was the first good news we heard all day, But good news is usually short lived in immigration circles because we realized, it was the only flight that week (aside from a short Friday to Tuesday jaunt which would not be enough time in Borneo). We tabled that challenge and decided to head directly to the embassy to fight the battle there.

2:00 p.m.
Heading to the embassy was a feat unto itself. Apparently, the taxi’s do not know where the embassies are. Wireless Road is a bit too English sounding and not enough Thai to warrant paying attention to. Roundly about, we finally made it and I let Heather out to do her thing and I headed to the Manhattan Hotel to do my best to persuade them to give us a room, having already told us they were fully booked. Halfway down the street, stopped in traffic, I was startled by a running Heather opening the door and jumping BACK into the taxi. “CLOSED!!” the embassy is closed at 2:00 !! “WHAT”, I said, “They TOLD us to come.” Picking up my cell phone, calling the embassy, I got an operator and explained the situation. She put me on hold and got back on the line explaining that Heather should NOT have been refused and every American, no matter what time of day is legally granted asylum on the American soil of the embassy and that we should return. She said, she would call down to the guard and demand them to let Heather in. Turning back around, we dropped her off. At this point, we were in the 3:00 heat of the monster that is Bangkok traffic and the taxi driver cursed me heavily as I continued to change my mind about where I was going and how long it was taking. Not TWO seconds later, I received a phone call from Air Asia PROUDLY telling me that they had found the passport. Knowing what I know about Asia, I asked them to tell me the name on the passport and place of issue .. “Marie Burrow. California.” – (Marie being Heather’s middle name), . . .good enough for me.

3:10 p.m.
I called Heather and she found out about the same time from the American staffer at the passport window. “Good news Miss Burrow, Air Asia has recovered your passport from a flight that went to Hanoi and has returned to Bangkok.” I didn’t see the look on Heather’s face, but I’m sure it was the visual version of “duh.”. But, I’m pretty sure that was shortlived as the tears of relief started to fall.

I timidly told the taxi driver we were going to have to go BACK to the embassy to get Heather and he started yelling at me and pointing to the clock on his dashboard yelling at me in Thai and saying “TrAAFFic, TrAAFFic.” NO NO NO. I was afraid he was going to throw me out on Sukhumvit Road with all our luggage, so I just had Heather meet me at the Manhattan.

3:30 p.m.
Upon arrival, I prepared luggage once again for storage and started gearing up for heading back out of Bangkok, now that we were free (aside from a quick return trip we would have to make to the Don’s Laire for the official passport stamp). As I was packing in the lobby of the Manhattan hotel, I looked over to see the T.V. and to my total disbelief saw the scene in “The Terminal” where Viktor Novorsky (our comrade and kindred spirit) was translating for the goat farmer. I stared in amazement at the t.v. having already thought of Viktor Novorsky that day and remarked my usual. . . “I have no words” mantra. It was as if everything in the universe had come together to make fun of me. At this point, I was waiting for the man behind the curtain. All I could do was laugh and relive the laughter when heather walked in the front door of the hotel and I silently gestured to the t.v. We both just cracked up at the irony.

4:00 p.m.
Exhausted and spent, we headed back to the airport, bags packed for who knows where. We just figured, if we worked something out with Air Asia, we would just get on a plane for somewhere in their network of destinations. Heather returned to the Laire as I fought with Air Asia about rebooking and fees and penalties. I urged them to reconsider their penalties assessed to our tickets considering their staff was, to a great degree, also at fault due the negligence in recovering an American Passport (an extremely valuable commodity in the world). In fact, I mentioned that the Embassy had told us they were disappointed with how poorly the airlines had been handling such communications and that such holes in security were alarming for them and their views on the airline and the policies at the new airport (which apparently is a total mess). Well, apparently, this was enough of a threat to buy me a visit with the Air Asia supervisor who refunded all my penalties, allowed me to rebook a departing flight for Phuket and granted me a credit for the remainder of the original ticket price to use at my leisure. My Asia experience has finally paid off! - I must give myself some kudos for that one. Getting around policy in Asia is like squeezing guava juice from a mango.

5:00 p.m.
Still awaiting “official” arrival of Miss Heather Marie Burrow into the Kingdom of Thailand, I call her and she tells me she’s still in the Laire. I tell her, she better hurry up because she was on a 6:30 flight to Phuket and they needed to get going on her entry status. She finally made it and we checked in.

6:00 p.m.
Heading to board the 6:30 flight to Phuket. I’m assuming at this point, we will just head over to Koh Phi Phi in the next day or two I’d been in this area several times and was familiar enough with southern Thailand to plan a spur of the moment trip. Worn out, spent, in a bit of a fog having exhausted all energy on the day, we hoped our evening would look up. This, unfortunately was not in the cards.

9:30 p.m.
Having no idea we would be going to Phuket, we had no hotel booked or reservations whatsoever, which usually isn’t the end of the world since the lovely little kiosks at the airports are ready and willing to rip you off as soon as you set foot off the plane. After some scrutiny, we booked a room for two nights in Karon Beach, went outside for our taxi and headed out.

10:30 p.m.
Checking in, we were a little alarmed by the noise first, the smell second and the sheer concern for hygiene third. We agreed on the second room we saw and tried to settle in. It was needless to say, NOT a four, or three, or two star hotel. I won’t even go into it in DETAIL, but I will say this, they had the beds made “Euro-stye” which means there were no sheets on the bed. I called down for sheets knowing my body did not want immediate contact with that situation they claimed was a “bedspread,” and having no English speaking individuals at the entire hotel, I went downstairs to try to gesture our needs as best I could. They said that housekeeping was gone and we could not have sheets and that we would get some tomorrow. I’m very familiar with the runaround I get a lot over there, so I was firm and said I wanted sheets for our beds. He said no, and I asked to see another room. After 10 more minutes of negotiation, I was shown another room, where I proceeded to take the sheets off the beds and silently carry them to my room. I didn’t even flinch. I had had my fill. The Asian run around had NO more power over me. I had hit the wall.

9:00 a.m. (next day)
Attempting to check out of this “hotel” (which is a term I use quite loosely in this cat infested, unvaccumed floored shack of a building). We were told rather rudely that we pre-paid two nights and would not be allowed to check out. The rest of the story continues for the better part of the morning, into the afternoon, so I won’t go into it, but let me just say, it involves a trip to the Karon Beach Police Station. Needless to say, I eventually got my money back for one night as we checked out. The police were absolutely useless aside from the fact that they actually wore a uniform and carried a gun. AND, It wasn’t a TOTAL lie that got me out of another night in the meow motel, I DO actually know people at Lonely Planet !!!!

As I hopped on my rented motorbike and did my absolute best to stay on the right (wrong) side of the road, I thought to myself, well, it certainly could have been worse. I’ve had 24 hours of more challenge than I would have asked, but it without a doubt has provided some good memories. Heather and I are still laughing at that 24 hours. If only we had a cameraman following us. “What NOT to do in Southeast Asia.”

Exploring Phuket by moto was quite fun. I’ve never explored this part of Thailand this way and we thoroughly enjoyed it. We hit an orchid farm which grew the most beautiful orchids I’ve ever seen. We saw an abalone restaurant on the map and decided to venture out that direction which proved to be quite fun. I think most of the fun itself was just trying to stay on the right side of the road while trying to navigate the heavy traffic and cliffs on our left side. It was so much fun !! My parents would probably say otherwise ! My dad was at least pleased with my choice of helmet. I felt like an old man with a bowl haircut. One of my most memorable and fun days in the tropics.

So Koh Phi Phi ended up being fine. I missed the idea of Borneo for the first day, but I tried to soak in the idea of just lounging for a week. That took about 2 hours to take and I soon became a rather lazy individual. A typical day consisted of sleeping in, eating breakfast, reading and laying by the pool, hitting Ton Sai village during the heat of the day – where I would usually sit on the deck of D’s Books and email. We did some kayaking and I did a little climbing. Thai massage was usually factored in by the afternoon. Dinner, more reading and bedtime. Aaaah, vacation – sun, activity and lounging.