The only thing to worry about now was scheduling meals for all the comfort foods we’d been dearly missing. As much as we love and missed our family and friends, so many of our homecoming fantasies centered on the renewed availability of fresh, clean, American cuisine. We had a timeline all planned out and immediately got to checking things off on Thanksgiving the next day. Mmmm. Home for the holidays.

As we cool things down from constant traveling and ramp things up on the job trail, we’re taking this time to reflect and reconnect with friends. We’re really glad to have met up with many of you already. Ann Arbor keeps calling us back, so we have been taking any excuse to get down there. The annual Friars concert brought us in to give Nick and Julie a proper, sorely belated cheers on their 21st birthdays. And Katie’s family helped us make sure Zingerman’s sandwiches still taste as marvelous as they are expensive. South campus is almost completely unrecognizable from our tenure; the last time we were in the Big House was over two years ago, so seeing its transformation from modest steel to massive brick was striking.

But mostly we’ve spent a lot of time at home, alternately relaxing and stressing over the uncertainty of our future. For so long we worked off an itinerary—or at least a flight schedule—that the open-endedness now facing us feels a little foreign. But wherever it takes us next, we’re excited to begin the next chapter of Our Blue Life.

Also, you may have noticed the website is a little revamped. (I apologize if there are any glitches; it looks best in Firefox.) There are a few improvements, like nice, high-quality photos that you can now comment on individually and an ostensibly better overall look and feel. I started the design from scratch back in Korea, and we’re re-launching the site now to coincide with one journey just completed and another just begun.

Just when we thought we’ve seen it all in the airport department, we’re hit with two of the world’s worst on the same flight. Leaving Kathmandu, we passed the ordinary X-ray security procedure—separated by gender of course; “his and hers” metal detectors, if you will—only to find they were manually screening every pocket of every bag for every passenger. Needless to say, this took a long time, but was no biggie for us since our flight was almost two hours delayed anyway. The worst, though, was lining up on the tarmac when our bags were thoroughly checked again before boarding. All this for a measly 30-minute flight.

Varanasi Airport turned out to be even worse. As the passengers from our large A320 jet lined up with their standard H1N1 forms, we were met with the full brunt of the Indian bureaucracy. Too cramped to properly queue, we had no less than five checkpoints to clear (along for a weak excuse for a baggage conveyor and customs inspection) in a space not much larger than my parents’ living room. The new terminal under construction next door is sorely needed, but it looks like they’re using red tape instead of concrete.

Varanasi बनारस

Once we did finally get to Varanasi, there was no denying we had arrived in India. With bicycles cruising all around, cows roaming the streets, and the alternating smells of curry and sewage in the air, we had made it to the country where two ancient religions were born and to the city where its people come to die. Early the next morning, as we were paddled down the holy Ganges river, we saw hundred crowd its banks to pray, bathe, dump garbage, do laundry, and cremate their relatives. If this water was indeed purifying, it could only be in the spiritual sense—your couldn’t pay me to swim there, let alone drink a glass of the stuff.

It was particularly chilling to see bones and larger bits of human remains bobbing in our wake, silhouetted against the sunrise. Before coming here, I imagined something more akin to scattering ashes at sea than the waterlogged human barbecue that left us feeling a little sick. Thank Brahma for that sunrise, then, because only something that beautiful could keep our minds and stomachs at ease. The warm glow slowly bathed the long line of ghats as people crowded their massive front steps for a dip and boatloads of spectators floated by under power of men whose size clearly belies their strength. Drifting along, we found each ghat clearly distinct in its color and style, but all had people who impressed us with the intensity of their devotion. From skinny young children to skinny old men, everyone prayed and bathed with a deep spiritual intensity that made you both remember and forget what lied beneath the surface.

Khajuraho खजुराहो

Escaping the crowds, touts, and chaos of Varanasi was a welcome change in Khajuraho. It’s a small village in population and in size, which allowed us to wander freely amidst its eleventh-century Hindu temples. Here, it’s clear where the Khmers got their inspiration for Angkor. But while they went all out in terms of size, the Indians put into their carved decorations a level of detail that goes way beyond anything else we’ve seen. Although it was a bit odd to see the kamasutra laid out in such explicit relief all over these holy buildings. Somehow, we couldn’t picture the same on a Catholic church.

After an excellent all-you-can-eat thali—Indian cuisine is giving Chinese a run for its money—we befriended a couple schoolboys who showed us around town for a bit in exchange for a little language practice. As far as we’ve traveled, we’re still surprised at the level of English people can pick up just by chit-chatting with tourists, so we were glad to hold up our end of the deal.

Orchha ओरछा

We didn’t want to pony up for a taxi, so we took a public bus North to Orchha and almost missed our stop trying to get our bags out and off, the thing was so crowded with passengers and cargo. We had enough time to take in a couple Mahals and get a bird’s-eye view of a huge temple with a serious avian infestation. It had your standard pigeons, of course, plus an owl of two, but also dozens of bright green parrots and a handful of real, live vultures. The key-keeper was happy to show us around for a few rupees, and to throw rocks to get those big birds to fly. Though he had good posture, he kind of reminded me of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, opening locks and beckoning us ever higher (“C’mon! This way!”) in his own little cathedral.

Jaipur जयपुर and Pushkar पुष्कर

Jaipur may be known as the pink city, but to us it seemed a little more like burnt sienna. Getting there gave us our first glimpse of India’s rail network, and we found it pretty nice in our cushy 3-tier air-conditioned carriage. But given the speed of these trains—more tortoise than hare—and the distance they cover, we couldn’t imagine spending twenty hours or more back on the second-class hard seats. Gratefully, we arrived less than two hours behind schedule, which is pretty good from what we’ve heard.

Unfortunately, our arrival coincided with a minor weather system to our South, which dampened our visit for a couple days, but not before we were about to get out and see a couple palaces, at least. Katie also came to the marvelous realization that anise seeds, coupled with rock sugar, have a taste exactly like her favorite Good ‘N Plenty. And ever since, she’s been unusually excited after meals when they bring out trays of the green stuff and a small spoon which may or may not have ever been washed.

Further into Rajasthan, we paid visit to Pushkar, home to a beautiful and formerly wet lake. Recent years of drought have left the lakebed completely dry, save for the ghats’ holy (hose-fed) ponds. That hasn’t deterred visitors, though, who come to Pushkar seeking a little enlightenment in its temples and lax marijuana laws. For a nominal fee, a brahmin was happy to lead us through the ritual prayers that were supped to give us good luck and fortune in the future.

Given what happened in the next few hours, we want our money back.

Chengdu

14237But before arriving in Tibet, we had to stop in Chengdu to pick up the necessary paperwork for our flight. Our day spent there can be pretty much summed up as follows: pandas, pandas, Sofitel, pandas.

Lhasa region

13629The Chinese government requires all foreign travelers in Tibet to be part of a tour group, even if that group has only one member. Ours had three and came with a driver and guide to show us the way (and handle the endless paperwork, required for every place we visited).

Our first several days in Tibet can be best described as a monastery-a-thon that got us up to speed on Tibetan buddhism. The temples here could not be more different from those we saw in Southeast Asia; the only thing they have in common is a reverence for Buddha himself. The Tibetans have taken that concept and applied it to the hundreds of lamas, kings, protector demons, and “other” buddhas to make their chapels incomparable with those elsewhere. Marco Polo—in his 13th-century wisdom—called these people “idolators”, and we can almost see why. Each monastery is adorned with thousands of statues, murals, and paintings to which pilgrims offer alms of money, grain, and especially yak butter in hopes of good fortune. The yak butter candles, mixed with incense, create a unique smell we won’t soon forget.

In many ways, yak butter is is the Tibetan’s all-purpose duct tape; It can be purchased anywhere (and in bulk) at all hours of the day, serving as a source of food, fuel, and spiritual devotion, as well as an industrial building material. Okay, so maybe nobody eats or worships with duct tape, which just means yak butter is even more versatile. Before concrete, the traditional way of leveling and sealing Tibetan floors was (and in some places, still is) a rhythmic dance of pounding sand and gravel flat while singing together with a dozen others. Yak butter is the secret ingredient: they pile on 6 inches of the stuff and let it soak in for the final seal. To this day, rookie monks are hard at work maintaining theses floors, which ironically involves scraping off drips of yak butter left behind by pilgrims, who move quickly from one image to the next with their thermoses of the melted good stuff.

In the chapels, one image notably absent is any of the current, 14th Dalai Lama. In His Holiness’ place on thrones and in shrines is a painting of Compassion Buddha, of whom the Tibetans believe he is a manifestation. We frequently felt grateful and guilty to have seen him speak in person on campus a couple years ago, while these devout people have been waiting 40 years to hear what he has to say. With this prohibition, countless security cameras, and—reportedly—spies dressed as pilgrims, it’s clear the government is still keeping a close watch on the Tibetans. Our guide, though, was willing to discuss politics with us in the safety of our Land Cruiser and shared how several of his friends have been imprisoned for even the appearance of protest.

The Friendship Highway

13857As we broke out of the Lhasa region and into the Himalayas, we had a lot of time on the open road, and were often thankful to be equipped with such a large SUV given the condition of some mountain passes. If there’s one place in the world where such a vehicle is appropriate it is here, and almost every truck we saw was the same make and model. I would wager that Toyota sells more Land Cruisers here than even in America. In Tibet, it seems, you have two choices: Land Cruiser or pony-cart.

Given the altitude, we were expecting a few more snow-capped peaks, but unlike on the Karakoram Highway, here you really do drive over the mountains. At first, altitude sickness was less of a problem than the surprising difficulty of even the simplest physical feats like walking up half a flight of stairs. Climbing onto the roofs of monasteries and up hills on the high mountain passes left us breathless in more ways than one.

Until day 8, when we broke 5000 m (about 16,400 ft), and Sandra—the Swedish third member of our group—succumbed to a nasty bout of altitude sickness. Dizzy, vomiting, and miserable, she had to be taken down to the Nepali border in the dead of night. That morning, she was completely fine and we were all convinced that Acute Mountain Sickness was a psychological problem, but by that afternoon we were pulling over frequently and it was clear Sandra wasn’t going to make it any higher. Our guide and driver rushed her to the nearest hospital (which wasn’t exactly around the corner), and after consulting with doctors and her family in Sweden, they decided to put her on oxygen and get her down as quickly as possible. We waited the next day for news of her condition, agonizing over every stomach grumble or twinge of headache and worrying if we ourselves would be able to continue on to Everest Base Camp the following day.

Everest

14127Any nerves we had about climbing higher were immediately erase when we caught our first glimpse of Qomolangma—the highest point on Earth—early the next morning. Swerving up and over one more mountain pass, suddenly we had five of the world’s tallest peaks staring us in the face, all over 8000 m in height, covered in ice, and glistening in the morning sun. It’s a good thing we had a fresh memory card, because our camera’s shutter button was down almost continuously over the next several hours. At 5200 m, we didn’t think our lungs had any more air to give, but that view honestly took our breath away.

Our driver earned his dues on the “road” leading to the foot of Everest, but we decided to hike the last several kilometers from Rongbuk Monastery up to Base Camp. We didn’t know what to expect when we got there; part of me envisioned it like a ski lodge with hot chocolate and marshmallows, and part of me thought it would be a tourist trap with tons of postcard vendors and souvenir stalls. Both parts were dead wrong. Gasping for air—this high, the air pressure is barely half that of sea level— we discovered that Base Camp wasn’t much of a camp at all; the place was completely deserted, in fact, and dead silent save for the flapping of prayer flags in the wind. In late spring, the area is packed with tents as climbers—and their guides and cooks and doctors and Sherpas and yaks and yak tenders—make ready to mount an expedition. By Halloween, no one was around to appreciate the landscape except the government officers ensuring our papers were in order and checking our sleeves for Tibetan flags. If not for the wind and the cold, we could have stood there all day, gazing in awe of the most fierce place on Earth.

In many ways, everything was downhill from there. As we eased down the Himalayan valleys towards the Nepali border, the ice melted and tress sprung up again. The air got thicker and, reinvigorated, we felt maybe strong enough to run a marathon and definitely ready for our home stretch on the Indian subcontinent.

Yangshuo 阳朔县

12985Having already seen Shanghai and Beijing, this time around we started in the more rural Yangshuo are, which is famous for its natural beauty. The innumerable limestone karsts here have featured prominently in Chinese art for millennia, and we found the foggy landscape along the Li river breathtaking at every turn. Before starting our lazy river cruise we did have one more bus-related incident, although this one was more about saving face than saving skin. Road workers—seeing perfectly well that our bus was passing—decided to dump a huge pile of boulders directly in our path, which led to about 45 minutes of angry Mandarin yelling and most of the passengers choosing to walk the last several kilometers. Finally, reason prevailed and they allowed the bus and lots of backed-up traffic to pass.

Most of our travels find us climbing something, and Yangshuo was no exception. Near our hotel, on of the karsts had formed a natural arch the locals call Yuèliàng Shān (月亮山) or Moon Hill. What’s another 1300 steps between friends? We hadn’t had our fill of cycling yet, either, so the following day we embarked on what would become our second, even more epic inadvertent ride of this trip. Our goal was to head downriver to the small town of Fuli, where Chinese fans are hand-painted the old fashioned way and exported to the world. We did finally make it there, but only after uncountably many wrong turns and bad directions along the way. What’s more, we only had about an hour of daylight left for the ride back (it had taken us nearly seven to get there). With renewed resolve and endurance we didn’t know we had, we made good time over the last 25 kilometers despite only the occasional headlight to guide us towards the end. Once again, the sights en route were worth the pain, as we got a real glimpse into rural Chinese life—a view of this country invisible from Beijing and Shanghai.

Xian 西安

13123Our next stop was the central-Chinese city of Xian, which was once the imperial capital, but is today the thoroughly modern, third-largest metropolis in China. But what brought us here (and thousands more) was the famous army of terracotta warriors, dating back to the third century B.C. and one eternally paranoid First Emperor. The Discovery Channel had taught us that each soldier was unique—down to the tread of their shoes—and on site we learned that the army provides a study of ancient military tactics. This crazy Qin Shi Huang even had terracotta reserve forces on hand for when the front lines went down in the ethereal fracas. Historians were not kind to this guy, so the most grandiose tomb outside Giza went completely unknown until some peasants decided to dig a well in 1974. I’m not sure where archaeology fit in with Mao’s Great Leap Forward…

The city of Xian itself provided a few interesting experiences, including a chance bus ride with a very eager Chinese man who filled us in on his life story and career plans in America. We weren’t sure of his motives at first—traveling has made us cynical—but it was interesting listening to how he chose a second child over his government job and had taken a young American under his wing in exchange for help learning English. Th the last stop, we finally got a word in to say goodbye and wish him luck on his five-point plan for making it in America.

Xian also boasts a vibrant community of muslim Chinese (the Hui), including on of the biggest mosques in China. We had a great time eating our way through the city’s muslim quarter, gorging on all sorts of breads, soups, noodles, pastries, and candies. We had to roll ourselves out of there, but it was cool to see a totally different side of Han China.

Phnom Penh

11393History has not been kind to Cambodia. At the height of the French Colonial Period, Phnom Penh enjoyed its status as the ‘Pearl of Asia’ and around 500,000 people called the capitol city home. During the civil war in the 1970s, the population soared to over 2 million. But, in April 1975 when the Khmer Rouge took power, that number was reduced to none. The city became a ghost town as all its inhabitants were either murdered or forced into labour camps around the country. Today, however, the city is infused with the excitement of a whole generation born after year zero. The boulevards of Phnom Penh are broad and smooth, palaces and monuments gleam with fresh gold paint, shops are open and business is booming. In the evenings, public spaces pulse with music as throngs of people, young and old, dance to Thai pop, disco and the macarena and sidewalk restaurants are packed with laughing patrons, sitting in red plastic chairs, drinking Angkor beer by the barrel.

But the new energy of Phnom Penh belies a bloody history that is always just beneath the surface. Those years are written on the curved backs and lined faces of the elderly khmer. Bullet holes still decorate some buildings and every tuk tuk driver, who makes a living carting tourists to the security prisons and killing fields of the khmer rouge, can tell you stories about how his family survived the dark period—or didn’t—if only you would ask.

Kep and Kampot

11563In the South, we found a little escape in the abandoned French resort town of Kep, itself still slowly rebuilding. They don’t ship in white sand any more, but we did find paradise in a rustic, private hillside bungalow with only the lizards to keep us company (and the bugs at bay). We felt like the only foreigners in town, and enjoyed a nice day on a mostly deserted beach on nearby Rabbit Island, until the weather reminded us why most people plan their visits for the winter dry season.

The next day we were feeling adventurous so we rented a motorbike with a $5 deposit and a lie. Sure, we know how to drive a motorbike. Who doesn’t? We had an awesome day riding the 48km to and from Kampot and somehow made it back mostly in one piece. The only mishap happened when Katie got off the bike on the wrong side and ended up with a pretty bad burn on her leg from the exhaust pipe. Perhaps that was a warning shot.

After a few days of peace and quiet, it was time to flag down the bus back to Phnom Penh. High off the white knuckle thrill of not killing ourselves on the motorcycle, we should have expected the winds to change.

The crash

11811As with any developing country, there are certain things Cambodia lacks, and among them are quality roads and experienced bus drivers. One minute, we were enjoying the beautiful scenery, and the next we were upside down with our faces in the mud, a surge of adrenaline telling us to get the hell out in case the vehicle explodes. The bus had swerved right, then skidded left, and—despite our mental pleas—rolled over and slid a few hundred feet with its wheels in the air and roof in the ditch on the wrong side the road. Being inside was like something from a movie; I only remember looking down the aisle as the world turned around us, grabbing the armrest as firmly as possible, and wondering if and when it was all going to stop.

Apparently someone was looking out for us, as we and the rest of the passengers made it out mostly unharmed, including the small children sitting in front of us. The whole thing is even more amazing when you consider that nobody was using a seat belt, and the bus had only just missed hitting a line of trees head-on. The first few minutes of the aftermath were a frenzy of checking for injuries, searching for luggage, and trying to stay calm as we figured out how to proceed. My immediate instinct was to find the driver and punch him square in the face, but he was smartly out of sight. We have no doubt that if he had taken even a little caution in driving around the curves of that slippery, barely one-lane road we wouldn’t be still, weeks later, terrified of moving over 25 miles per hour.

The bus company (G.S.T. Express) told us the next day that if the driver wanted to “try again,” he could get back behind the wheel immediately; no extra training, safety notice, or public acknowledgment of any kind was forthcoming. Game Over: try again? We basically had to strong arm them into giving back the money we paid for our tickets and they seemed bewildered and annoyed that we would even ask about it. Their handling of our complaint, and the casual attitude of the other passengers—all Khmer—speak to the reality of living in the developing world: accidents like this are just a part of life in Cambodia. And it’s really no surprise, when we see vans piled with dozens of people inside and on top flying down terrible dirt roads at autobahn speeds. Our bus may have flipped, but we had it easy compared to what many people here face in their daily commutes. Get over it, white guy.

Battambang

11829Given our most recent experiences with local methods of transportation, we were quite pleased with our decision to shell out for a private car to take us to Battambang. We could and did ask the driver many times if he would kindly slow the f— down.

In Battambang (Cambodia’s second largest city), we spent a full day shaking off our recent misadventures. We visited some of the local Wats and pre-Angkorian ruins, wandered around rural backroads, met a few families who sold us yummy bamboo-cooked sticky rice and taught us how to wrap banana leaves, and befriended a couple of kids/temple guards who chatted happily with us and then tried to extort us for money.

Back in town, feeling like our luck had changed, we stopped in at the market as the vendors began closing down their stalls and made plans for dinner. After a good day in a new city we really felt much better about ourselves and the world. That is, until I fell into a hole a meter deep and sprained my ankle. C’est la vie.

Siem Reap and Angkor

11981Using my broomstick cane, it was a little difficult getting on and off the boat that took us across the Tonle Sap to Siem Reap. It’s the biggest lake in Southeast Asia and by the end of the rainy season it had tripled in size, engulfing much of the surrounding countryside. It was a bit odd keeping a lookout for errant branches as we passed full-size trees in their swim trunks ( sorry).

We couldn’t wait to see the ruins at Angkor—one of the most popular sights on the subcontinent—but first we had to stop at the nearest hospital for a quick X-ray. The Aussie in the bed next to mine had the same problem, so all we had to do was point and say “Same, Same” and we were out of there lickity-split. There must be some kind of sidewalk curse on this country, eh? I left with crutches and an ankle brace which made climbing on the crumbled temples difficult over the next few days, but thankfully we had a great place to stay in town.

A young guy named Sony runs the Golden Mango Inn, and to anyone reaching this blog from a Google search, we can’t recommend it highly enough. Sony is one of a few business owners we met on this trip who didn’t see us as walking dollar signs, and genuinely did his best to help make us comfortable. He not only advised and arranged drivers and guides for us, he personally drove us to the hospital when we arrived, free of charge (!). He mentioned on more than one occasion how seeing us together made him miss his girlfriend in Singapore and he frequently asked us how to improve his business, which stumped us since this place would have been a bargain at twice the price. I guess that’s where his crocodile breeding business on the side—or, more accurately, in the back—comes into play. (Seriously, he raises crocodiles in the backyard.) Too bad our airfare was nonrefundable, or we would have stayed another week or twelve.

Believe it or not, we didn’t just come to Siem Reap for the lovely hotel. Siem Reap is the base from which visitors explore the many temples of Angkor. We had four days to cover it all, but we probably could have spent a year and not seen everything there is to see. The star of the show is, of course, Angkor Wat, and as the largest religious building in the world it is impressive. But we were much more taken with some of the smaller, quieter, and less visited temples. Among our favorites were Pre Rup, Preah Khan and Ta Som.

Pre Rup was built in the same style as Angkor Wat, although it is actually much older. From afar, Pre Rup was underwhelming and sad; the temple is slowly wearing away with age, and it looked almost as if its ancient towers were melting in the intense afternoon heat. But as we got closer, the temple began to work its strange magic on us and as the sun sank low over the flooded plains of Angkor, we climbed the vertical stairs and felt the ominous and imposing regality of this place.

Preah Khan and Ta Som are two small temples losing the fight against time and gravity, the battle between nature and architecture. Like the more popular “Tomb Raider” temple, Ta Prohm, they are truly beautiful ruins, with massive strangler trees entwining themselves around piles of ancient sandstone blocks. The imagination runs wild in these haunted temples; they play tricks on the mind, and for a few hours we lost ourselves within the maze of narrow corridors while the mischievous faces of Apsara looked on.

Walking/hobbling over the aging temples of Angkor was a once in a lifetime experience; we are blessed to have seen them inside and out, but we couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for contributing to their deterioration. Clearly, tourism brings in a lot of money to help with preservation, but the tourists themselves can sometimes cause more harm than good. Nature and war are enough to contend with for these ruins without busloads of tour groups adding to the strain. We did our best to tread lightly (I, for one, only walked on one foot), but we wonder how this place will hold up in the years to come.

Hoi An

11185Stepping onto the tarmac in Da Nang, we we greeted by a light drizzle and the smallest airport we have ever seen. Over time, the drops got bigger and heavier, turning from benign mist into torrential downpour by the afternoon. So with no faith in the weather, we sought out indoor activities by signing up for a cooking class and spending some time hunkered down in our creaky, leaky attic room in a traditional Chinese guesthouse.

To our surprise, we awoke the next morning to bright sunshine and blue skies. Walking down to the river, we were shocked to see just how much it had rained the day before. The river was overflowing onto the streets as shopkeepers and restaurant owners frantically bailed the water out of their businesses. We’ve never seen anything quite like it, but it is the rainy season after all.

Vietnamese cooking class was fun. Since we were the only two people who had signed up for the course that day, we got a lot of hands on help from the chefs—which was great because had no idea what we were doing. First, they took us on a tour of the local market to buy what we needed for our dishes and to learn a few things about fresh produce. We picked up a few good tips on what to look for when picking lemongrass (slightly pink on bottom), avocados (listen for the pit), fish (check the eyes), and limes (lighter and harder beat greener and softer). Also, we discovered it’s best to pass on the saltwater lemonade.

After purchasing what we needed from the market we went back to the restaurant where they had everything laid out for us. From the menu, we had decided on four dishes:

• baked stuffed tomatoes, featuring a puree of pork, shrimp, mushrooms, Vietnamese herbs and spices
• grilled chicken with saffron and lemon leaf
• spicy grilled pork with lemongrass
• rice pasta rolls filled with crunchy fresh vegetables

By far my favorite dish was the rice pasta; it was delicious and the most fun to make. We barely made the cut when slicing the veggies, but did a little better making the rice pasta (which is like thin rice paper, but still moist). The idea is to ladle a dollop of milky rice flour mix onto a piece of fabric pulled taut over a steaming cauldron, cover for a few moments while it solidifies thinner than paper, then carefully peel it off and roll it up with veggies. It takes a lot of patience and a great deal of finesse to get just right—and experts we are not—but the results turned out pretty nice.

The last part of our cooking class involved sitting down to eat our hard work while everyone else cleaned up after us. But we didn’t just get a good meal and an education, they sent us home with a certificate and a goody bag full of spices and rice paper so that we can do it all again at home. Whether we will be able to replicate the results is another question.

With the sun still shining and the water back at a normal level, we decided to take advantage of the weather and hit the beach, where we spent a few hours with our toes in the white sand against a backdrop of swaying palm trees. It was beautiful, right up until the storm clouds rolled back in and we were left to scramble for cover—riding our motorbikes through the rain back into town hoping not to wipeout on the way.

The next morning we wandered around Hoi An before catching a taxi to the airport. It was a lovely city, but we were ready for drier climes.

Saigon

11085Ho Chi Minh City—née Saigon—is doomed to an eternity of comparisons with Hanoi. For us, Saigon was just as noisy, smelly, and chaotic as its counterpart in the North, but it lacked the particular old-world charms that made Hanoi worth all the trouble. There’s no doubt, though, the city is steeped in 20th century history.

We had caught glimpses and whispers of the war with America in Hanoi and Da Nang (where the first US invasions landed), but for the most part up North it felt almost as if the war had never happened. Indeed, the entire justification for fighting is all but a distant memory with Vietnam seeming to embrace capitalism even more wholeheartedly than China or even Korea. Walking around, we saw a lot of hammer-and-sicle flags along with propaganda posters galore, but those remain just about the only signs of this country’s communist past.

Saigon finally brought us face-to-face with our countries’ problematic history. We visited the “Reunification Palace” where the South put up its last stand, and eventually made our way to the enlightening, infuriating, and heartbreaking War Remnants Museum. Aside from its myriad collection of captured American military equipment, the museum houses several exhibits on the atrocities committed during battle and the aftermath of war. The United States used a number of regrettable tactics in Southeast Asia, including Agent Orange, Napalm, and carpet bombings and seeing the consequences of these both in Vietnam and at home was gut wrenching. But what was equally disturbing for us was the irony inherent in the exhibits about American protests. Here is the Vietnamese government lavishing high praise on American citizens for something it would never let its own people do: stand up to the government in protest.

Chau Doc

10997To begin the final leg of our two-week trek through Vietnam, we found ourselves on a hot, crowded six hour bus ride to the upper delta region of Chau Doc. We had a full day before catching our boat to Phnom Penh and while there isn’t much to see in town, we wanted a chance to observe life on the river so we rented a pair of bikes and rode nearly 50 km around Sam mountain and the fields outside the city. Besides unintentionally completing Stage 12 of the Tour de France, we got a real glimpse into the lives of the rural Vietnamese as we passed by.

We were particularly amazed by the houses people had built for themselves along the river and in the rice paddies. They seemed to be held up by little more than hope and hard work. Even more amazing was how friendly everybody was. It wasn’t that people in Northern Vietnam were unwelcoming or abrasive, it’s just that their greetings were generally followed by a sales pitch. The people in Chau Doc, however, seemed genuinely warm with no other agenda—which could be because these people have nothing much to sell us anyway and so they offer the only thing they can: a smile and a robust “hello”. Although an elderly woman held up her infant grandchild and I am pretty sure she was offering him to us as a gift. The kids were especially excited and friendly. They would run after us with huge grins, jumping up and down and seemingly putting every muscle into their “hellos!!!” and “whatsyournames?”. At one point, we were nearly abducted by a gang of sassy five-year-olds laughing and pulling at our arms. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, really. It is just so rare to feel welcome in a place because you are a stranger.

Chau Doc was an unexpected and pleasant surprise for us and it was a nice ending to our time in Vietnam. But after two weeks in the country we were ready for a change and so we packed our malaria pills and boarded a boat headed up the Tonle Bassac to our next destination: Cambodia.

A weekend after spending our anniversary in Pusan, we headed into the city to see what baseball is all about here in Korea. The game itself was pretty familiar, but the ballpark experience was wholly different.

First off, there was not a hot dog to be seen, since people generally pack their own snacks or buy some at the convenience stores (think 7-11) on the concourse. We saw a lot of families, some with blankets and pizza boxes to suggest this could be the place for a sort of urban-style picnic in a city with no grass.

It turns out Jamsil Stadium was originally constructed for the 1988 Olympics, and is now shared by the LG Twins and the Doosan Bears, two of the eight corporate-branded teams comprising the KBO. We saw the Twins take on their Incheon-based rivals, the SK Wyverns, in a battle over who would get my next Korean cellphone contract.

We had the hardest time finding our seats since the sections weren’t really marked, but once we did, it was clear we were in the heart of the LG fan zone. Everybody had thundersticks (which Wikipedia tells me are a Korean invention) and there were coordinated cheers on a scale I’ve never seen at a baseball game. Each player had an accompanying chant or song with his name worked into it, with fans young and old yelling before each pitch. We thought this enthusiasm would wane over time, especially once the home team fell behind, but the Twins have some persistent fans (though not quite as disciplined as their relatives up North).

It was a fun time, and we’re definitely glad we went, especially when LG pulled ahead 3-2 in the bottom of the eighth after trailing almost the whole game. The crowd went nuts, of course, and I can still hear the cheers for their closing pitcher ringing in my head long after that clinching strikeout.

Watch this in HD.

We had a long weekend for Buddha’s Birthday and Children’s Day at the beginning of May, so we took took the opportunity to escape—dare I say, defect—to Beijing. The more time we spend in China, the more we love it, and our five days there were perfect with great food, spectacular sights, and wonderful company.

While my parents took a quick jaunt to Shanghai, we brought Nick back to Korea to hang out in our neighborhood for a couple days. He got to see our school and meet some of the students, and when Mom and Dad were done with China we met in Seoul to spend their final days in Asia relaxing and introducing them to our favorite haunts.

We all had a great 10 days together, and Nick was able to stay on here for another week, which gave him the inside scoop on our life here in Korea. After all the wining and dining, I bet he left wondering what we ever complained about, but I’m sure he’s happy to be sleeping on a proper mattress again.

Here are the best shots from Beijing, as well as some from Seoul so far this spring (there are a couple videos forthcoming):
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Nobody would be caught dead listening to “Nobody” these days, and despite its supreme reign for months, the song has all but disappeared from public consciousness. Here’s a taste of the new black, starting with Super Junior, the 13-boy megagroup we mentioned before:

Yes, all those guys are absolutely necessary. And let’s not forget the latest super-hit from 9-member Girls’ Generation who seem obsessed with the 50s-era meme “Gee”:

That’s been all over the place the last month or so. Which leaves us with the last, most ungrammatical-est, and bane of our existence:

That’s no joke, they’re actually saying “If you wanna pretty, every wanna pretty.” Our best guess is that “pretty” is used here as a hybrid noun/verb/article. Man, we hate that song so much; it’s possibly the most annoying tune we’ve ever heard. And it plays at least four times an hour everywhere we go.

So that’s the latest here in Korea. It’s become clear to us how much our time has been marked by the rise and fall of these songs. Thinking back, “One More Time” seems like, so 8 months ago.

It looks good on the surface, but the government’s “Friendly Digital Korea” initiative which helps foreign residents gain access to Korean members-only websites is really just lipstick on a pig. The only reason a change is necessary is that users of major websites in Korea are required to register using their full names and verified government identification numbers. Just think if you wanted to sign up for an email account and were prompted for your actual Social Security Number—no way!

I can sleep easier now knowing I can use my foreign registration to sign up for Naver and have the cops show up at my door when I search for things like “Bodo League massacre” and “how to defect to North Korea”.

Unfortunately, it looks as if the regulators are even getting at Google and YouTube, with Google Korea announcing that South Korea “is the first country worldwide for which Google will be collecting real-name information that can be used to identify individuals.” They don’t even do this in China, so that’s saying something.

I guess the only upside is that maybe we can track down and stop the next star wars kid before he makes a fool of himself with over 12 million views and counting.