Chic Adventurer

In Cleopatra's Wake

2012-02-24T18:38:00.004+09:00

For six days I had the luxurious experience of cruising the Nile River from Luxor to Aswan and back like so many royal Egyptians before me. I have always wanted to take a Nile cruise, to feel like Cleopatra languishing on the deck, drinking wine garnished with pearls and being fanned by my harem of handsome, scantily-clad attendants. Although I didn't get to drink a pearl, and the crew were fully clothed, I did get to loll about all day, watching the lush delta landscape pass me by. Remote villages, forgotten temples, a sporadic camel, and stunning sunsets were viewed from the deck of what I considered my very own barge, and for a few brief days I really did feel like royalty.

Karnak-ered

2012-02-23T18:50:00.004+09:00

I am standing in a massive hall - hypostyle, it's called - colossal pillars rising toward the heavens, each carved with exquisite hieroglyphics. Measuring in at 5,500 square meteres, this hall is filled with 134 pillars, each taking seven adults with arms fully extended to encircle it. This is the main hall of the Temple of Karnak in Luxor, Egypt. In it's heyday, the hall was covered, the pillars were vibrantly painted and three feet of water covered the ground, making the hall resemble a sacred papyrus swamp along the Nile. It would have been dark, it would have been mesmerizing, and it would have all been in honor of the gods. Even now with the crumbling stones, ancient graffiti and meretriciously dressed tourists, Karnak Temple retains an air of spendor and I marvel at it's vastness.
Built almost 3,500 years ago during the 18th to 20th dynasties, Karnak Temple was used as a means for the Pharaohs to display their wealth and power, and as an earthly location to commune with their myriad gods. Many Egyptian Pharaohs added to Karnak over the ensuing years, making it one of the largest temple complexes in Egypt. I feel very small, very insignificant and very humbled by this historic masterpiece. In summary, Karnak is very, very cool!

Walk Like an Egyptian

2012-02-17T20:40:00.007+09:00

The ram headed sphynxes lining the entrance to Karkak Temple in Luxor.

I felt that Egypt would be just like this, and yet nothing like this. The dusts of 1,000 mummies swirls in the air, clogging the noses of people and dogs and horses descended from ancient times. Looking at the squalor and desperation on people's faces, and the crumbling facades of the grotty buildings doesn't exactly inspire the power and ingenuity of the ancient Egyptian civilization, and I feel sorry for the modern day Egyptians I see begging on the streets for backsheesh, when steps away lie the proud ruins of their past, a sombre testament to the reality and inexorability of change.

I am thrilled to be in Egypt, surrounded by thousands of years of history. The ancient temples rife with heiroglyphics are stunning, particularly that of Karnak, which was so dazzling that it deserves it's own blog (coming soon). The Valley of the Kings was appropriately eerie, but one can only visit so many tombs before heiroglyphic overload sets in. And a Nile cruise for my birthday! That too will soon have it's own blog. We are in Aswan currently, an ancient stronghold of the Egyptians and home to the largest man made body of water in the world, Lake Nasser, but in a few days we will head to Cairo for the quintessential Egypt experience, the pyramids!

Modern day Egypt surrounds the Avenue of Sphynxes leading from Karnak Temple to Luxor Temple.

Where am I?

2012-02-10T02:20:00.003+09:00

I may be in Morocco surrounded by cous cous, tagine and lamb, but the fact is that a restaurant down a dark alley in Marrakech has served up the best pasta I've ever had. Pepe Nero is it's name, and a tiny sign in the crowded Jemaa El Fna souk pointed hungry passersby down a dimply lit side street. After myriad twists and turns down alleys ever decreasing in size and light, we were finally pointed to an unmarked wooden door deep inside the medina walls. When we stepped inside, we were suddenly transported from a grimy alley to a sparkling tiled courtyard. A fountain filled with fiery rose petals tinkled into a rectangular pool, drawing the eye to the riad's (a riad is a traditional Moroccan home) lovely center. And this was merely the entry hall!

The fountain in the center of the restaurant created a mystical backdrop straight out of the Arabian Nights. Though the restaurant had a distinctly North African look, it served up Italian fare with relish. My quattro formaggi (four cheese) peparadelle was sheer pasta heaven, especially accompanied by a tart, dry Moroccan white wine. Followed by a complimentary selection of Moroccan pastries and a glass of champagne, Pepe Nero is my new favorite restaurant! Guess I'll just have to fly back to Marrakech now and again to eat there.

Morocco Moment

2012-01-30T23:03:00.005+09:00

The birds are atwitter and the bright Moroccan sun is doing it's best to penetrate my ghostly white skin as I bask on the rooftop of my riad in the medina of Marrakech. The exotic rapture of the place has long drawn my attention, and now that I've seen it for myself I want to throw caution to the wind, buy a riad and live a spicily scented, couscous filled bohemian lifestyle in North Africa. The sudden holler of the muezzin as he calls the faithful to prayer reverberates across the city suddenly slicing through my daydream, and I can feel the energy of travel and experiences yet to come coursing through my veins. A camel ride through the desert? Skiing in the snow-topped Atlas Mountains? A horse-drawn carriage ride through the lantern strewn medina after sunset? I'm really not sure yet, but that's exactly how I like it.

Jolly good, old chap!

2012-01-27T01:46:00.005+09:00

The England I like to imagine is a Jane Austen style place, where thatched roof cottages puff whimsical tendrils of smoke, silk and lace clad ladies take a turn in exquisitely manicured gardens and dashing, gentrified men like John Willoughby in "Sense and Sensibility" ride along the roads to sweep unsuspecting women off their daintily slippered feet. Sadly, I'm visiting England about 200 years too late to experience such things, but hey...a girl can dream! My reality in England for the past 10 days, though nothing like a Jane Austen novel, has involved exploring the English countryside, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the many quaint buildings I pass, ambling through the ancient city of Norwich, eating massive amounts of Kit Kats (British Kit Kats are divine!) and trolling the many Boots stores for beauty products not found in America. Surely, had Elizabeth Bennet been alive today (and had she been a real person), she would have happily joined me for a pint of cider and a day of shopping on the high street. Cheers to jolly old England!

Island Fever

2012-01-08T09:26:00.000+09:00

Korea in the winter is about as bleak as living in a room painted gray. The sky, the buildings and the landscape are devoid of color and seem to blend together into a somber, spectral mist. So, arriving in the Hawaiian Islands on New Year's Eve felt a bit like when Dorothy's tornado-stricken house suddenly lands in OZ, and where the movie switches from black and white to technicolor before your very eyes. Reds are fiery, blues are deep and all-encompassing and the greens glow to a verdant pitch that would put the Emerald City to shame. As I sit on golden sands with the turquoise and cerulean Pacific swirling and sparkling before me, my gray existence in Korea evaporates like a dream upon waking. Enter my technicolor existence.

What I'm Reading Now

2011-09-28T19:59:00.001+09:00

I won't use my blog as another avenue to get up on my soap box to maniacally praise my Kindle, but I will reiterate here how much I love it. It ceases to amaze me that I can purchase and download a book in mere seconds, and begin reading said book in less than a minute - all the way over in Korea no less. Thank you Kindle inventors!

Eat, Pray, Love and Committed
By Elizabeth Gilbert
This woman is one of my favorite authors because she reminds me of me. Page after delightful page, her words ring true in my ears, constantly causing my internal dialogue to shout, "I feel the same way! I understand! You are so right!" Maybe it's because my life recently has mirrored hers (a writer goes through a painful divorce, then travels the world in a desperate attempt to find herself) or perhaps due to the fact that I love her inexorably clever turns of phrase, but Gilbert's personal search (and research) for happiness and balance in her life never fails to inspire me. (Trust me, I've read Eat, Pray, Love about five times!)

Peace on Earth

2011-08-09T13:30:00.003+09:00

The atrocities that were released onto Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 were absolutely unforgettable—nor should the day ever be forgotten. Hiroshima and her people endured incalculable tragedy, yet the city has emerged with great fortitude. A visit to the atomic bomb museum at the Peace Park in Hiroshima gave me a depth of understanding that though not necessarily sought out, offered a broader understanding of the world and how it came to be. Living in South Korea under the incessant threat of nuclear war from the North, I gleaned a keener understanding of the disastrous effects of nuclear war. The museum, though possibly difficult to stomach for some, is a detailed look at a single moment in time. That moment being 8:15 a.m. on August 6, 1945. Visitors will learn everything from why the U.S. government ultimately decided on Hiroshima as its target, to why so many school age children perished in the attack, their sole remainder a tattered hat or camisole. Stories if survivors chilled me to the bone. One boy's fingernails melted from his hands from the intense heat of the fireball, and overcome with an insatiable thirst, he sucked the puss from his gaping flesh. Tales of countless people struggling to overcome the devastation is an intense tug at the heartstrings.

The world should never forget the devastation wreaked on Hiroshima during World War II. All we can do now is learn from it and use the experience toward creating a future filled with peace and understanding.

Baseball—Japan Style

2011-08-06T12:10:00.003+09:00

Though I am a die hard San Francisco fan (Go Giants!), I can enjoy America's pastime anywhere I can get it, and in this case, it happened to be in Fukuoka Japan. Japan has had baseball fever for over 80 years now, and currently 12 teams play in the Nippon Professional Baseball League.

The Yahoo! Dome in Fukuoka houses the Softbank Hawks as well as thousands of screaming Japanese fans from the rays of the tropical sun. After purchasing standing room only tickets, my boyfriend Steve and I proceeded into the massive structure. shouts and jeers accosted our ears, same as any U.S. baseball game. The only immediate difference was tha blatant lack of hot dogs—in my opinion, the most popular baseball snack of all time. But what the stadium lacked in terms of franks, it made up for in terms of bento boxes, the Japanese go to of all-occasion culinary delights.

Though we couldn't understand a word, the three strikes you're out, double play, home run excitement translated itself, and we were cheering with glee along with the rest of the Hawks fans. "Where are you from?," an elderly Japanese man asked. "I;m from England and she's from the U.S.," Steve said. The man smiled. "I'm from Japan," he stated, a glint in his weathered eyes. Our new friend bought us a snowcone, and though we could barely speak the same language, our mutual love of baseball allowed us to communicate.

Baseball may be considered America's pastime, but Japan may well give it a run for its money.

Japanese Journey

2011-08-05T13:57:00.002+09:00

Ever since I was 12 and artfully persuaded my mom to enroll me in twice-weekly Japanese classes, I have harbored a insatiable fascination with the Land of the Rising Sun. The tranquility of the tea gardens and the delicate beauty of a perfectly knotted kimono juxtaposed with the hypermodernity of Japanese technology and infrastructure are, in a word, intriguing, and I for one could not wait to get this particular stamp in my passport. Even though I didn't visit Tokyo, the most obvious of Japanese destinations, I still felt as though I have been dipped into a misama of Japanese culture—certainly not enough to quell my insatiable curiosity (another trip is definitely on the horizon), but enough to glean a subtle insight into the historically vast Japanese culture. Baseball in Fukuoka, the a-bomb Dome in Hiroshima and the tame deer of Miyojima are all part of my Japan contents page, and will shortly be gracing the e-pages of this blog. Stay tuned!

The Letter M

2011-07-06T23:57:00.003+09:00

Words can be massively sexy, particulrly when used with spellbinding accuracy. I have decided though, that my word addiction isn't quite as sexy as I may have hoped considering that I am one of the slightly eccentric people who ready the dictionary for pleasure.

I have long determined that my favorite words of all time begin with an L. Luminous, luxurious, lovely, langorous...I could wax rhapsodic for days. But upon flipping to the L's today in the Oxford English dictionary, I inadvertently stumbled onto the M's. I discovered that M is a marvelouse letter of its own, and there are myriad M words that I find simply magnificent!

Among my favorites: macabre, malevolent, maudlin, mercurial, moribund, malapropism, melifluous, mediocre, monotonous, multifarious, multifaceted, mustachioed. And the list goes on. What chapter of the dictionary will capture my fancy next? Stay tuned to find out.

Blood, sweat and tarsiers - Part 2

2011-07-05T09:06:00.004+09:00

Oh the tarsiers! Among the smallest primates in the world, catching a glimpse of these little darlings was at the top of my Philippines "to do" list. Bong, my trusty motorbike chaffeur, assures me that he will take me to the best tarsier viewing location money can buy—the Bohol Tarsier Sanctuary. It sounds so eco-chic, a pristine swathe of Philippine forest cum playground for the tiny tarsiers to while away the sultry afternoons, swilling miniature daquiris perhaps? We arrive at a roadside stand, with a large painted sign that reads "Tarsiers this way." Here we go! But once through the gate, there is simply a small pen of chicken wire with some scraggly trees containing a few bedraggled tarsiers, that cling precariously to the branches for dear life. Although the "sanctuary" is not as I had imagined, the tarsiers are even better. I can't help but squeal when I first see one. Tarsiers resemble a cross between ET, a gremlin and a very old man. Their giant, protruding eyes bulge eerily, but although they look like they are plotting evil schemes, tarsiers' eyes are larger than their brains so there is a good chance they are merely thinking of where to get their next meal or perhaps contemplating which tree to jump to next. I snap a few very careful pictures, because in my tarsier research I had read that should the puny primate feel threatened, it will commit suicide by repeatedly banging its head on a hard surface rather than live a life of pain and suffering in captivity. Poor little creatures! After getting my tarsier fix, I make a donation to the tarsier food fund, then purchas a few compulsory tarsier keychains for good measure. It wasn't the official sanctuary, I later came to find out, but at least I got to put a check on my "see tarsiers in the Phillipines" box.

Blood, sweat and tarsiers - Part 1

2011-07-01T12:00:00.010+09:00

The acrid smell of exhaust and unwashed hair mingle with the soupy air to create an aroma unlike any I have ever smelled. It could have been 1,000 tropical days in 1,000 tropical places, but it was here on the island of Bohol in the Philippines. Arriving at Alona Beach with friends via tricycle taxi, I set off alone to find further transportation to my hotel, supposedly 10 minutes out of town. "Take a motorbike," the woman in the restaurant advised me. I walked down the dusty path to the corner junction, nothing more than two dirt roads intersecting under a cluster of palms where a ragtag bunch of young Filipino men lounged, motorbikes parked at the ready to shuttle ambling travelers like myself. I walked up, and gave my business to the one who jumped up first, in my mind the most industrious. "How much to Linaw Beach Resort?" I asked. "50 pesos ma'am," the tubby, red eyed fellow replied. "The woman inside told me it should only be 20." I retorted, even though haggling in developing nations makes me feel an elitist and arrogant American. He looked bashful, knowing he couldn't win. "30 pesos," he said, and I agreed. I hopped on his bike and we sped away past dusty schoolchildren and skinny goats. 'I'm Bong," he introduced himself. "You know Robocop?" He told me his real name and it was something that sounded like 'Bongatron.' He said his mother had a fascination with the movie and named him after a character in it, but I have since googled it and to no avail. Maybe his poor mother was so delirious after he was born she was slightly confused. Or maybe I just misheard him. "You go to see tarsiers?" Bong asked, referring to the tiny primates with massive eyes for which Bohol is renowned. "I take you," he continued. "Normally 1,000, but for you my new friend, 800." It took me only a moment to agree, but not before a slight trepidation that I would be abducted and taken into the dense Philippine jungle, my body eaten by the interminable symphony of tropical insects, never to be recovered. The macabre thought passed and we agreed that he would pick me up at noon the following day.

After a leisurely morning munching croissants on the beach, I meandered to the front gate, wondering if my tour guide would indeed really appear. Bong was ready and waiting—apparently he took his job as a guide very seriously. As we buzzed across the island, he pointed out every sight of interest along the way. Clutching his Buddha belly for dear life and slightly wary of the fact that we had no helmets, I rode pillion from Panglao over to the lush island of Bohol to explore the oddly shaped and clustered topography known as the Chocolate Hills. Zooming through the enclaves of civilization, we would our way from the jeepney packed ocean highway up the mountain into dense jungle and countless rice paddies. The midday heat and humidity was extreme; beads of sweat forming from every pore, dripping down my calf in torrents from by bent knees and tickling my toes. In the Lilliputian towns, we pass such aptly named businesses as the No Virus Internet Cafe and Prime Gay Store, fine looking establishments all. Water buffalo plough the muddy terrain, while stooped Filipinos toil in the midday heat, pulling stalks of rice from the murky waters. A gray sky full of unshed tears begins to leak fat raindrops that splash against my sunglasses one by one. I am going to the Chocolate Hills, surreally ensconced in some kind of live action jungle version of Candyland.

Just when the feeling verges on otherworldly, and overcrowded jeepney honks from behind, passing us. "Pray without ceasing," a sticker on the back window instructs—probably a fabulous idea considering the way they drive around here! The Philippines is a very religious nation, with prayers said on the ferries before sailing and by airline pilots before flying. During lunch, Bong tells me how dangerous Manila is, a friend of his having been kidnapped for a trifling 30,000 pesos ransom. "Did her family get her back?" I asked over our traditional Filipino fare—glass coke bottles jutting colorful straws while flies flit around unidentifiable chunks of meat. "The big man did," Bong says, glancing heavenward. Amen. My ponderings over Philippine matters of faith are shattered as Bong makes a sharp turn to the right. "The Chocolate Hills," he proclaims with a grandiose sweep of his hand, as though he is Moses showing the Israelites their first glimpse of the promised land. I ooh and ahh in what seems the appropriate caliber of deferential reverence, because at first I see nothing of interest, just more jungle. But as the motorbike chugs higher up to a plateau affording a view of the surrounding area, I am impressed in earnest. Fantastic conical hills jut up sporadically across a wide swathe of Bohol's highlands, and yes—with some imagination and perhaps a slight cock of the head and squint of the eye—the hills slightly resemble gargantuan Hershey's Kisses. I obligatorily traipse to the top of the tourist lookout point, snap a few pictures, then continue back down to Bong so he can take me to the tarsier sanctuary—Bohol's other prime tourist attraction. The sky opens up in earnest, and Bong inquires to see if I am getting too doused, if I want to stop. "I'm ok if you're ok!" He laughs, revs the engine and we continue zooming along the slippery mountain road.

Daisy - In love!

2011-06-25T15:09:00.002+09:00

Is it verging on the inane to name one's bicycle? Not sure, but I prefer to think of it as whimsically creative. Since the sultry summer has arrived in Daugu, I decided that a bike would definitely be the coolest way to get around (both literally and figuratively) with the least amount of effort and therefore sweat. Call me vain, but I didn't want just any bike, I wanted it to be just so—cute and retro with a stylish flair thrown in for good measure. In short, I wanted one that would lend me an Audrey Hepburn pedaling through the streets of Paris with wine and a baguette poking out of the basket kind of bike. So when I clapped eyes on Daisy, a yellow and white old school style street cruiser, I knew she was for me. Her streamlined aesthetic and cheery marigold hue make me smile when I see her (she's a girl you know), and as I ride to school and back each day I feel that I exude a gamine chic that Audrey herself would be proud of.

Hello again from Korea!

2011-06-23T11:57:00.002+09:00

It has been entirely too long since I posted to Chic Adventurer, and I decided it was high time to begin again with dispatches from my new, jet-setting life. I have left my home in California to immerse myself in Asian culture, by way of teaching English in South Korea, while still maintaining my dream of freelance writing. So, what forms of chicness have I lately discovered? The fashionable streets of Seoul, the crescent beaches of Busan, the hot springs town of Wulai in Taiwan, and this weekend I will set off for a few days in the Philippines, once again in search of prime hammocks—my favorite—as anyone who read about my Southeast Asian adventure will know. So now that I'm back on the blogging bandwagon, you can expect a myriad of chic new discoveries on a weekly (maybe even daily!) basis.

Supersized Buddha

2009-08-26T01:53:00.001+09:00

The halcyon face of Buddha stares down at me placidly, while I blink unbelievingly back, unable to comprehend the immensity of the resplendant figure splayed before my eyes. I am standing in Wat Pho, aka Temple of the Reclining Buddha, both the oldest and largest temple in the city of Bangkok. The Buddha in question is gold plated, 150 feet long, 49 feet high and the mother of pearl decorations on the statue's feet display the 108 characteristics that represent the true Buddha. The statue truly is dazzling to behold, twinkling in the rays of sunlight able to penetrate the thick whorls of smoke spiraling up from fragrant sticks of incense. It is my last day in Bangkok, and wholly fitting that my final memory of Thailand is of the country's most venerated god -- the personification of what is good and perfect in the world. The kind and gracious people of Thailand truly live up to the teachings of Buddha, and I will never forget the time I spent in this beautiful nation.

Land of the Lost

2009-08-24T15:05:00.001+09:00

From my vantage point on the longtail boat in the bay separating Thailand from Burma, or the Union of Myanmar as it is presently called, seems shrouded in a cloud of mystery. All that I have read about this secluded country made it sound almost a mythical place, steeped in inexorable tradition and lost in time. The oppressive government is disinclined toward Western influences of any kind, and nary a Coca Cola crosses the borders except at the hands of entrepreneurial smugglers who sell it on the black market. Johnnie Walker and Lucky Strikes have practically usurped currency in Myanmar and are traded in lieu of cold hard cash. With these things on my mind, I watched as the verdant hills of Burma grew closer, allowing me to spot the golden splendor of the myriad temples dotting the countryside, twinkling gaily in the light of the sun.

As we neared the dock at the border town of Kaw Thaung, we spotted immense signs facing the harbor spewing messages like "Let us all cooperate for eradication of narcotic drugs," and "The fight against drug menace is a national cause." Considering the fact that Burma is one of the leading exporters of opium in the world, the signs seemed misguided in their choice of audience. The dilapidated buildings lining the waterfront looked antiquated indeed, crumbling beauties from centuries past. Once safely ashore, we were greeted by two self imposed tour guides, Johnnie Walker and Ali Baba respectively, who navigated us through the lacksadaisical process of Burmese immigration. We were told that we only had 10 minutes in the country, but managed to negotiate a stay of one hour. Our guides led us up serpentine alleys peopled with monks in saffron robes and old women balancing baskets of fruit on their heads. The pungent aroma so prevalent in developing nations—a mixture of roasting meat, rotting garbage and excrement—burned my nostrils. As we walked, Johnnie Walker explained that it was difficult to import brands from outside the country, but that the Burmese were very resourceful and manufactured what they needed within the country's borders. I suppose he was speaking specifically of needing alcohol, because he went on to say, "Beer, whisky, gin, champagne—we have them all in Burma." After leading us to a backwater handicraft store purveying Burmese souvenirs, our time was nearly up. I wished I could visit the northern cities of Mandalay and Rangoon, but doing so would require an entirely separate visa and extensive travel arrangements—the Burmese government does not allow travel by road and there are no trains. In fact, foreign tourists are only allowed to visit four cities in the entire country.

Back on the dock, our "friendly" tour guides demanded 150 Thai Baht each for being such phenomenal guides. We paid up, boarded our rickety longtail boat and watched as Burma floated back into a veil of exoticism.

Phi Phi = Paradise

2009-08-19T14:57:00.001+09:00

Ahh, Koh Phi Phi! The quintessential Thai islands that we expected! Finally after an overcrowded hour-and-a-half-ferry ride from Phuket on which we had to endure watching tiny, young Asian women slather their fat, old (aka rich and white) new boyfriends with sunscreen, we set eyes upon the Phi Phi Island chain. A string of limestone islands jutting precariously from the Andaman Sea make up the island group, but only the largest, Phi Phi Don is inhabited and accomodates overnight tourists.

We started our day with a quick boat ride over to the second smallest island, Phi Phi Leh. The crystalline water gently splashed the base of the island's rock face, creating the unusual concave rim effect that you see on Thailand's rocky islands. Maya Bay, where the movie, "The Beach" was filmed, was a turquoise and cerulean swirl that looked unbelieveably inviting. No Leo though.

Snorkeling amongst the coral reefs of Phi Phi Don, we saw fish of every size and color. Neon pink and purple 80s fish, black and yellow striped fish that resembled floating bumble bees and pure black fish that looked as though they were wearing a smear of orange lipstick. After we began to feel a little too close to shark bait, we hit the beach on Phi Phi Don. There the white sand sloped gently down to perfect aqua water. The remainder of our day was spent gleefully splashing and sunning on this sunny island wonderland.

Where am I?

2009-08-16T11:20:00.001+09:00

I had heard that many of the islands of southern Thailand were built up and completely modernized, but I didn't believe it until I found myself on Phuket, Thailand's largest island. Not only does Phuket have at least four Starbucks (that I've seen so far), but it has been invaded with a plethora of fast food chains, a monstrous shopping mall and a string of upscale resorts lining the most popular beaches. In short, it's extremely similar to Waikiki or Miami Beach in that the actual beach and beauty of the island has been severely eclipsed by the cacophony of Westernized city life spilling onto the once pristine shores. No wonder "The Beach" by Alex Garland became such a cult classic among backpackers in Southeast Asia. I have yet to see one of those untouched islands that grace tourist brochures, the ones that seem to hover above the sea in an air of mystery, serenely dotting the cerulean waters of the Indian Ocean. Soon we will visit a smaller island called Koh Phi Phi and although it's not exactly undiscovered, I am hoping it will offer slightly more seclusion than the McDonald's spangled beaches of Phuket.

Hamburger Helper

2009-08-13T17:45:00.000+09:00

The most rewarding experience of our trip by far happened in Siem Reap, the town catering to hoardes of tourists outside of Angkor Wat. One thing we have discovered in Cambodia is that where there are tourists, there are hundreds of shabby street children selling everything from postcards to bracelets to bags of sliced pineapple. As we walked around town to shop for souvenirs, children followed us like baby ducks. "Lady," they would chant, tugging at out clothes, "Lady, where you from lady?" After we would answer "the USA," they would launch into a diatribe that went something like this, "Capital Washington, DC. Population 311,000,000. President Obama, wife Michelle, two daughters Sascha and Malia, one dog Bo. Obama is my father. You buy me ice cream?" I suspect that many American children may not know as much. We tried our best to politely ignore the children all day and tell them that we already bought so many things.

Later that evening, when Ashley and I were sitting at a street side table at a cafe sipping ice cold mojitos to ward off the incredible heat, the children reappeared. "You buy my bracelet?" Said one of the girls that had followed us around all day. She had an adorable dimpled smile and we could not refuse. "You give me money for food lady? I so hungry. H-U-N-G-R-Y." We didn't want to just give her money since we were afraid that her parents might take it away and not feed her, so we invited her to sit with us and we would buy her a meal. As soon as we made this offer, out of nowhere, three other children appeared. "You buy me food too?" After we had pulled up chairs for the four Cambodian street children, they settled in and ordered hamburgers. We discovered their names were Nia (age 11), Nex (9), Tam (12) and Mai (12). Despite receiving dirty looks from a European family sitting next to us, no one seemed to mind that the kids were in the restaurant. One of the waitresses told us that they were having so much fun and it was a very exciting experience for them.

Mai told me that she had never had a hamburger, but that she had seen a picture of one in her school book and wanted to try it. They told us that they had to go to school in the morning, and sell things after school until 9:00 p.m. Before the food came, the kids discovered a foosball table tucked into the corner of the restaurant and grinned from ear to ear as they played. They probably walked by that restaurant every day of their lives, and would never be allowed to go inside. Except that now they were paying customers! It was so heartwarming to watch them just be kids instead of mini entrepreneurs for once. When the burgers came, the kids pronounced them "excellent!" and eagerly devoured them as though they had not eaten in a week. Tam ate exactly half of his burger and wanted to save the rest for his brother at home. When the kids were through, they left as quickly as they had appeared. They were very grateful, and smiled and bowed their thanks to us. Nia, unable to contain her gratitude burst into a hiuge smile and squeezed Ashley with a tight hug - I will never forget how happy the little girl looked.

Resplendent Raffles!

2009-08-10T16:57:00.000+09:00

Oh how I love the Raffles Hotel Le Royal in Phnom Penh! As our tuk-tuk approached the grand, red carpet covered entrance, my heart did a little leap at the idea of non moldy pillows and toilets that actually flushed! Despite looking like grubby backpackers, they greeted us as warmly as royalty, although we could tell they were looking at us strangely. "Sit here madame, let me take your bag madame, please come in madame." Once we produced our gold card, however, their faces relaxed a little. Our room was everything an expensive hotel room should be, with a deep crevasse like bathtub, fluffy white goose down comforters and gallons of floral scented toiletries that we greedily hoarded. The balcony of our room looked onto the glamorous pool area, where we felt like chic jet setters as we langoured later in the evening dusk. As I sipped a G&T as bats flitted by and flowers rained down from the trees, I thought I must be in heaven. How I will be able to survive a backpacker hotel again after this luxurious experience I do not know.

Rhapsody on Rabbit Island

2009-08-09T08:20:00.000+09:00

The pristine view from my hammock on Rabbit Island. Need I say more?

Little Guesthouse of Horrors

2009-08-08T09:12:00.000+09:00

You would think a beach front location, hammocks lining the shore and a $15 per night rate would make for an idyllic hotel experience. But get a glimpse of a room at the Kep Seaside Guesthouse and you would quickly change your mind. We have come to discover the true meaning of the word "guesthouse"-- dirty, smelly and cheap. After finding the rooms at two nicer places booked we checked into this establishment. Upon walking into our room (which Lonely Planet described as big and breezy) an overwhelming stench of stale urine hit me. Followed by a slightly more subtle aroma of mildew. Flipping the light switch revealed mold on the walls and covering the ceiling fan. I won't even go into the bathroom. The sheets looked semi clean (although a bottom sheet only) so I laid my head down on the pillow. It reeked of mold and a closer look under the pillow case revealed that it was indeed green and white polka dotted. After stripping my bed of everything but the bottom sheet, I used my scarf as a tiny blanket and my bag of dirty laundry as a lumpy pillow. Needless to say, this goes on my running list of most uncomfortable nights ever spent.

At Your Service

2009-08-07T21:22:00.000+09:00

We love Sihanoukville! Our beachfront hotel has clean sheets and an ocean view for only $20 a night. Sure we saw a gecko crawling on the wall, but it was small and as long as no snakes come creeping in, we're good. Just next door to our hotel is a dreamlike beachfront restaurant. Housed in an open air, thatched roof hut with dogs and children running through, the restaurant proffers entire meals--including beer--for under $5.00! Not to mention that the food tastes fresh and delicious; if you actually get to eat it that is. Armies of children continuously stream by, "you buy my fruit," "you buy my shrimps," "you buy my bracelet," they chant inexorably. If we said no, they ask why. If we say we have no money, they say "you lie." If we say we already bought some, they say, "but you no buy from me." The children are very conniving and guilt-tripped us into buying things. Of course we felt bad and tried to spread the wealth, but there are only so many anklets and beaded bracelets one can buy. After I refused to buy yet another friendship bracelet from one little girl, she asked me if I was married. When I told her yes, she threatened me by saying "I wish I have your husband's phone number so I could call him and tell him you have new Cambodian boyfriend with big banana." Another little girl told Ashley "the reason you have no husband is because you no buy my bracelet." After spending four day's worth of our Cambodian budget in one day on sarongs, bracelets, kramas, woven fishes and shrimps, manicures, pedicures, massages, and threading (Cambodian-style hair removal), we paid them to go away and went to hide in our hotel room.

A Bus of a Different Color-Part 2

2009-08-07T13:42:00.000+09:00

Crumbling French Colonial buildings with laundry drying on the balconies greet us in Phnom Penh. The bus line we took from Ho Chi Minh City did not go to Sihanoukville, so we hired a Tuk Tuk to take us to one that did. Capitol Tours advertised air conditioned routes to the coast, so we bought our tickets for $4.25. (It's back to US currency here.) Little did we know that the almost five hour bus ride would be like driving through the fires of the underworld. At first, the whole crowded bus had no air conditioning, and opening windows merely blew the hot air around. The driver stopped to get our air conditioning fixed and after that it worked for everyone but us. Our seats, in the very back of the bus, were above the engine, and fiery puffs of air and exhaust shot out at us from beneath the seats. Toss in the fact that we were also right next to the bathroom? Best seats in the house... The only way I survived was to lose myself in Pico Iyer and continuously fan myself ferociously.

A Bus of a Different Color-Part 1

2009-08-07T13:27:00.000+09:00

After an hour of pandemonium at the Moc Bai/Bavet border crossing we passed into the Kingdom of Cambodia. Immediately upon entering the country it was apparent that Cambodia is vastly poorer than its neighbors to the east and west. Bamboo and corrugated tin huts line the bumpy, unkempt roadway, each with its own muddy pond where lily pads and easter egg hued tropical flowers struggle bravely to lift their fragile stalks above the choking garbage. Skinny dogs and even skinnier cows dart about between the huts hoping a stray bite of food may find its way to the ground. Our bus driver's penchant for Vietnamese techno music provides a pulsating soundtrack through the countryside.

As we wait in line for the bus to board the Neak Luong ferry near Prey Veng, people selling sundries crowd the filthy streets. Balanced on the vendor's heads are platters of the mundane such as peanuts, and the exotic such as tiny plucked and roasted birds, speckled bird's eggs, prawns and a rainbow of fruits. The Vietnamese ladies sitting in front of us on the bus bought a bag of roasted grasshoppers to snack on. They very politely invited us to partake and even tore off the unedible bits like the legs and head. But after taking a picture of it we politely declined. As we crossed the Mekong River on the ferry, small children with missing limbs came onto the bus to beg for money. I really wanted to give them some, but Ashley reminded me that they don't even benefit from it, they just have to give it to their parents who may not even buy them food. I feel almost vulgar driving past these unfathomably poor people on this air conditioned bus, resting my head on my inflatable neck pillow while sipping frozen Orangina, eating Ritz crackers and speeding away from the world they can't escape.

Viet-Disney?

2009-08-04T13:26:00.001+09:00

What do you get when you cross a zoo, carnival rides, a lake and manicured gardens together? Dam Sen Park in Ho Chi Minh City. This sprawling pleasure park is filled with strange sights and an even stranger pseudo Disneyland feel. Mickey, Donald and Goofy coexist with dancing bumble bees, dragons and unidentifiable Asian anime characters. Dam Sen hosts your run of the mill roller coasters, but the most interesting attraction may be the mammoth warehouse-type building that is literally a giant freezer. After you're given your winter parka, in attractive colors such as neon orange and yellow, you walk from the dripping tropical heat into a blast of Arctic air. A massive space filled with ice-sculptures made to look like castles, dragons and Buddhas lies before you. The sculptures are so large that you can walk inside or on top of them. Whatever you do, just don't stick out your tongue.

Good Morning Vietnam

2009-08-03T12:32:00.001+09:00

After a long harrowing 160 km/hr (I don't even want to think about what that is in miles!) ride to the Bangkok airport followed by a blessedly short unharrowing flight, we find ourselves in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Warm, tropical rain greeted us as we stepped out of the airport into the soup-like air. Driving through the city in our stale sweat and cigarette smoke scented taxi, we were astonished to see the innumerable motornikes zooming along EVERYWHERE! Everyone rides them here from entire families crammed onto one small seat to women in 4 inch heels clutching faux Louis Vuitton bags. Armies of motorbikes accumulate at every streetcorner, threatening to run down unsuspecting pedestrians. The only way to cross the street, we've been instructed, is to just go and oncoming traffic avoids you. The first time we tried this method, Ashley and I thought for sure we would be flattened by a bus. But sure enough, you slowly step foot into the street and the traffic parts around you like the red sea. We're still getting used to this strange, life-flashing-before-our-eyes concept, but as of now we are still alive.

About a Boat

2009-08-03T11:53:00.001+09:00

Despite the fact that Ashley (my fearless travel buddy) and I vastly overpaid, the river boat ride that we took through the backwater canals of Bangkok was the highlight of our trip so far. Floating atop the water in a colorful little motorboat (despite the noise and occassional whiff of fumes) provided a refreshing respite from the sprawling concrete jungle that is Bangkok.

Although perhaps not as prevalent as in Venice, much of Bangkok is covered by a network of small canals that intersect the area around the river. Once we turned off the main river, Chao Phraya, and into one of the tiny canals, the scenery immediately changed from industrial to residential. We felt as though we got a glimpse into the lives of others as we saw Thai homes of all shapes and sizes; crumbling high rise apartments, wooden shacks on rotting stilts, ornate French Colonial mansions and what can only be described as floating crates lashed together and covered with a tarp converged side by side in the neighborhoods we passed. Their only commonality was the mass amounts of laundry hanging outside to dry. Ornate wats (temples) broke up the plethora of homes lining the river, their rooftops a colorful mosaic of red and green and their spires glowing gold in the afternoon sun. We saw children jumping off docks to take a dip in the frothy, latte brown water, old men in tattered clothes fishing and colorfully dressed women scrubbing laundry in the waves of the garbage strewn waterway. But whether we were passing by a shanty town on stilts or a gleaming wat where small children brought bread to feed the irridescent mass of squirming fish below, everyone graced us with a smile and a wave. Thailand isn't nicknamed "The Land of Smiles" for nothing.

Bangkok Impressions

2009-08-01T09:14:00.001+09:00

My first impression of the raucous Southeast Asian city of Bangkok is that it seems steeped in a melange of heady scents. The salty tang of grilling crab emanating from the bustling night markets, the damp claylike scent rising from the Chao Phraya River that beribbons it's way through the city, and the ripe smell of millions of people crammed together in this humid, pulsating metropolis, will forever be trapped in my memory. They say that of all the senses, your sense of smell is the fastest to adjust to it's surroundings. But as I inhale the exotic scent of Bangkok wafting through the soupy air, I don't know if I want it to.

DBT at the Orange Peel

2009-02-07T03:45:00.001+09:00

On a recent jaunt to visit my sis in Asheville, NC, I found myself at the Orange Peel. This venue, though tiny, packs a big punch, and welcomes neon-light worthy names in the musical world to it's bitty stage. On this particular evening, southern rock stars Drive By Truckers were the main draw. The crowd of mainly 20-somethings thronged wildly, sipping whiskey out of smuggled flasks (we were in the south after all) as DBT played their favorite hits. If you're ever in Asheville, check out the Orange Peel—it may be worth a visit, even if the Truckers aren't headlining.

Top O' The Mornin' To Ya!

2008-10-08T13:42:00.001+09:00

For a bit of friendly chatter, a pint of dark, frothy Guinness, and a delightful dose of local lore, County Kerry in Southwest Ireland is the place to go. Test your listening skills in Dingle as you hear stories from locals who inadvertently sprinkle Gaelic, Ireland's indigenous language, into their "English," and watch for Leprechauns as you drive across the mystical landscape of the Macgillycuddy's Reeks ('mountains' in Gaelic) on the Iveragh Peninsula. No matter where you go in Kerry, it is nearly 100% guaranteed that you will a) see ruins of old castles and forts poking up from hidden glens, b) meet a new Irish best friend in one of the plentiful pubs, and c) love it so much that you'll never want to leave.

Irish Eyes

2008-09-25T18:56:00.001+09:00

From pubs as numerous as Starbucks, to Georgian-style homes with a rainbow of colored doors, to the malty frothing liquid known as Guinness, Dublin is an amazing city. I have spent the past four days trekking through cobblestoned alleyways, across the River Liffey, and down bustling thoroughfares, only to discover that each corner holds a surprising find more charming than the last. Take the Palace Bar for instance. This idyllic pub is tucked down a corner of Temple Bar, an area by the River Liffey. The thing about Irish pubs is that they are all so history filled - the Palace Bar has been around since the 1820's, and it's one of the younger pubs! We met some quintessential Irishmen—right down to their tweed caps and argyle socks— who were happy to exchange stories and tell us about Irish history.
Another great pub is the Brazen Head, the hostory of which dates back to the 1100's. The sense of time and place in Ireland is truly mind blowing.

More later from the Emerald Isle!

Don't Drink the Water, Drink the Margaritas

2008-06-19T03:54:00.000+09:00

Our taxi bumps and jostles it's way down cobbled side streets in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. "Where is this place?" my sister comments. It's a good question, for our gastronomic destination is off the beaten path of the tourist-ridden seaside Malecon. Vivid, multi colored flags flap delicately in the subtle wind preceeding a storm, and the taxi pulls up underneath them. "Pipi's," he says. We are exuberatly greeted by a committee of smiling waiters, then whisked off to a small table in the back corner. Mariachi music blasts from overhead accompanied by the interminable whirr of ceiling fans.

We chose Pipi's because of their cheeky slogan, "Don't drink the water, drink the margaritas," so of course we ordered two of the pineapple variety right off. Moments later, behemoth margaritas arrived on out table in glasses more resembling the soup bowl family of serving dish than glasses. Sarah and I valiantly began drinking—there was no time to waste if we planned to finish these before we left. Alejandro, the guacamole maker, appears table-side with a tray of fresh ingredients—avocados, tomatos, cilantro, etc.—and whipped up the freshest, most delicious guacamole my connoisseur sister had ever tasted. We decided to order the chicken enchiladas, which were an absolute study in perfect Mexican food. Meanwhile, we had only sucked down half of the gigantic margaritas.

After taking a photo with the super friendly waiters (perhaps it helped that Sarah and I are both tall and blonde?) under the "...drink the margaritas" sign, we proceed to do just that—determined to finish the beverage before we leave. We were successful in our endeavor, as proven by the way we doggedly stumble out the door and back down into the cobbled streets below.

Verdict? Go to Pipi's and do as they recommend—drink the margaritas!

Pipi's Restaurant Bar
Guadalupe Sanchez #807
Colonia Centro
Puerto Vallarta, Jal, Mexico
Tel: +52 (322) 223-2767
www.pipis.com.mx

The Castle of W.R. Hearst

2008-06-01T05:48:00.001+09:00

As the tour bus wound up the serpentine road to the top of the hill on California's coast, I felt an acute sense of sadness. Tinny 1920s and 30s music piped through the speakers as flashes of the castle on the hill glimmered through the fading light, and I wished with all my heart that I could travel back in time to the golden age of this pleasure palace. It was a time when Hollywood's elite—Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo—descended upon the lavish property of this media magnate for weekends of pure entertainment. A swim in the massive pools, a challenging tennis match, or perhaps an amble among the many fragrant garden paths rounded out langourous days.

As the moon shone its silver light through the spindly palm trees surrounding the main towers, and the fragrant aroma a jasmine wafted through the air, I found my mind transported back to that heyday. I would have worn a slinky silk gown, my hair wound into a sleek chignon. A handsome actor would escort me to the table and pull out my chair as I slid into place next to Hearst. As we discussed the day at the castle or my upcoming film, I would have felt the luckiest girl in the world to have been there, experiencing the ostentatious grandeur that was, and still is, Hearst Castle.

Awesome Augusten

2008-05-22T14:48:00.001+09:00

On behalf of my beloved sister Whitney, who is in LOVE with Augusten Burroughs and declares him her "boy" self, I attended a book event promoting his latest memoir, "A Wolf at the Table". Tragic and depressingly sad at times, the book and it's inspiring author ultimately posess a love of life tinged only with slight traces of melancholy.

To read my full book review on "A Wolf at the Table," visit www.lesliepatrick.com

Posh Pooch

2008-04-14T09:29:00.000+09:00

My dog is chicer than I am. On a recent sojourn to San Francisco, Talisker, my beloved Wire Fox Terrier, stayed at the renowned Wag Hotel. This hotel, exclusively for our furry animal friends, was probably nicer than the hotel I stayed in that weekend. The Wag features luxury suites complete with a tv showing 24/7 Animal Planet, classical music piped into the rooms, room service, paw-dicures and facials (blueberry nonetheless!), swimming pool and rooftop lawn. I stayed at a so-called boutique hotel downtown, but where was my blueberry facial? Where was my pool? Needless to say, Tallie had the time of his life (or so I think since he didn't actually tell me that) because when I picked him up, his tail was definitely 'wag'-ing.

Pizza Heaven Found in San Francisco

2008-04-03T12:53:00.000+09:00

There's a good reason the itty-bitty restaurant Pizzetta on 23rd and California won the best pizza in San Francisco by City Search. Located in a mainly residential area of the chic Richmond District in SF, Pizzetta is adorned with sparkling fairy lights in the trees out front and was seemingly transported through time and space from a cobbled "via" in Rome. Pizzetta is any Italian-food lovers dream come true.

Though the restaurant is small - about the size of a sample bedroom at Ikea - the menu packs a powerful punch with tasty pizza, calzones, and a surprisingly ample wine and cheese selection. When my friend, Ashley and I arrived, we were lucky enough to snag an empty table on the sidewalk. Thank goodness for the outdoor heaters blaring down on us, or we would have never been able to endure the foggy San Franciscan chill. Our good fortune of finding immediate seating was not shared by all - about six couples arriving after us had to wait on the benches lining the sidewalk outside. But theirs was a comfortable wait - they were brought blankets and served wine by the friendly waitstaff until a table became available.

Pizza purists, Ashley and I ordered pizza margherita (mine with pepperoni). They were delivered to our table piping hot with flaky/chewy crust and that just-right amount of toppings that made us ooh and ahh with every bite. Each mouthful was bursting with perfectly Italian pizza flavor, and Ashley and I swore that if the couples waiting for tables weren't sitting there glaring at us, we may have very well each ordered another pizza just for the taste of it.

Closing out our perfect pizza experience, we shared a piece of flourless chocolate cake which was also sensational. Served with a heaping dollop of unsweetened whipped cream, the cake positively melted the moment it hit our palettes.

Final Verdict - If you're dying to visit Italy but can't quite get there at the moment, eat at Pizetta.

What: Pizzetta
Where: 211 23rd Avenue at California, San Francisco
Cost: Aproximately $12 for a pizza
Why: It's amazing pizza
Phone: 415.379.9880

Butterfly Town

2008-03-03T14:33:00.000+09:00

Pacific Grove is a gem in the jewelry box that is the Monterey Bay area. Located directly opposite the bay from Santa Cruz, PG is a sleepy coastal town reminiscent of a bygone era. The turn of the century architecture and friendly faces about town make you feel as through you've suddenly been transported into an episode of Leave it to Beaver. In early October, Monarch butterfies migrate through the area, and a celebration is held in their honor. With a plethora of quintessentially quaint bed and breakfasts, scintillating ocean views from Lovers' Point and a bevy of cafes, bookshops and boutiques, Pacific Grove is a must-see for travelers passing through California's Central Coast.

My First Post!

2007-08-27T09:11:00.000+09:00

Hmm... what to say in this savvy new world of blogging? I have an incurable wanderlust that began when I learned how to read maps in third grade. Since then I have travelled to Africa, South America, the South Pacific, and many countries in Europe. My passion for exploring the world and my love for writing are inseparable, and thus my travelwriting career has begun! Visit my website at www.lesliepatrick.com to view my latest travel articles.