OJ Simpson was in my yoga class this morning.

I swear. I thought he was in jail, but my eyes insist it was him sweating it out in his Speedo next to me in hot yoga this morning.

My, oh my! So much has happened since I’ve arrived on American soil. I left again and went to Canada. I got a paycheck, the first of 2009. I cooked risottos and eggplants and stews. I hung out with my family. I sneaked into a double-feature. I got manicures and pedicures and realized that the only thing that makes you feel like a girl again after a long year of feeling like a boy is a nice pair of 5-inch heels. I rode around town on my moped. I joined the fight against Iran’s Islamic Republic. I decided I’ll never get a dog. I went on a date. I ate dinner next to Mary-Kate or Ashley. I saw a piano recital. I noticed blogs to be quite narcissistic (what's with all the "I"s?). I made a plan for the year and then yelled at myself for making plans. I dressed like a slutty clown. I met new friends. I met old friends again. I stayed in my pajamas for a whole week straight. I learned to appreciate my little hometown and its many fragrant trees. I found a cute little apartment in Venice Beach.

New digs!

It turns out starting life again is a bit more difficult than I thought. So I’ll be parking this page until I set up my new little desk in its new little spot on January 9th. And then you’ll be able to read about funny humans in Venice Beach or along Route 66. Yep, I just drove my car from LA to Chicago and now I'll be driving it back. Hoping to spot some hummus plants or maybe even the Juice. Nah, I don't really want to spot OJ again. If I see a celebrity on my drive, it better be someone good. Like Richard Simmons.

Have a wonderful holiday season, or whatever they say. Thank you so much for making this past year really really special for me. Smell ya in 2010.

Meat cups?

Do I think this is gross because I am a vegetarian? Or because it is a cup made out of meat? It's a meat cup. No. A meat cup.

The answer we've all been waiting for

is here.

A poetic tantrum

Fuck. I’ve caught up. No more travel stories. No more muddy pant legs or sweaty scarves or damaged cameras. It’s all over. I’ve got a lease in my hand and a pen that is about to sign my life back into normal-dom. And I don’t wannaaaaaaaa. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that staying put and having a job and having pets and being ‘normal’ was horrific. So, this pen represents for me a life that I don’t want to live. Ah! What should I do? I was just frolicking among the rubber trees in Laos and now I'm in a sterile cubicle. My synapses are protesting. I'm pounding my feet into the warm Santa Monica ground and screaming and wailing and tantruming more than I did when I was fourteen and calling my mom a bitch. I am in a perfect state of confused chaotic panic that I secretly love because it can only mean a new beginning. In times like these, I can only write a poem, which is weird because I'm not really a poetry kind of girl. Something is seriously amiss.

I saw the world

I wrote a blog

I ate a lot

I pet some hogs

I sweat on trains

I puked up peas

I chased the rains

I switched to teas

I met new friends

I donned new clothes

I gave kids pens

I took some blows

I pet a fish

Saw skirts on men

Some made of pigs

Some made of hens

I had this thing

It defined who I am

Now, very over

And I question again

Back to life

Back to reality

Searching for a word

That rhymes with reality

Back to work

Back to before

This time it’s different

I'm so much more

Lessons from someone who knows stuff.

I’ve always wanted to know stuff.
Unfortunately, I don’t.
I mean, I know stuff... But it seems I’m one of those jacks of all trades and masters of none. I hate it. It irks me. I want to be the expert witness they call to the stand to verify something only my keen eye could verify. Or the specialist they call to get a witty and informative quote for a magazine article.

But so far, nobody has needed an expert in the art of plucking ingrown hairs from my leg or in making log houses out of spray-painted straws, two areas in which I’ve been known to excel.
So I’ve been patiently learning a teeny bit each day, cradling the hope that this new knowledge will eventually congeal and become something.

The trip was quite a something. I met lots of knowledge as I skipped around continents. I'm still no expert in any area, but I learned a lot. About life and people and humanity. And I decided to share it. Here you have it... words of wisdom from someone who kinda knows some stuff.

I learned...

...that all people are the same no matter where they were born. Really. We all judge, love, die, urinate, eat, hope. We’re all yearning to be better. Some of us wake up to alarms and some of us to roosters. But, really, we are all the same.

...that most religions are the same. They each answer that annoying question about what happens after life and are based on being good. Really. Hindus, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Mormons, Jains…. I heard each of their spiels and was shocked at the similarities. To me, it’s like choosing a basketball team.

...how to say no... how to have an opinion... how to ask for what I want. When those in the tourism industry are eyeing you like a lion licking his lips, you better ask them to throw in a Taj Mahal snow globe. You’re paying for it anyway.

...that we are all so lucky and we don’t know it. Advertising and society make us think we need more and more and more and that this more has to be from a certain designer. But, really, we don’t need much at all. I think it’s crazy that some kids in the West cry because they want Elmo for Christmas and some kids in the East cry because they want more than rice for dinner. Crazy!

...that traveling alone for a long period of time is like turning off your life. No bills. No phone. No commitments. No job. Nobody you know. Nothing to do but listen to yourself. I think it’s something that everyone needs to experience.

...that my body is not infallible. Damn! I am athletic and never thought I would feel like I couldn’t do anything. But F! My feet and knees were used to sleeping under my desk. Then I made them get lost around unknown cities for 9 whole months. They hate me.

...that I love writing this blog. Love it! I received encouragements and emails from so many strangers and old friends and worried parents and pissed off Malaysians. I can’t describe the feeling of knowing people are rooting for you. It’s amazing. And I thank you all so very much for being there with me. I will continue writing about how humans in the US are funny, especially the ones in advertising or the ones that interview me for jobs for which I have no business applying.

...that the people who stamp passports take their jobs way too seriously.

...that I’ve deprived myself way too much. Before the trip, I would never think of ordering dessert. Now I not only order it, I eat it slowly, and enjoy every single bite. I'm so lucky to have the privilege.

...to look around! I couldn’t believe that the tribes living in the Papua New Guinean mountains didn’t realize their homes were swathed in absolute beauty. But as I was telling this to someone, she pointed to Venice beach, a place that I take for granted. I saw a cluster of palm trees and it all became so clear.

...that the best times come from the experiences you were most reluctant to have. So now I try to say yes to everything. I try not to let fear be a factor in any decision. Ever.

...to master Sudoku puzzles. What a great way to sharpen the brain fibers.

...that being away from everyone you know forces you to see everyone you know in a new light. I feel closer to many of my friends and family now than I did before I left.

...that everyone’s priorities are different and that’s ok. We’re all just different but neither is better or worse.

...to trust myself. Standing by a decision and not looking back saves loads of anxiety.

...to ask questions. People love to answer. It’s the best way to meet.

Here's a sunset to help you contemplate.

911: Expired Mambas & Crotchless Pants!

Home. Is it where the heart is? Or is it where your pager is? For me it’s the latter. And that pager has friends.

When most people sail away to college, their high school bedroom mysteriously transforms into a study or guest room. The previous occupants, Mr. Bear or Miss School Girl Uniform, get shipped away to Goodwill in hopes of taking root in another high school room. But my little sanctuary, upstairs and away from all the goings-on of the household, was quickly abandoned and forgotten. It probably spent years yearning to become an inviting study filled with books and beanbag chairs. Or perhaps it would have been happy with a simple upgrade from a twin bed. But no one ever noticed. And eleven years later, it is exactly how I left it that sad day in 1998 after listening one last time to Sarah McLachlan’s ‘I will remember you’ and caressing my cheerleading jersey.

This room is now like Pompeii, its contents solidified by eleven years of dust: The crusty shot glass collection. The Zimas hidden in a corner, expired and ashamed. The bored teddy bears who no longer bother to come alive at night. The journals filled with detailed commentary on what Robbie Novak was wearing throughout the entirety of third grade (usually a red sweater that I thought looked ‘totally cute’).

Now here I am, making this room my home again, twin bed and all. I find myself acutely aware of my odd surroundings. The big box of scrunchies and the thousands of loose photos from Cancun Spring Break 1998 are reassuring reminders of how far I’ve come in these 11 years. I no longer drink Zimas. I’ve even surpassed Schmirnoff Ice! I’m no longer dating the dumb quarter back or certain that Addison Trail High School’s Homecoming Court is the most important monarchy in the world. I no longer get drunk in parking lots by mixing any liquor into a Snapple bottle. I no longer wear catsuits. I no longer think flip flops are weird. I still love Sarah McLachlan, and ‘I will Remember You’ still chokes me up every time.

Even though many adults still drink spiked Snapples in parking lots, I'm gonna say that my moving on has me steeped in a big pile of adulthood. I am an adult. My friends are getting married and pregnant. And I'm.... well, I'm strapping myself in for some months of living with my mom. That's what happens when you blow all your money on traveling. But I swear, I am an adult! And it shall be reaffirmed as I throw everything from childhood away. Everything. I thought about donating my pager and jelly bracelet collection but decided it might be an insult to needy people. I have immortalized the following items right here in this blog so that I will feel better about never seeing them again. Here’s a look at my pager and his friends-- A FINAL GOODBYE:

I won this box of candy on The Bozo Show in.... 1988. It's almost my age! And sadly, it’s still good. I wouldn’t trust the ingredients in them things.

I must have been a civil rights activist in a previous life because I defended them as a child in a big fat racist town. Some hairy jerkwad pulled this baby down during every party I threw, and I always just put it right back up.

We labored over writing this for some time, especially the title. For all future cheerleaders, remember that ‘excepting the challenge’ is the key to winning.

I was in love with Gerardo because he claimed he was rico and suave-ay. I wish my old self could have told my young self that men who wear bandanas are NEVER suave-ay.

I once told my fourth grade class that I was secretly friends with Debbie Gibson. They didn't believe me. But I'm still hanging on to the possibility. Deborah... call me! We have the same hat!

There was a time when my friend, Dana, and I would wear matching daisy dukes, half-shirts, and black Reebok high-tops to traipse around town festivals, bowling alleys, and malls. We tried to meet boys with cars and collect numbers. She has two kids and a husband now. What do I have? These numbers.

Michael Jordan fruit snacks - I thought these would be worth money one day, so I saved them. Man, I had quite the eye for rare valuables at such a young age. Jordan fruit snacks anyone? Surely they’re on Ebay for thousands so why don’t you just Paypal me $200 and we’ll call it even?

That’s right. These pants don’t have a crotch in them. And they cost me $60. Long story. Long, sad story (Please note that these were purchased after high school. And worn with shorts).

I dug this out of my grandma’s house when I was eight and thought it was so dirty. I mean, a penis! I showed it to all my girlfriends every time they came over. This penis thing, I knew, was something important.

Goodbye, pager. We shared some sweet 411. But, by gosh, it's almost a 911 that I still have you.

Day 6: See ya next time, vacuums. I'm rushing home!

Regretfully pass the museum of vacuums, the largest rocking chair in the world, and an entire wax museum dedicated to Jesse James.

3:55 Enter Addison, IL. Population: 32,000. Home to Marcus Cinema, Creative Mirror Designs, and 9 friends from high school who are currently pregnant.

4pm Pull into the driveway of my childhood home just as my mom fires up the barbie. I’m “home.”

4:02pm Sigh. It’s all over. 4 months of planning. 8.5 months of travel. 13 countries. $20,000.

4:20pm Eat my momma’s home cookin’. Beats any samosa.

4:22 Begin planning next trip. South America & Africa 2011. Who’s in?

Day 5: Christians and horse motels

9am Bid adieu to the family and head on out again. I am a woman of the road.

10am Realize road trip blogs are not that interesting. Weigh the possibilities of skipping right to Chicago but decide to persevere. Sorry.

11am Don’t even sneer as I pass George Bush freeway in Dallas. I’m very mature and accepting now.

4pm Hit the Oklahoma rest stop for a map.

4:10pm Overhear the rest area employees talking: “Sheila, try this. It’s hummus. Comes from the hummus plant.”

4:32pm Buy peaches on the roadside from the gentlest woman alive.

4:35pm Spot some hummus plants.

5pm Cannot find a radio station not talking about Jesus. Listen to a hip DJ insist that if you’re lost and you need wisdom, you just need to wait and Jesus will give it to you. I want to say, ‘Why don’t you go ahead and get the knowledge yourself instead of waiting?’ Actually, I do say it, but she doesn’t hear.

6:20pm Stop again at Walmart. Again, the only audio book for sale is Glen Beck’s. Still a no.

6:22pm See a man too fat to walk using a Rascal. Realize I could be caught on the People of Walmart blog. Shake a leg.

11pm Make it Joplin, MO before hitting my last hotel of the trip.

Day 4: Nice chaps. Yee Haw.

730am Wake up to the same cute voice talking about the same trucks. Man, kids get up early.

8am Smile and nod as my entire family laughs at my Malaysian moo-moo. It’s comfy!

11am Head to tailgate party for UT game. Against my will. Refrain from making jokes about UT also meaning Urinary Tract.

12pm See several cowboy boots, confederate flags and CHAPS!

1pm Eat pizza, three scones from Starbucks, and kettle corn-- true American goodies. Love every bite but yearn for a samosa.

2pm See cheerleaders and chuckle. Remember the time when I too was a leader of cheers and truly thought the game would not go on without me and my pep. Ah, hindsight.


4pm Observe Texas traditions like the unveiling of a humongous Texas flag and the hailing of Texas as its own nation.

4:15pm Cheer as the players emerge. Marvel as they bend onto one knee and pray before fans who are yelling, ‘Make them eat shit.’ Wonder what part of the bible that’s in.

7pm Listen to my cousins gloat. Yeah yeah Texas is the best. Whatever.

Day 3: Drinking & Driving

10am - 4pm Drive. Drive. Drive. Sing. Sing. Sing. Drive. Sing.

4:10pm - Stop in Fredericksburg, a german enclave in the middle of Texas. Not sure what drew those Germans there, but they set up shop in the middle of this most conservative state.

4:16pm - Stumble upon the glorious wineries of Texas and take some sips.

4:30pm - Realize it’s stupid to taste wines while on a driving trip.

4:45pm - Devour German pancakes.

5:00pm - Find an adorable store full of handmade goods: ENID. This proves to my closed mind that there are cool things in Texas.

6:00 Arrive at my cousin’s house in Austin. Family! My first in 9 months. They’re cool things in Texas too.

7:00 Enjoy my nephew’s voice as he talks about his favorite trucks and lulls me to sleep.

Day 2: pillow crumbs!

7am Wake up from odd dream about pythons. Go back to bed.

10am Hit the pool. I ain’t spending $59 on a place and NOT dipping into the pool.

12pm Finally hit the road. Figure I’ve got 7 hours ahead of me.

1pm Screech to a stop due to starvation. Want something healthy and go for a salad at a strip mall Chili’s.

1-2pm Observe Americans in their Chili’s environment. Amazed at all the white people, waitresses in mom jeans, loud talkers, guys drinking lunchtime beers, career bartenders, old people eating soup, and lunchers half in conversations and half texting others.

2pm Stop at Wal-Mart for an audio book. The only one they have is Glen Beck’s “An Inconvenient Book” Hmmm.... might be nice to get the point of view.... Nope. Not gonna do politics on this peaceful ride through the beautiful southwest.

2:10pm See a school of cops and a gaggle of Mormons entering the Chili’s. Darn. Wish I had come later so I could observe.

3pm See Santa Monica license plate! About to wave but spy sorority bumper sticker and think otherwise.

4pm In absolute awe of the beauty of my own country. Red rocks and funny shrubbery.

4:30pm Enter New Mexico, the land of enchantment!

Sorry this one's blurry. Too many lunchtime beers. Just kidding. I'm driving.

4:40pm Notice the sudden lack of mountains. Wonder if mountains are banned in NM.

5pm drive behind a truck full of red chiles. Coooool! I mean, hoooot.



5:15pm Spend a good 15 minutes thinking of a joke about telling these chilies I've just been to Chili's. Come up with nothin'.

7pm Almost stop to buy souvenirs in the Silver City but am turned off by their selling point: Agate bookends.


7:20pm Pass State Prison sign.

7:21pm See Fairgrounds sign

7:40pm Stop for the night in Las Cruces. The owner of the hotel is a quirky Indonesian lady. Realize that life can lead you anywhere. How did she ever find this Las Cruces place?

8:00pm Head out for dinner and note that there is nothing in Las Cruces. Nothing. It’s either Sonic burger or gas station food. I choose Chex Mix and orange juice.

9:00pm Jump on hotel bed.

10:00pm Fall asleep with Chex Mix on face and crumbs on pillow.

DAY 1: Burgers and asphalt

America, here I come. I'm about to pummel across your highways and deserted roads. I'm going to count every grain of amber waves. And devour your spacious skies. With Scionito, my trusted Toyota Scion Xa, I will bust through your fruited plains and scale your purple majesties of mountains. I want to see all that you are. And fall in love with you again. You are my country. And we should enjoy each other. So, I will tread lightly through your variety of states. From Los Angeles to Chicago in seven days. Alone again. Free. Just me, the highway and Julieta Venegas (Not really her. Just her songs.). Haven’t driven in 8 months, but I'm ready to put my pedal to some floor mat.


DAY 1:
9am Finally get out of bed after four snoozes.

10am Wash down mixed feelings of going home with a cappuccino and bagel (does not live up to recent French croissants).

10:45am Write down directions from LA to Chicago on one tiny post-it.

11:30am Pick a $60 parking ticket off my car window. Curse Los Angeles.

11:55am Check blind spots as Catalina holds up her digits around the car. See them despite the wide load I’ve stuffed in the back.

12pm Hit the 10E like lightning.

1pm Famished after the hour drive. Stop for lunch.


1:15pm Devour two In-n-Out cheeseburgers without meat. And a coke. Last Coke of my life. Swear. Man, this is a good lunch. I love big straws. Lordy, I love this meal.

2:45pm Stomach is pissed. Fuck! I hate In-n-Out.

3:00pm Thirty-eight miles to Palm Springs!

3:38pm Stop to pee. LOVE not having to ask someone else to stop for a pee break. Wonder if I will ever be able to be in anyone’s company again or if I have just spent the year training myself to be alone forever.

5:03pm Pee again!

6:34pm Pee again. Just because I can.

6:36pm Starting to think the cacti are waving at me. Wave back.


9pm Use a coupon at the Holiday Inn in Casa Grande, AZ. Oh Yeah. Coupons! Can sense my mom smiling in her sleep all the way in Chicago. She can feel coupon usage. Especially at Kohl's.

9:15pm Compare Holiday Inn for $59 to $6 room in India. Not thaaaat much different. Everything just looks a little fresher, whiter, cleaner. The beds are more jump-worthy. Not 53 more dollars worthy.

12:00am Fall asleep enjoying my journey. Remind myself to think of every day as a journey. If I don’t, it will all be over soon.

Let's try it again, America

Why hello, USA.
It’s so comforting to set eyes on you again after this long time apart. I admit I was fed up with your normalcy and celebrity-obsession when I left (I mean, just the fact that Heidi & Spencer are famous pissed me off). But now my fresh eyes see so differently. You’re like an ex boyfriend I haven’t seen in a while, and as the butterflies fill me up, I remember only the good; Heidi & Spencer who?

My dear, lovely ex-country, I find so much comfort in our familiarity. No guessing. I don’t have to wonder if I’m saying something correctly or accidentally insulting you. To be where I came from makes me feel cozy wherever I stand. I love that I can sit on a bench and be invisible to everyone around me. I don’t look like a tourist here even though I feel like one. I’m home. But the comfort of familiarity is always friends with the comfort of predictability. And THAT sends me leaping into a fit of non-commitment. Yes, USA, you are my ex. This is all too familiar. And, since I’ve never been able to mend my ways with any ex, I might have to leave you again.

But not just yet. For now I will use you for all your relief and luxury before I ditch you again for some other, more exotic country. For now I will take this time to enjoy all those things I didn’t realize I was missing. Things I’d forgotten. Things I never really noticed before but are blinding me now. These, USA, are your idiosyncrasies:


Supermarket Sticks - USA! What is with the obsession to get that stick between your groceries and mine? The cashier isn’t going to make our grapes mingle. But even if she does, it’s going to be okay. You don’t have to glare at me because I didn’t put the stick behind my soy milk.


Inside temperature. It’s a beautiful day. The breeze is swinging the leaves, and you can still sit comfortably under a tree in just a tank top. Yet, when you walk inside, nipples cringe and people build snowmen in the corner. In supermarkets, office buildings, libraries, it’s below 40. What gives, America? I haven’t been cold in 9 months and now I can’t even buy a few bananas without getting frostbite.

Diversity. Yes, I heard that Republicans have become racists since I’ve been gone. But man, America, we are lucky. I teared up the other day as I drank from a water fountain next to a black man. He told me I was a crazy white woman. But I couldn’t stop. So many other countries are faaaar behind us when it comes to accepting other people. I’ve missed diversity since Australia. I feel so free to be riding an LA bus with a rainbow of skin colors. Yes, America! This is what you’re all about.

Dollars. What is this green shit? It’s so boring, so monochromatic. Who designed this? Every other country gets pink or blue or yellow money adorned with handsome faces of recent rulers. We don’t even understand our money with its pyramids and random floating eyeballs. And all the guys on dollars are wearing wigs. Lame.

Unknown substances. I innocently made an oatmeal at Cata’s house and spit it out onto her carpet. That taste... Fake sugar. Diet stuff. Not found in Asia. I think the chemical companies probably said, “Hey Asians, want to ingest these gross synthetic powders instead of sugar so your bodies will look skinnier ?” And the Asians kicked those chemical company people in the mouths. This stuff is nasty.

The astounding variety of capitalism. Do we really need to choose between 20 different toothpaste brands? I mean, really? It makes life so hard. Do I want the whitening with fluoride or do I want the whitening with crystals or will the whitening take off my enamel so I’ll stick to just breath-freshening or maybe that will hurt the environment so I’m going with a natural baking soda paste. Geez. It’s just toothpaste. In Laos, it was either Nivea face cream or Nivea face cream. And Laotians are surviving! With lovely faces, I might add.

Wow... They’re everywhere. “If you’ve ben injured in an accident, CALL NOW!” Haven’t seen a lawyer ad in a while. And now they’re inescapable. How I’ve missed you, Larry H. Parker.


Technology. It’s sort of gross. On my NY layover, I could tell I was in an American airport strictly due to the head positioning of the fellow layover-ers. I would say that 80 percent of people were texting or typing on some device. And the others were talking to people on the other end. I think we should all just ta-- hang on, getting a call...

Restaurant service. My first trip to an American restaurant was of course to Swingers, an American diner, for some tofu chilaquiles! YES. The food was exceptional, but I thought the waitress was stalking us.
“No, I don’t need more tea.... Nope, do not need anything else.... Nope, I’m good on the napkins, but thanks lady. Nope... LEAVE US ALONE.”
If you want the bill in a Vietnamese cafe, you might have to walk back to the bathroom or chicken coop to find someone who remembers what you ordered. Come to think of it.... Most people who don’t speak English know the restaurant word for ‘bill’ and the word for “Bill Clinton.” I wonder if they think Bill Clinton is named after the tab of things you’ve eaten.

Lawn ornaments. I'm almost positive America can claim this one all on its own. Nobody else could possibly have a fascination with plastic animals in the yard. I have to stay, fake geese are pretty fucking amazing.

Los Angeles is totally talking about, like, stuff.

The ear is a funny little organ. If all other senses disappeared, the ear could tell you if you’re underwater, if people are laughing at you, if you fell through a hole that led to China, or if you have a shell held up to it (unless it gets confused and thinks it's at the beach). The ears are smart little organs. Or, in some cases, big ones.

Now that I am back in an Enlglish-speaking country, my intelligent little orifices have been picking up the most interesting tidbits.

See, for 9 months I have been training them to find English. In a Cambodian café, for example, my little ears scanned the place for those speaking my language, those with accents, those who might be on the same route as I, ready to slink into the next destination with me.

Once my aural radar picked up a signal, I would make a new friend. Or ask for a direction. Or avoid a woman with a penchant for ‘like’. We would talk about our global experiences and how devastating Cambodia was or how many people live in Europe or what it all means in the end. My precious lobes are the reason I made so many friends abroad.

But now, with my highly-trained drums lounging in LA, I can’t stop their ultra accent-tracking ability. They no longer discern Germans from Austrians; instead they’ve morphed into expert eavesdroppers. And as I pummel through Los Angeles cafes in search of internet access and cups of chai, I can’t help but listen in. And, sadly, these tidbits are just not as intellectually stimulating as those heard in other countries. The following are some of the “conversations” I have been so lucky to hear:

(Two girls, both staring at their phones.)
-I mean, nobody likes onions.
- Yeah, I don’t think they should make them anymore.

(Guy on phone, talking loudly in cafe)
"Babe, I need to see your body really soon. I am making a new movie, and I can really imagine you in it, but I haven't seen you in, what, a year? You’ve been going to the gym? Well, I hope you didn’t lose that butt. I love that butt. That butt’s gonna be the star of my film.”
(Guy proceeded to fall asleep on a pile of cafe pillows for the rest of my café stay.)

(Two girls with fake tans)
-I do not like her. I mean, her face looks like a dog. A total dog. I’m serious. Like, she actually looks like a dog.
-Yeah.

(Two women with big sunglasses and boots)
-I totally wanna like party tonight. Like really party. Like hardcore party.
-Me too. Totally down.
-Let’s call Light. He’ll totally be down.
-Totally.

(Waiter, pointing to empty plate) - Are you all done here?
(Patron) - Yeah, we didn’t like it.
Eruption of laughter.
(When will we Americans tire of this unfunny joke?)

(Two guys in Diesel jeans with iphones)
-Man, Ian totally cock blocked last night.
-Yeah, that guy's a total douche bag.
(When will we stop calling people by the horrible name of a feminine cleansing product? I mean, isn’t it a compliment? A douche bag is clean. It helps women. It comes in pretty pastel boxes [I assume.] Next time someone calls you a douche bag, say ‘Thank you. Yes, I AM a clean helper of women.’)

To be fair, intelligent conversation lives well in LA. At this very moment, there must be Angelenos talking about Chinese politics, the situation in Darfur or health care reform. Those folks just, like, totally don’t happen to hang out with the unemployed at, like, 11am in Hollywood cafés. I mean, totally.

back to Cali

9 months. From LA to LA.
Stops in Australia, Papua New Guinea, Japan, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, India, France, & Spain.
I started pale, scared, anxious, uncertain, and slightly unhappy with my position in life.
I ended pale, confident, relaxed, secure, happy.
You can see it.
I know I just belittled an unsuspecting Italian man for his narcissism, but... well... here are 176 pictures of ME:

Wrong plane!

I wasn’t paying attention and when I stepped off the plane, I was back in India. Woohoo! I would miss my cousin’s wedding, but I could go back to Rajasthan or hiking in the Ladakh. This misstep couldn’t have been planned better.

Parched from the flight, I asked the woman with the long braid where I could get a chai or a samosa. She scowled at me and shooed me away.
I tried to ask in Hindi.
She stopped sweeping the bathroom floor and stared me down.
Wait a minute... There are rows of toilets in these bathrooms. And they are each accompanied by trusty companions of toilet paper.
Oh no... I’m not in India. I'm in NY.
It seems like JFK is run entirely by Indians. Indians sweeping the floors, Indians selling magazines, Indians checking boarding passes. They must do it on purpose to trick hopeful tourists returning from year-long trips abroad. Those jokers.

Merde-y Moments

India taught me to live in the moment. If you worry about the crowd of shark-like rickshaw drivers ready to devour you upon arrival, you’ll miss the beauty of the train’s passengers and scenery.

So, I’ve been doing it-- living inside each moment, proud to be noticing a sidewalk’s graffiti rather than worrying whether a cab will ever come.
But the moments have tricked me! Jerks. They piled up, fighting for my attention, attacking me with French pastries and wine and late night conversations and more French pastries.
And now, all of a sudden, the moment is here. The moment where I get on a plane and return to my own country. That moment has surprised me, and I don’t like it. I’m not ready.
“Go away!” I scream.
But the moment is still here. I am on a train to the airport and a man with a wireless credit card machine is yelling at me for not having a ticket.
“Go away!” I scream again.
I close my eyes, but when I open he’s still there! And I’m still on the way to the airport. Merde.
“Merde!” I yell at him. “There were no signs about a ticket so I’m not paying you fifty euros. Go away.”
I close my eyes again. Open. Still there. Still on way to plane.
“Go make some signs,” I yell. I do not like this moment.
Catalina cannot control laughter as she pays my fine for me. She assures me that the mean fine man will go immediately to his home where he stores extra poster board and will cut out some arrows to make signs.
I still hate the moment. I am not living in it. I refuse.
Alas, I find myself at the airline counter. They ask me thousands of questions. They don’t understand why I was in a Muslim country for a month. They think I’m a terrorist. They ask me why I keep closing my eyes and mumbling about signs.
I prove that I am just a traveler by writing down my email and blog address. All you terrorists out there: just get a blog and you’ll get through customs.
I guess I get on the plane but I don’t remember because I refused to live in that moment.

Whose face fits in such a large hole? The French really have a problem with signs.

MEDiterranean MEN

Many moons ago, I decided to do a charity walk for AIDS in NYC. I couldn’t get a friend to join me, so I made the trek alone. I wasn’t alone for very long. Almost immediately, a suave gentleman had pulled up beside me. He asked many questions and proved to be a great listener. We walked the whole of Manhattan together, and I thought perhaps I would see him again. However, as soon as we crossed the finish, he seemed rushed...
“Hurry, gimme your number! I’ll call you.”
He didn’t have a phone and scurried to find a paper and pen. His hair was ruffling from his staccato movements.
“Sorry! I gotta run. They’re waiting for me.”
He pointed to an open van nearby. It was a prison van.

A prison van.

The charity walk had been part of his community service. He called several times from a jail pay phone. I didn’t answer.

This was what they call in the movies foreshadowing. Since Jail Man, I have had sore luck with the ability to tell whether a prospective mate is really a catch or just a charming con man.

This trip has thankfully put dating on my back burner. Who’s got time to worry about men or mascara when there’s a Laos jungle to explore or a Malaysian turtle to chase? I had taken a vow of celibacy before leaving anyway, sure that travel adventures would take precedence.
But now that I find myself in the West, the wool over my man-hunting eyes has been lifted.

Enter Massimo, a true Italian Stallion. Lounging on the pokey rocks of Nice, he wriggled his towel close to mine and asked my name. I am sure a flush returned to my cheeks after nine months flirt free (except for that one time in Laos but that’s a secret and that other time in India but that doesn’t count). We spoke in a funny language: 1/3 English, 1/3 Spanish, and 1/3 Italian. Our googly eyes withstood the fumbling for words. He added me to his Facebook right there on the beach. Facebook on the beach should have been a clue, but again... I don’t see those. He asked me out that evening, and I knew that I still had it. Oh yeah.

Cata and I strolled along the Nice boardwalk to our tiny hotel. She got in the shower, and I couldn’t resist the urge to plug into technology. (My old ways are streaming back so quickly.) I immediately clicked on Massimo’s profile and found 120 shirtless images of the man. One hundred twenty. All shirtless. Sigh. I think I’d rather date a prisoner. As long as he’s in there for tax fraud or impersonation of an officer.

I stole some photos to share with you. I’m positive Massimo doesn’t mind.

But, sir, I'm a big deal in Asia.

I just spent months feeling like a VIP. In Asia, those in the tourist industry know how to fluff you up, make you feel like a celebrity, and treat you as if you don’t smell like someone who has been carrying her life around in a moldy, airless pack. I never looked at the prices in restaurants. I tipped as if I were Mr. Drummond. I haggled as if I had experience buying yachts.

And now those days are over.

Catalina and I arrived in Monaco and at the same time departed from everything we’d ever known. There’s an invisible curtain you pass through when you debark the train. No signs. No warnings. Just a feeling as if you’ve stepped into somewhere else.

And that it is-- a place like no other. Monaco is one of the three smallest countries in the world. It’s 2km squared and takes 56 minutes to walk from end to end. The capital is the only city, which is also called Monaco (so uncreative). They still have a royal family, but I sort of wonder if they can take themselves seriously. “Get off my 2-kilometer kingdom!” Since it’s a tax haven (read: no income tax), 84% of the population is wealthy foreigners. But I'm not talkin' wealthy as in I-make-six-figures-and-drive-a-Beamer wealthy. I’m talkin’ I-have-a-bathroom-attendant-at-home wealthy.

Before we figured this out, we skipped in awe past the yachts to a boutique hotel with a splendid view of the turquoise waves slapping the rocks below. Sweat matting our uncoiffed manes to our necks, we decided to get a cold beverage and enjoy the view.

Minute one: “This is a perfect table! What a view!”

Minute ten: Waiter emerges. “Excuse me ladies, would you mind sitting over here? Those tables are reserved for our guests.”

Minute ten: “How did he know we’re not guests?”

Minute twelve: “Is that a misprint or is it really $20 for a Coke?”

Minute thirteen: “Cokes are really twenty dollars. Holy mackerel.”

Minutes fifteen: We slink silently out of the place.

And so, fifteen minutes after arrival in Monaco, the VIP status incurred in Asia jumped into the sea, never to be seen again. At first we made ourselves feel better. “Well, one day we’ll be sailing to Monaco on our yachts.” “Yeah, one day that waiter is going to work at my mansion.” “One day, I’m gonna poo money.” “Yeah, me too.”

But then we realized we would never ever have a yacht. One, the upkeep is horrible. Seems like you not only have to buy a whole yacht when you live in Moncaco, but you also have to buy a matching welcome mat to go along. And that’s just too much trouble. Plus, you have to staff the entire thing so that you can get the hot tub bubbling and an omelette brewing on the count of un-deux-trois. It would be quite a debacle interviewing all those applicants.

But the main reason I would never own a yacht would be my conscience. How could you have so many lavish accoutrement when you know there are Indians covered in flies on the floors of train stations? I’d much rather give loans to poor people who could then start businesses. Or figure out how to use it to make the most people happy.
And then, you know, just rent a yacht when I need one.

Not only do you have to get a matching mat, you have to wear penny loafers.


Even the bathroom signs in Monaco are more fashionable than I am. And wear berets!

These gelatos were $1200.

French Revelations

1.The French say 'voila' even when they’re not performing magic! They say it when they give you stuff. Like crepes, which actually are a form of magic. ‘Voila’ means ‘There it is.’

2. After hearing so many "Oui Oui Oui"s, we realized the little piggy wasn’t crying all the way home. He was simply French.

Berets: true! Body odor: false!

Stereotypes. They’re little bastards. They creep around inside your mind waiting.... just waiting for the exact moment, the moment you’re in a bar and a guy wearing a ZBT fraternity hat approaches. That’s when they run berzerk inside your head and scream so loudly that your regular thoughts don’t have a chance.

“He’s a fraternity loser,” one yells. “He probably still sleeps in a bunk bed. He only drinks beer upside down from a keg. He tries to convince girls not to wear condoms. His room is lit by blacklight. He still gets an allowance from his parents.”

You don’t realize it, but you listen! Then you tell the ZBT enthusiast that you’re just not interested. And the guy walks away, itching under the cap he borrowed from a friend because he got a bad haircut. He doesn’t even know what ZBT is. He went to Cambridge.

But the stereotypes rejoice. Wahoo!!! Some retreat to celebrate while others stay vigilant, waiting for a Mexican guy wearing black to walk behind you on the street at 3 am.

The only antidote to these fuckers is awareness. Once you hear them jostling around inside, you must make an effort to quiet them. Not a physical effort because this is all just a metaphor and you would look ridiculous.

The point is, I knew all about these bitches and was aware they’d be trying to take me down in France. Everyone had given them ammunition: “The French are so rude....They stink....They won’t help you unless you speak French."

So I crept into France fully alert. To my surprise, I found that many of the stereotypes were true! Fortunately, none of the negative ones. I only found perfectly perfumed citizens who dropped everything to point me in the right directions. Most were the opposite of rude.

But the visuals fit flawlessly into the molds in my head: There are hand-crafted cheeses and tiny glasses of Bordeaux served in cute little cafes on every corner. Old men walk through cobblestone corridors with baguettes. Some even ride bicycles and carry the loaves in their front baskets! The croissants are these achingly crispy puffs of puff. The bakeries waft the sweet smell of fruit tarts, and the women at their registers sing out ‘Merci” every few minutes. Exquisitely fashionable men talk art as they sip café-au-laits with their friends. Shop windows are wonderfully crafted fashion editorials. Little kids wear tiny trench coats and say in tiny voices, ‘Mama! S'il vous plait.” And the best, the most wonderfully Parisian element which I thought existed in only the minds of stereotypes: the beret. It’s alive and well and sits atop heads of women and children, and of course-- painters! France is exactly as splendid as I’d imagined.

When you’re in a foreign land, your ear picks up English like a trained hound. So, inevitably, I did hear some Americans talking.
“What’s the best part of your France trip?”
“Meeting other Americans who aren’t as rude as the French.”
Eruption of laughter.

Those people let the stereotypes have their way with them. What a shame. How amazing it is when you stop listening to those jerky voices and experience what is really in front of you.

Bordeaux! At noon! Cheaper than water.

Maybe it works for the French, but it made us both look like my uncle Edmond.

A beret-clad street artist! How wonderf--- waaait a minute. He's flipping me off. Maybe the French are rude.